"Say?" he echoed. "Why, simply that you've written the biggest
book of the year, that's all!"

"Really! Oh, do tell me all they said!" She was fairly excited
now, and in her enthusiasm she grasped Jefferson's broad, sunburnt
hand which was lying outside the carriage rug. He tried to appear
unconscious of the contact, which made his every nerve tingle, as
he proceeded to tell her the gist of the reviews he had read that
afternoon.

"Isn't that splendid!" she exclaimed, when he had finished. Then
she added quickly:

"I wonder if your father has seen it?"

Jefferson grinned. He had something on his conscience, and this
was a good opportunity to get rid of it. He replied laconically:

"He probably has read it by this time. I sent him a copy myself."

The instant the words were out of his mouth he was sorry, for
Shirley's face had changed colour.

"You sent him a copy of 'The American Octopus'?" she cried. "Then
he'll guess who wrote the book."

"Oh, no, he won't," rejoined Jefferson calmly. "He has no idea who
sent it to him. I mailed it anonymously."

Shirley breathed a sigh of relief. It was so important that her