“You’ve been drinking, Mr. Hayman.  I’m willing to think that you made a mistake in the room if you go at once.”

The intruder took no warning from her crisp tones nor from the fact that her twilight eyes were as dark as a midnight sky.  On the contrary, he suddenly bent low over her, his odorous breath beating into her face, his arms reaching for her.

With the lithe alertness of a leopard she evaded him; the next instant the bed was between them and she had whipped a negligee about her.  For an instant they faced each other; then she pointed a quivering arm, gasping in a voice that sounded strange and throaty to her ears: 

“Get out!  Get out!  You—­beast!”

Hayman was unused to opposition.  He had engineered this moment carefully; a galling anger rose to meet hers as he felt his labors wasted.

“Don’t get flighty,” he growled.  “You knew I’d come, didn’t you?  Why’d you leave your door unlocked if you didn’t expect me?”

Lorelei stepped to her dressing-table and pressed the pearl push-button, holding her finger upon it and staring at Hayman.

“Oh, ring and be damned!” he cried.  “Call Bob.  I’ll tell him you asked me in.”  He moved toward her, his body swaying, his hands shaking, his face convulsed; but as he groped forward she snatched one of the electric candlesticks from among her toilet articles and swung it above her head.  The fixture was of heavy brass, and its momentum ripped the connection from its socket; her arm was tense with the strength of utter loathing as she brought the weapon down.  Hayman reeled away, covering his face with his hands and cursing wildly; then, profiting by his retreat, Lorelei was at the door, had turned the key, and was in the hall before he could prevent her.  Guided more by instinct than by reason or memory, she found Mrs. Fennell’s chamber and pounded upon its door with blind fury.  She heard a stir from the direction whence she had come, and Hayman’s voice calling something unintelligible; then Mrs. Fennell’s startled face appeared before her.

“What’s the matter?  My dear!  You’ll wake everybody in the house.”

“Your brother—­forced his way into—­my room.”

“What are you talking about?” Mrs. Fennell drew her guest swiftly inside.  “Hush!  Don’t make a show of yourself.”

“Wha’s all this?” came from Harden Fennell, who was sprawled in a chintz-covered easy-chair, minus coat, waistcoat, and collar.  He rose slowly as Lorelei, incoherent with rage, poured out her story.  “Wha’s trouble?” he mumbled.  “Bob’s all right—­and so’s Bert.  They’re both drunk, but Bob’s the drunkes’.  What’re you talkin’ about, anyhow?”

“Be still!” his wife cried, sharply.  “It’s Bertie again.”  Then of Lorelei she inquired:  “But why did you let him into your room if—­ if you were going to quarrel—­”

“Mrs. Fennell!”

“Now, now!  Don’t be silly.  Bertie didn’t mean anything; he’s intoxicated and—­there’s no harm done.  You said you struck him with something.  I presume he’s hurt, and everybody in the house will know about it.”