The sickly society tone was no longer in evidence.  Mathilda’s voice was shrill and furious; it rose higher with every second.  Peter shouted; he struggled with the bed-clothes.  Meanwhile his wife appeared to be having a fit.  Had a grounded wire poured an electric shock into her body she could not have clung to the instrument with more desperate tenacity.  She writhed; her broken cries were plainly wrung from her by nothing less than agony.

At last there came a cessation of her incoherence and a tinkling of the bell as she furiously vibrated the hook.

“Hello! ...  Hello! ...  Central ...  My party rang off. ...  Hello!”

The door of Jim’s room burst open.

“What the devil?” he cried.

“Mathilda!  Mathilda!” wailed Peter.

Mrs. Knight rushed into her husband’s presence like a destroying angel.  Jim followed in his pajamas.  She was more disheveled than ever, her eyes were rolling, her cheeks were livid, her hair seemed to bristle from its fastenings.  She was panting in a labored effort to relieve her feelings.

“What’s the matter, ma?”

“Matter?  Hell!  That was Hannibal Wharton!” stormed the invalid.

“It’s—­all over,” shrilled Mrs. Knight.  “He won’t have it.  He’s cut them off.  He called me a—­a—­” Once more she choked in her rage; her teeth chattered.  “Bob’s broke!”

“Wait a minute,” Jim cried, roughly.  “Let’s hear all about it before you bite somebody.  Is Wharton sore?”

“He’s crazy.  He said we trapped Bob.  He called us grafters and thieves and blackmailing parasites—­”

“Rats!  Bob’s got money of his own.”

“Not a cent.  He’s in debt.  And the old man won’t give him a dollar until he’s divorced.”

“I don’t believe it,” protested Jim.

Peter mocked at them, his bloated, pasty face convulsed with anger.  “Fine job you made of it, you two.  So this is your grand match.  This is how you put us on Easy Street, eh?  You married the girl to a bum.  Why didn’t you look him up?”

“Why didn’t you?” screamed his wife.  “You didn’t say anything.  Everybody thinks he’s rich—­”

“He is, too,” Jim asserted.  “He must be.  Old Wharton is bluffing, but—­We’ll find out.  Get into your dress, ma.  We’ll see Bob.  I’ve got an ace buried, and if that dirty loafer sold us out I’ll put him over the jumps.  He can’t double-cross me, understand; I’ve got the goods on him, and on all of ’em.”

“Oh, we’ve been double-crossed, all right,” sneered Peter.  “Lorelei’s down and out now.  She’s no good any more.  I guess you’ll listen to me next time.”

His son turned upon him furiously, crying: 

“Shut up!  Or I’ll—­” He left his threat unfinished and rushed back to his room, muttering under his breath.  As he flung himself into his clothes he could hear the quarrel still raging between the other two, and he lifted his clenched hands above his head with an oath.