"I was sorry the story got out, Miss Knight; but it was pretty well smothered in this evening's papers. Of course, you were dragged in by the hair to afford a Roman spectacle: we all saw what it meant when it came to us." "What did it mean?" queried Jim, with brotherly interest. "Blackmail. The word was written all over it. Melcher's connection with the affair was proof of that; then--the way it was handled! Nobody touched it except the Despatch, and, of course, it got its price." "I thought newspapers paid for copy," innocently commented Jim. "Yes, real newspapers; but the gang had to publish the stuff somewhere. It is reported that Hammon paid fifty thousand dollars to prevent Melcher from filing suit. I dare say things will be quiet around Tony the Barber's now." "You press people certainly have got a lot up your sleeves." James's involuntary start of dismay did not pass unnoticed. He did not relish the gleam in Pope's eyes, and he hastily sought refuge in a goblet of water, notwithstanding his distaste for the liquid. "We sometimes know as much as the police, and we invariably tell more," continued Pope. "Yes, a business man can get a hair-cut in Tony's without fear of family complications now. I suppose Armistead is smoking hop; young Sullivan is probably laying an alcoholic foundation for a wife-beating, and--the others are spending Hammon's money in the cafes." Jimmy Knight paled, for behind Pope's genial smile were both mockery and contempt; a panic swept him lest this fellow should acquaint Lorelei with the truth. Jim lost interest in his clams and thereafter avoided conversation with the wariness of a fox. He was still glowing with resentment when Robert Wharton paused at the table and greeted its occupants cheerily. In response to Jim's invitation Bob drew up a fourth chair, seated himself, and began to beam upon Lorelei. Noting the faint line of annoyance between her brows, he laughed. "Retreat is cut off," he announced, complacently; "escape is hopeless. I've left orders to have the windows barred and the doors walled up." "Eh? What's the idea?" inquired Pope. Wharton answered sadly: "My vanity has suffered the rudest jolt of its young career; I mourn the death of a perfectly normal and healthy self-conceit, age twenty-nine. Services at noon; friends and relatives only." "Oho! You've heard the seductive song of the Rhine maiden?" Pope's eyes were twinkling.