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Take it from me, on the word of a volunteer fireman, Lilas will cash in on him quicker than you think. I know." "How do you know?" inquired his sister. "Never mind how. Maybe I've got second sight. Anyhow, the info is right; Hammon's in the game-bag." "Who told you?" "Maybe I got it in the dog-eared dope," mocked the brother. "Maybe Max Melcher told me.
"But the poor little things are frightened." She looked up to find her companion staring in Hammon's direction with an expression of peculiar, derisive amusement. Hammon was the center of an admiring group; congratulations were being hurled at him from every quarter. At his side was Lilas Lynn, very dark, very striking, very expensively gowned, and elaborately bejeweled.
Harshly he inquired: "Where is that woman?" "She's back yonder, in her room," Bob told him. "She's ill." Merkle turned, but, reading his intent, Hammon checked him, crying in a strong voice: "None of that, John. I did it myself. It was an accident." "I don't believe it." Hammon's eyes met those of his accuser; the two stared at each other steadily for a moment. "It's true."
Merkle told him what he knew, and the old man listened silently. Then he drove to the Elegancia. Bob and Lorelei had just returned from the theater, much, be it said, against the bridegroom's wishes. Bob had been eager to begin the celebration of his marriage in a fitting manner, and it had required the shock of Hammon's death added to Lorelei's entreaties to dissuade him from a night of hilarity.
She called him every kind of a monster, accused him of every crime from murder to " "Murder!" The banker started. "He had made a long fight to beat her down, and she was unstrung. She seemed to have a queer physical aversion to him." "Humph! She's got nobly over THAT." "I've told you this because you seemed to think she's to blame, when it is all Mr. Hammon's doing."
Mother and daughter were loitering over a midday breakfast, and Lorelei, according to custom, was recounting the incidents of the previous evening. "It's too bad you quarreled with Mr. Wharton," Mrs. Knight commented, when she heard the full story of Hammon's party. "He'll dislike you now." The girl shrugged daintily. "He was drunk and fresh. I can't bear a man in such a condition."
We had better get her out of the country if we can." Jim's quick eyes took in the articles on the dressing-table. "Ha! Dope," he exclaimed. "She's a coker she's filled herself up. But, say you don't really think she did it, do you?" "I don't know what to think. It's just as bad, either way. Hammon's wife and daughters must never know. Now, quick. See what you can do with her."
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.
"You can follow that man's example if you wish," said she, "and hide until we're away from the bright lights." Merkle answered shortly, "Your reputation may suffer, not mine." He leaned forward and inquired of the chauffeur, "Who's car is that?" "Mr. Hammon's, sir. He's going our way, so his man said." "I thought so. We'll have company." "Why do you choose the Long Island road?" asked Lorelei.
One day that I was with him, a young man came to the studio and asked for his opinion of a painting; the man talked the whole time of nothing but his mother, of how much he loved her and all that he did for her. Hammon's patience gave out at last. He broke out: "And do you think, sir, that I have murdered my mother?
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