"Who do you suppose I just heard from?" Max inquired, one raw afternoon in March, when he had found Jim in their usual haunt. "Lilas Lynn." Jim made no attempt to conceal his surprise and interest. "Where is she?" "She wrote from Liverpool, asking for money. Can you beat that?" "Money? Why, she had a satchel full. What's become of it?" Melcher shrugged. "She's taken the jumps--English Derby, Paris race-meet, Monte Carlo--" "Huh! She fished all the sucker-holes along the route, eh? Of course you cabled her a few C's?" Jim snickered. "Do I look as if I had? She's sick, got a cough, and says it's the 'con.' She wants to come home." Jim started. "Say, that's no hospital bark of hers; it's nothing but the coke." After a moment he asked casually, "Where's she stopping?" "Liverpool." "What's her address? I'll drop her a line to cheer her up." "She wrote from the Hotel--" Melcher checked himself and shot a questioning look at his friend. "Why this sudden charity?" Jim's gaze was bland, his tone one of wounded innocence. "Can't a guy offer to cheer--" "You're not in the business of cheering sick dames," Melcher said, sharply. Then, after a pause, "You never came through with me, Jim. There was something phony about Lilas's get-away. She left too suddenly after the Hammon suicide, and she's been under cover now for eight months. I never got it quite right. What're you holding out?" Jim sparred adroitly, but without effect. "Oh! You've got an ace buried somewhere," Melcher said. "You're a shifty guy. Of course this is a friendly game we're playing, but, just the same, I never bettered a poker hand by leaving the room. I don't even turn my head to spit when I'm sitting in with a fellow like you. Lilas has got something on her mind, and I believe I'll cable her the price of a ticket." That was enough for Jim. He began to weaken, and at last made a clean breast of all the circumstances surrounding Jarvis Hammon's death rather than risk the result of a meeting between Max and Lilas. When he had finished his story Melcher was leaning forward, his pink, smooth-shaven, agreeable face gravely intent. "So that was the way of it. Wharton and Merkle--and a four-wheeler! By God! That was nervy--on Merkle's part, especially. He took a chance. And Lilas shot the old man, eh?" "Nobody saw her do it," Jim explained. "Lorelei was in the dining-room at the time it happened, and Hammon swore he did it himself. He stood on that to the last." "I didn't know they grew men the size of that fellow," Max mused. "After all, it's the suckers that die game. And you were going to put this over single-handed, eh?--you and Lilas, perhaps! My boy, you must learn to shoot before you go hunting. Why, there's a hundred thousand quick money in this." "If Wharton had done the shooting or Merkle--yes."