“Tell him what?” asked Lorelei.

“The truth, of course.”  He paused for a reply, and, receiving none, broke out wrathfully:  “Then I will.  She’s a grafter, Bob, and her whole family are grafters.  Now, let me finish.  She makes her living in any way she can; she smirks at you out of every catch-penny advertisement along Broadway.  She’s ’The Chewing-Gum Girl’ and ‘The Petticoat Girl’ and ’The Bath-Tub Girl’—­”

“There’s nothing dishonest in that.”

“Just a minute.  I won’t have my daughter’s face grinning at me every time I get into a street-car.  I’d be the laughing-stock of the country.  It’s legitimate, perhaps, but it’s altogether too damned colorful for me.”

“Is that all you have against her?”

“Not by any means.  She’s notorious—­”

“Newspaper talk!”

“Is it?  She’s made her living by bleeding men, by taking gifts and renting herself out the way she did at Hammon’s supper.  Men don’t support show-girls from chivalrous motives.  I had her family looked up, and it didn’t take two hours.  Listen to this report.”  He extracted a typewritten sheet from his bill-case, adjusted his glasses, and began to read: 

“Peter Knight:  former residence Vale, New York.  Held several minor offices; sheriff for one term; involved in scandal over public works and defeated for re-election.  Reputation bad.  Detailed record can be had if necessary.  Moved to this city 1911; clerk in Department of Water Supply, Gas, and Electricity until injured by taxi-cab while intoxicated.  Believed to be crippled.

“James Knight, son.  Reputation bad.  Generally known as a loafer, suspected of boosting for so-called ‘wire-tappers’ operating on upper West Side last spring.  Believed to have some connection with more than one blackmailing scheme—­details available.  He figured in recent scandal concerning well-known financier and actress.  Of late employed as steerer for Max Melcher’s gambling-house, West Forty-sixth Street.  Broker living at Charlevoix Apartments reported to have lost large sums through his efforts.  No police record as yet.

“Mathilda Knight, wife of Peter—­

“D’you want the rest?” Mr. Wharton inquired.

“No!” Lorelei gulped.

“’No police record as yet’—­’Broker living at the Charlevoix Apartments’—­’Injured by a taxi-cab while intoxicated,’” quoted Wharton.  “Scandal, blackmail, graft.  It’s all here, Bob.  And I hadn’t come to this girl’s record.  The report was made by one of our own men, and it’s incomplete, but I can have it elaborated.  What do you say, Mrs. Wharton?  Is it true?”

Lorelei dropped her head.  “Most of it, I dare say.”

“Did you try to blackmail Merkle?”

“No.”

“Your mother and your brother did.”

She was silent.

“They tried to scare him into marrying you, did they not?”

“Hammon said something about that,” ejaculated Bob, “but I don’t believe—­”