The girl shrank back in alarm.
"No, no, no, Mr. Ryder, I cannot, I cannot!" she cried.
"Why not?" demanded Ryder, Sr. appealingly. "Ah, don't—don't decide hastily—"
Shirley, her face set and drawn and keen mental distress showing in every line of it, faced the two men, pale and determined. The time had come to reveal the truth. This masquerade could go on no longer. It was not honourable either to her father or to herself. Her self-respect demanded that she inform the financier of her true identity.
"I cannot marry your son with these lies upon my lips!" she cried. "I cannot go on with this deception. I told you you did not know who I was, who my people were. My story about them, my name, everything about me is false, every word I have uttered is a lie, a fraud, a cheat! I would not tell you now, but you trusted me and are willing to entrust your son's future, your family honour in my keeping, and I can't keep back the truth from you. Mr. Ryder, I am the daughter of the man you hate. I am the woman your son loves. I am Shirley Rossmore!"
Ryder took his cigar from his lips and rose slowly to his feet.
"You? You?" he stammered.
"Yes—yes, I am the Rossmore woman! Listen, Mr. Ryder. Don't turn away from me. Go to Washington on behalf of my father, and I promise you I will never see your son again—never, never!"
"Ah, Shirley!" cried Jefferson, "you don't love me!"
"Yes, Jeff, I do; God knows I do! But if I must break my own heart to save my father I will do it."