Merkle’s grave attention arrested Lorelei’s burst of indignation.

“Will you believe me,” he asked, “when I tell you that Jarvis Hammon and Hannibal Wharton are the two best friends I have in the world?  There is such a thing as loyalty and friendship even in big business; in fact, high finance is founded on confidence and personal honor.  This is more than a business matter, Miss Knight.”

“I can hardly believe that.”

“It’s true, however; I mean to serve Hammon.  At the same time I must serve myself and those who trust me.  My honor is concerned in this as well as his, and there is a rigid code in money matters.  If what I suspect is true, Hammon’s infatuation promises to do harm to innocent people.  I fear—­in fact, I’m sure—­that he is being used.  I’ve learned things about Miss Lynn that you may not know.  What you have told me to-night adds to my anxiety, and I must know more.”

“What, for instance?”

“Her real feeling for him—­her intentions—­her relations with a man named Melcher—­”

“Maxey Melcher?”

“The same.  You know his business?”

“No.”

“He is a gambler, a political power; a crafty, unscrupulous fellow who represents—­big people.  By helping me you can serve many innocent persons and, most of all, perhaps, Hammon himself.”

Lorelei was silent for a moment.  “This is very unusual,” she said, at length.  “I don’t know whether to believe you or not.”

“Suppose, then, you let the matter rest and keep your eyes open.  When you convince yourself who means best to Jarvis—­Miss Lynn and Melcher and their crowd, or I and mine—­make your decision.  You may name your own price.”

“There wouldn’t be any price,” she told him, impatiently.  “I’ll wait.”

Merkle bowed.  “I can trust your discretion.  Thank you for listening to me, and thank you for being agreeable to an irascible old dyspeptic.  Will you permit me to drive you home when you’re ready?”

“I’m ready now.”

But as Lorelei made her way unobtrusively toward the cloak-room she encountered Robert Wharton, who barred her path.

“Fairy Princess, you ran away,” he declared, accusingly.

“I’m leaving.”  She saw that his intoxication had reached a more advanced stage.  His cheeks were flushed; his eyes were wild and unsteady.

“Good news!  The night is young; we’ll watch it grow up.”

“Thank you, no.  I’m going home.”

“A common mistake.  Others have tried and failed.”  With extreme gravity he focused his gaze upon her, saying, “Home is the one place that our mayor can’t close.”

She extended her hand.  “Good night.”

“I don’t understand.  Speak English.”

“Goodnight.”

Wharton’s countenance darkened unpleasantly, and his voice was rough.  “Where’d you learn that line?  It’s country stuff.  We’ll leave when I’m ready.  Now we’ll have a trot.”