"Yes. Peter is so happy—he's better already, and wants to meet Robert. You know neither of us have seen our new son—that's what he's going to be, too—a real son, like Jim. But I think you MIGHT have telephoned." She checked her exuberance to inquire, in a stage whisper that carried through the flat, "Is the dear boy here?"
"Sure! Where's brother Bob?" echoed Jim.
"He went home to change his clothes and to telegraph his people."
"But how strange—how TERRIBLE you look!"
Jim volunteered an explanation. "Remember, ma, we were up all night, and it was SOME wedding party. Pipe me. I look like a wreck on the Erie."
"And to think that while Lilas was out enjoying herself with you poor Mr. Hammon was lying with a bullet in him. I NEVER had such a shock as when I read the extras. You've seen them?" Lorelei nodded—indeed, the room was strewn with newspapers. "They say it was accidental—but pshaw!" Mrs. Knight shrugged knowingly.
"Don't you think it was?"
"My dear! Think of his family troubles and financial worries!"
"That's the general talk," Jim agreed. "Things were boiling when the market closed. All of his stocks are away off. Well, I don't blame him."
"Yes, and he'd quarreled with Lilas, too. That's why she sailed for Europe this morning." Mrs. Knight's hard eyes glittered, her sharp nose seemed to lengthen. "I'll warrant she knows a lot more than she'll tell. I'd like to question her, and I will when—Lorelei! You're as white as a sheet. Are you ill?"