“Maybe Mr. Merkle—­”

“We’ll leave him out of this,” declared Lorelei; “he’s too decent to have a person like me foisted upon him—­and there’s no reason whatever why he should be held responsible for my notoriety.”  She turned away from the dining-room with a shudder of distaste.  “I don’t want any breakfast.  I think I’ll get some air.”

As soon as she was out in the street she turned southward involuntarily, and set off toward the establishment of Adoree Demorest.

Mrs. Knight dried her eyes and began to dress herself carefully, preparatory to a journey into the Wall Street section of the city, for the hour was drawing on toward three o’clock.

Meanwhile Jim, having transacted his business at Goldberg’s office, sought a more familiar haunt on one of the side-streets among the forties.  Here, just off Broadway, was a famous barber-shop—­a spotless place with white interior and tiled walls.  Six Italians in stiff duck coats practised their arts at a row of well-equipped chairs.  A wasp-waisted girl sat at the manicure-table next the front windows.  As Jim entered she was holding the hand of a jaded person in a light-gray suit, and murmuring over it with an occasional upward glance from a pair of bold dark eyes.

“Tony the Barber’s” place was thoroughly antiseptic.  Dirt was a stranger there; germs found life within its portals a hazardous business—­what with the vitrified walls, the glass shelves, and enameled plumbing.  Even the towels were handled with tongs; the nickel-plated steamer in which they were heated to an unbearable temperature seemed to puff its cheeks with a consciousness of painful and almost offensive cleanliness.  The men who worked here had hard, black eyes, but their hands were soft and white.  The rows of mugs that stood inside the glass cupboards were inscribed with the names of prominent actors, managers, and booking-agents of the Rialto—­for this was a famous place in its way.

Tony, engaged in administering a shampoo, nodded at Jim, and from force of habit murmured politely: 

“Next!” Then, with a meaning glance, he indicated a door at the rear of the shop.  In the third chair Jim recognized Max Melcher, although the face of the sporting-man was swathed in steaming cloths.

Jim passed on and into a rear room, where he found three men seated at a felt-covered card-table.  They were well dressed, quiet persons—­one a bookmaker whom the racing laws had reduced from affluence to comparative penury; another, a tall, pallid youth with bulging eyes.  The third occupant of the room was an ex-lightweight champion of the ring, Young Sullivan, by name.  His trim waist and powerful shoulders betokened his trade.  His jaw was firm, and a cauliflower ear overhung his collar like a fungus.

Jim drew up a chair and chatted idly until the book-maker yawned, rose, and went out.  Then Jim and the others relaxed.

“Gee, he’s a sticker!” exclaimed the pugilist.  “I thought he’d broke his back.”