"Wait a minute," Jim cried, roughly. "Let's hear all about it before you bite somebody. Is Wharton sore?"
"He's crazy. He said we trapped Bob. He called us grafters and thieves and blackmailing parasites—"
"Rats! Bob's got money of his own."
"Not a cent. He's in debt. And the old man won't give him a dollar until he's divorced."
"I don't believe it," protested Jim.
Peter mocked at them, his bloated, pasty face convulsed with anger. "Fine job you made of it, you two. So THIS is your grand match. THIS is how you put us on Easy Street, eh? You married the girl to a bum. Why didn't you look him up?"
"Why didn't YOU?" screamed his wife. "YOU didn't say anything.
Everybody thinks he's rich—"
"He is, too," Jim asserted. "He must be. Old Wharton is bluffing, but—We'll find out. Get into your dress, ma. We'll see Bob. I've got an ace buried, and if that dirty loafer sold us out I'll put him over the jumps. He can't double-cross ME, understand; I've got the goods on him, and on all of 'em."
"Oh, we've been double-crossed, all right," sneered Peter. "Lorelei's down and out now. She's no good any more. I guess you'll listen to me next time."
His son turned upon him furiously, crying: