“That blackmail cost you something, didn’t it?” He agreed, carelessly.

“And your wife’s divorce will cost a lot more, won’t it?  You’ve squandered quite a fortune on me, too, haven’t you?”

He was too bewildered by her expression to do more than stare.

“No woman could totally ruin you; you’re too rich for that, but you’re hit hard inside, so I guess the price is high enough.”  Lilas nodded with satisfaction.  “Thank God, I’m through, and you’ll never paw me over again!”

“I don’t understand.  What are you getting at?”

“I’ll tell you.  I never intended to marry you, Jarvis.”

He started as if she had struck him.

“That’s what I said,” she reaffirmed, “and I’ll tell you why.  Look at me—­close.”

He did as she directed, but saw nothing, his mind being in chaos.  It had been her intention to call Lorelei to witness this dramatic disclosure and thus enhance its effect, but in the excitement of the moment she forgot.  “Look at me,” she repeated.  “I’m Lily Levinski.”

“Levinski.  A Jew?” he exclaimed, in naive surprise.

“Yes.  I’m Joe Levinski’s girl.  Don’t you remember?”

Many times she had rehearsed this declaration, picturing the consternation, the dawning horror it would cause, and deriving a fierce, quivering pleasure from the anticipation, but the real effect was disappointing.  Hammon only blinked stupidly, repeating: 

“A Jew!” It was plain that the name meant nothing.

She slid down from her perch and approached him, crying roughly, “Don’t you remember Joe Levinski?” Hammon shook his head.  “He worked for you in the Bessemer plant of the old Kingman mill.  Don’t you remember?”

“There were four thousand men—­”

“He was killed when the converter dumped.  You were rushing the work.  Do you remember now?” Her words came swift and shrill.

Hammon started; a frown drew his brows together.  His mind groped back through the years and memory faintly stirred, but she gave him no leisure to speak.

“I was waiting outside with his dinner-bucket, along with the other women.  I saw him go.  I saw you kill him—­”

“Lilas!  Good God, are you crazy?” he burst forth.

“It was murder.”

“Murder?”

“It was.  You did it.  You killed him.”  She had dropped her cigarette, and it burned a black scar into the rug at their feet.  Hammon retreated a step, the girl followed with blazing eyes and words that were hot with hate.  “You spilled that melted steel on him, and I saw it all.  When I grew up I prayed for a chance to get even, for his sake and for the sake of the other hunkies you killed.  You killed my mother, too, Jarvis Hammon, and made me a—­ a—­You made me hustle my living in the streets, and go through hell to get it.”

“Be quiet!” he commanded, roughly.  “The thing’s incredible—­ absurd.  You—­the daughter of one of my workmen—­and a Jew!”