“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.

“Eh?—­I’m tangled up like a basket of ticker-tape.  You see, Campbell, I drink; candor compels me to acknowledge that much.  In a moment of folly I was indiscreet, and ever since I have been trying to apologize.  I have borne garlands of roses, offers of devotion, plaintive invitations to dine, but—­the Circuit is a trick theater and it has a thousand doors.  All I have to show for my efforts at reparation is a bad cold, a worse temper, and a set of false teeth which the doorman pledged with me for a loan of ten dollars.  I have Mr. Regan’s dental frieze in my bureau-drawer—­but they only grin at me in derision.  In short, I’m in Dutch, and there sits the adorable cause of my sorrows.”