"James Knight, son. Reputation bad. Generally known as a loafer, suspected of boosting for so-called 'wire-tappers' operating on upper West Side last spring. Believed to have some connection with more than one blackmailing scheme--details available. He figured in recent scandal concerning well-known financier and actress. Of late employed as steerer for Max Melcher's gambling-house, West Forty-sixth Street. Broker living at Charlevoix Apartments reported to have lost large sums through his efforts. No police record as yet. "Mathilda Knight, wife of Peter-- "D'you want the rest?" Mr. Wharton inquired. "No!" Lorelei gulped. "'No police record as YET'--'Broker living at the Charlevoix Apartments'--'Injured by a taxi-cab while intoxicated,'" quoted Wharton. "Scandal, blackmail, graft. It's all here, Bob. And I hadn't come to this girl's record. The report was made by one of our own men, and it's incomplete, but I can have it elaborated. What do you say, MRS. WHARTON? Is it true?" Lorelei dropped her head. "Most of it, I dare say." "Did you try to blackmail Merkle?" "No." "Your mother and your brother did." She was silent. "They tried to scare him into marrying you, did they not?" "Hammon said something about that," ejaculated Bob, "but I don't believe--" Lorelei checked him. "It's quite true." "Merkle said you had nothing to do with it personally," conscientiously explained Mr. Wharton, "and I'm willing to take his word. But that's neither here nor there." There was a moment of silence during which he folded and replaced the report; then he shook his head, exclaiming, "Second-hand goods, my boy!" "That's a lie!" Lorelei's voice was like a whip. Mr. Wharton eyed her grimly. "That's something for Bob to determine--I have only the indications to go on. I don't blame him for losing his wits--you're very good-looking--but the affair must end. You're not a girl I'd care to have in my family--pardon my bluntness." She met his eyes fairly. At no time had she flinched before him, although inwardly she had cringed and her flesh had quivered at his merciless attack. "You have told Bob the truth," she began, slowly, "in the worst possible way; you have put me in the most unfavorable light. I dare say I never would have had the courage to tell him myself, although he deserves to know. I've been pretty--commercial--because I had to be, but I never sold myself, and I sha'n't begin now. Bob isn't a child; he's nearly thirty years old--old enough to make up his own mind--and he must make this decision, not I." Bob opened his lips, but his father forestalled him. "What do you mean by that?" "I have no price. If he's sick of the match we'll end it, and it won't cost you a cent." Bob looked inscrutable; his father smiled for the first time during the interview. "That's very decent of you," he said, "but of course I sha'n't put the good faith of your offer to the test. I don't want something for nothing. I'll take care of you nicely."