Jimmy’s reply left no doubt of the genuineness of his fears, if not of his intentions.  Strange stories were told in the Tenderloin—­tales of treachery punished and ingratitude revenged.  Jimmy knew several young men who appeared out of the East Side at Melcher’s signal.  They were inconspicuous fellows, who bore fanciful dime-novel names—­Dago Red, Izzy the Toad, Jew Mike, the Worm, and the rest—­and no rustler’s stronghold of the old-time Western cattle country ever boasted more formidable outlaws than they.  New York is law-ridden, therefore corruption reigns; vice is capitalized, and in consequence there are men who live not only by roguery, but by violence.  They hide in the crannies of the underworld; politics is their protection.  At election times they do service for men high in authority; betweenwhiles they thrive on the bickerings and feuds among the despoilers.  Jim knew these gunmen well; he had no wish to know them worse.

“I can’t promise anything definite when she’s sore on me,” he declared.

“Oh yes, you can.  She’ll marry to please your mother and father, and she’ll fix them up the first thing.  Get them to agree to split their share, and I’ll take a hand.  If it doesn’t go through there’s no harm done.”

“I don’t see how you’re going to frame a marriage—­and yet she won’t stand for anything else.”

“You’ll have to help, of course, and so will your mother.  I’ve a hunch that we can handle Wharton all right—­through booze.  A man can be made to marry anybody if he’s drunk enough.”

“He’s about ready to ask her—­she’s the one to fix.  She hates men, though, and that Merkle story made her crazy.”

“Sore, eh?”

“She talked the Dutch route—­thinks her good name is gone, and regards every man as a hyena.”

Melcher pondered for several moments.  “I think I know Lorelei better than you do,” he stated, deliberately, “and I believe we can pull this off, provided Wharton really wants to marry her.  Anyhow, he’s so rich it’s worth the odds, and she’s just the sort to fall for it.”

“What’s the idea?”

“If she’s sore about that story in The Despatch we’ll pull another one—­and keep pulling them.”

“Humph!  That’ll queer Wharton.”

“Not if you get inside his shirt and make him believe they’re lies.  You and your mother will have to convince her that he’s her only ‘out.’”

“I don’t think much of that program,” Jim protested, nervously.

Melcher smiled.  “A girl like her can be driven anywhere if she’s handled right.  Between you and your mother and Lilas you can do it.”

“Perhaps, but I doubt it.  Ma’s got her afraid of men.  If we could scare her good, if we could tip some John to rough it with her some night, she might stampede to the altar.”

“That’s easy, but you can’t put a stop-order on a thing like that.  There’s no telling how far the guy might go.”