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.