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 circumstances 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 God!  That was nervy—­on Merkle’s part, especially.  He took a chance.  And Lilas shot the old man, eh?”

“Nobody 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.