," he added.

He started to enter the library when the secretary, who was
visibly perturbed, attempted to bar his way.

"There's some one in there," he said in an undertone. "Someone
waiting for your father."

"Is there?" replied Jefferson coolly. "I'll see who it is," with
which he brushed past Mr. Bagley and entered the library.

He had guessed aright. A woman was there. It was Kate Roberts.

"Hello, Kate! how are you?" They called each other by their first
names, having been acquainted for years, and while theirs was an
indifferent kind of friendship they had always been on good terms.
At one time Jefferson had even begun to think he might do what his
father wished and marry the girl, but it was only after he had met
and known Shirley Rossmore that he realized how different one
woman can be from another. Yet Kate had her good qualities. She
was frivolous and silly as are most girls with no brains and
nothing else to do in life but dress and spend money, but she
might yet be happy with some other fellow, and that was why it
made him angry to see this girl with $100,000 in her own right
playing into the hands of an unscrupulous adventurer. He had
evidently disturbed an interesting _tete-a-tete_. He decided to
say nothing, but mentally he resolved to spoil Mr. Bagley's game
and save Kate from her own folly. On hearing his voice Kate turned
and gave a little cry of genuine surprise.

"Why, is it you, Jeff? I thought you were in Europe."

"I returned yesterday," he replied somewhat curtly. He crossed
over to his father's desk where he sat down to scribble a few
words, while Mr. Bagley, who had followed him in scowling, was
making frantic dumb signs to Kate.

"I fear I intrude here," said Jefferson pointedly.

"Oh, dear no, not at all," replied Kate in some confusion. "I was
waiting for my father. How is Paris?" she asked.

"Lovely as ever," he answered.

"Did you have a good time?" she inquired.

"I enjoyed it immensely. I never had a better one."

"You probably were in good company," she said significantly. Then
she added: "I believe Miss Rossmore was in Paris."

"Yes, I think she was there," was his non-committal answer.

To change the conversation, which was becoming decidedly personal,
he picked up a book that was lying on his father's desk and
glanced at the title. It was "The American Octopus."

"Is father still reading this?" he asked. "He was at it when I
left."

"Everybody is reading it," s