More probably she was a dreamer—­one of those meddling sociologists who, under pretence of bettering the conditions of the working classes, stir up discontent and bitterness of feeling.  As such, she might prove more to be feared than a mere blackmailer whom he could buy off with money.  He knew he was not popular, but he was no worse than the other captains of industry.  It was a cut-throat game at best.  Competition was the soul of commercial life, and if he had outwitted his competitors and made himself richer than all of them, he was not a criminal for that.  But all these attacks in newspapers and books did not do him any good.  One day the people might take these demagogic writings seriously and then there would be the devil to pay.  He took up the book again and ran over the pages.  This certainly was no ordinary girl.  She knew more and had a more direct way of saying things than any woman he had ever met.  And as he watched her furtively across the desk he wondered how he could use her; how instead of being his enemy, he could make her his friend.  If he did not, she would go away and write more such books, and literature of this kind might become a real peril to his interests.  Money could do anything; it could secure the services of this woman and prevent her doing further mischief.  But how could he employ her?  Suddenly an inspiration came to him.  For some years he had been collecting material for a history of the Empire Trading Company.  She could write it.  It would practically be his own biography.  Would she undertake it?

Embarrassed by the long silence, Shirley finally broke it by saying: 

“But you didn’t ask me to call merely to find out what I thought of my own work.”

“No,” replied Ryder slowly, “I want you to do some work for me.”

He opened a drawer at the left-hand side of his desk and took out several sheets of foolscap and a number of letters.  Shirley’s heart beat faster as she caught sight of the letters.  Were her father’s among them?  She wondered what kind of work John Burkett Ryder had for her to do and if she would do it whatever it was.  Some literary work probably, compiling or something of that kind.  If it was well paid, why should she not accept?  There would be nothing humiliating in it; it would not tie her hands in any way.  She was a professional writer in the market to be employed by whoever could pay the price.  Besides, such work might give her better opportunities to secure the letters of which she was in search.  Gathering in one pile all the papers he had removed from the drawer, Mr. Ryder said: 

“I want you to put my biography together from this material.  But first,” he added, taking up “The American Octopus,” “I want to know where you got the details of this man’s life.”

“Oh, for the most part—­imagination, newspapers, magazines,” replied Shirley carelessly.  “You know the American millionaire is a very overworked topic just now—­and naturally I’ve read—­”