“Murder!” The banker started.

“He had made a long fight to beat her down, and she was unstrung.  She seemed to have a queer physical aversion to him.”

“Humph!  She’s got nobly over that.”

“I’ve told you this because you seemed to think she’s to blame, when it is all Mr. Hammon’s doing.”

“It’s a peculiar situation—­very.  You’ve interested me.  But the man himself is peculiar, extraordinary.  You can’t draw a proper line on his conduct without knowing the circumstances of his home life, and, in fact, his whole mental make-up.  Sometime I’ll tell you his story; I think it would interest you.  In a way I don’t blame him for seeking amusement and happiness where he can find it, and yet—­I’m afraid of the result.  This supper means more than you can understand or than I can explain.”

“The city is full of Samsons, and most of them have their Delilahs.”

Merkle agreed.  “These men put Hammon where he is.  I wonder if they will let him stay there.  It depends upon that girl yonder.”  He turned to answer a question from Hannibal Wharton, and Lorelei gave her attention to the part of the entertainment which was beginning on the stage.  Turn after turn appeared; black-faced comedians, feature acts from vaudeville and from the reigning successes, high-priced singers, dancers, monologists followed each other.  Occasionally they were applauded, but more frequently their efforts to amuse were lost in the self-made merriment of the diners.  Now and then an actor was bombarded with jests or openly guyed.  Music and wine flowed as steadily as the crystal stream of the fountain; faces became flushed; glasses rang.  The women chattered; the men raised loud voices; the birds fluttered and the peacocks shrieked.  It all blended in a blood-stirring, Bacchanalian joviality.  Only now and then the frolic threatened to become a carouse, and the revel bordered upon a debauch.

Of a sudden the clamor was silenced, and indifference gave place to curiosity, for the music had begun the introduction to one of Adoree Demorest’s songs.

“Her rubies are the finest in the world.”  “Too strong for Paris, so she came to New York.”  “Anything goes here if it’s bad enough,” came from various quarters.

Lorelei had never seen this much-discussed actress, whose wickedness had set the town agog, and her first impression was vaguely disappointing.  Miss Demorest’s beauty was by no means remarkable, although it was accentuated by the most bizarre creation of the French shops.  She was animated, audacious, Gallic in accent and postures—­she was vividly alive with a magnetism that meant much more than beauty; but she over-exerted her voice, and her song was nothing to excite applause.  At last she was off, in a whirl of skirts, a generous display of hosiery, and a great bobbing of the aigrette pompon that towered above her like an Indian head-dress.  Only a moment later she was on again, this time in a daring costume of solid black, against and through which her limbs flashed with startling effect as she performed her famous Danse de Nuit.