"So that's her game, eh? I suppose she thinks she'll breed her way into the family. Well, she won't. It won't work. I was willing to compromise before--so long as there was no tangible bond between that family and mine--but they've got their blood mixed with mine; they've got a finger-hold in spite of h.e.l.l, and I suppose they'll hold on. But I won't acknowledge a grandchild with sc.u.m like that in its veins. Good G.o.d! Now listen--you." Wharton's jaw was outthrust, his gaze hard and unwavering. "No child tainted with that blood will share in one penny of my money, now or at any other time. Understand?"

"Perfectly." Bob's color had receded, but in no other way did he show his struggle for self-mastery. "My wife isn't having a baby to spite you, and if it ever needs a grandfather we'll adopt one."

"They've pulled you down into the mud; now they've tied you there.

Heredity's stronger than you or I; watch your child grow up, and watch its mother's blood tell. Then remember that I tried to free you before it was too late. Well, I'm through. This settles me.

Good-by, and G.o.d help you with that rotten gang." Hannibal Wharton turned and strode out of the room shaking his head and mumbling.

Jimmy Knight had fallen upon evil times. A combination of circ.u.mstances had seriously affected his mode of making a living, and that of his friends. To outward appearances the frequenters of Tony the Barber's place were as thrifty as usual, but in the pinochle-room at the rear there was gloom. Reason for these hard times lay in an upheaval of public sentiment that had galvanized the Police Department into one of its periodic spasms of activity, and the cause ran back to a sordid quarrel between two factions of the Tenderloin. At about the time when Jimmy came to New York the contention had become too bitter for the underworld to hold, and echoes of it had begun to leak out; later it culminated in the murder of the leader of one clique. Murders, it is true, are not uncommon in New York, but this one was staged in the glare of Broadway, and with a bold defiance of the law that aroused popular indignation. There followed a chain of fortuitous happenings that issued in the capture of the murderers, in a wide-spread exposure of social conditions, and in a great outburst of public indignation against a police system that allowed such abuses to exist.

Of course there came a loud protest from the guardians of the law, a frantic waving of spotless banners, and a prating of virtue; but the popular will has a way of obtaining its desires regardless of red tape, trickery, or politics, and in this case it demanded a reorganization of the department and got it.

Discipline suddenly strengthened, and as a result gambling almost ceased, wire-tapping languished, organized blackmail was conducted under cover: only crime in its crudest forms continued as usual; and it followed therefore that Jimmy Knight was not prosperous.

Had it not been for his share in Bob's generosity he would have been forced to the distressing necessity of asking for employment --a thing to curdle his blood! It was characteristic of young Knight that he did not scruple to accept charity from the man he hated, although he cherished the memory of that public beating at Bob's hands and the humiliation of it gnawed him like a cancer.

More than once lately Jim had been tempted to turn his knowledge of the Hammon "suicide" into cash, but he could think of no safe and certain means of doing so until one day Max Melcher dropped a bit of intelligence that promised to open a way.

"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 c.o.ke." 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 circ.u.mstances 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 G.o.d! That was nervy--on Merkle's part, especially. He took a chance. And Lilas shot the old man, eh?"

"n.o.body 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."

"What's the difference who did it? Why, it's a cinch. Get this!

Lilas comes home broke. She's sick, and sees the undertaker flirting with her, so she decides to spill the whole story and take the consequences--understand? It's conscience." Mr. Melcher laughed lightly at his little joke. "A sick woman's conscience is an expensive thing; it takes money to square it. Merkle won't stand, and Wharton can't, on account of his wife--your sister.

He'll tap his old man, and Hannibal will loosen for the family honor. After they're dry we've got the Hammon widow to work on."

"It'll take money to do this--protection, too."

"Well, I've got both."

"I suppose we'll split three ways."

Max pursed his lips thoughtfully. "N-no; you and Lilas are broke.

I've got the money and the police. I'll take half."

Jim's acquiescence to these terms came hard, and he cursed himself as a fool for putting himself at the mercy of this man. He was still raging inwardly when Melcher left to send a cablegram; but there was ample leisure for reflection during the week that followed, and, being possessed of some ingenuity, Jim had formulated a scheme before Lilas Lynn's arrival.

In due time she came, and Melcher saw her established at a modest hotel before making known in detail his intentions.

Lilas was little more than a wreck of what she had been. It seemed impossible that eight short months could have worked so great a change in one of her youth and strength. Ill she undoubtedly was.

She was thin, her nerves had yielded to the ravages of the drug, and a queer, unhealthy pallor had blanched her skin; her eyes were big and feverish and restless. Only at such times as she was without cocaine did her mind suffer; when she had it she was unnaturally alert. Having lately felt the harsh grip of poverty, she was obsessed now by the need of money, and offered no objections to Max's schemes. Rather, she welcomed them fiercely.

She and Max and Jim mapped out a course of action together; but a day or two later, when Jim thought the moment propitious, he secured her ear alone and gave voice to his resentment against Max.

As soon as Lilas understood his drift she met him more than half- way. She was vulture-like in her greed, and with a full understanding between them the two conspired to use Max only so long and so far as suited their purposes.

In spite of Bob Wharton's peculiarly mutable temperament he was not remiss in his duties toward Lorelei during the period that led up to the birth of their child. Utterly careless and improvident in his own affairs, he was naturally considerate of others and possessed a surprising depth of sympathy. Hence he met the responsibilities of his present situation with considerable credit.

One evening he was concerned to find his wife greatly agitated, and upon learning the cause his consternation matched hers.

Lorelei's eyes were big and frightened as she explained: "Lilas is back. She was here to-day."

"Lilas? Good Lord! What did she want?"

"Nothing. She just came to see me. She's changed dreadfully, and talked about nothing except--that awful night. You remember? I'm nearly in hysterics."

"Now, that won't do. You pa.s.s your worries on to me. Lilas can't make trouble for us without making more for herself."

But Lorelei seemed oppressed with a premonition of trouble. "I'm frightened, Bob," she confessed. "She acted so--strangely.

Suppose--oh, suppose I should have to go to jail now or--to court--"

Bob took his wife in his arms and did his best to cure her of these sick fancies; but it was no easy task to quiet her, for a million apprehensions had sprung into life with the reopening of that old horror. At last he reminded her gently:

"Remember, dear, your thoughts are like branding-irons just now; they leave their marks. We want our child to be brave and confident and steadfast, not a coward--or something worse. This is how cowards are made. How can a child inherit weakness when its mother is without fear?"