"No; but they make it. I knew Mr. Wharton and the rest of them years ago, for I was born and raised in a furnace town. My father worked in a Bessemer plant—until he was killed. What I saw there made me an anarchist."
Through the open window overlooking the alley came a sound of singing; two voices raised in doubtful harmony, one loud and strong, the other rasping, hoarse, and uncertain.
Of all the girls that I adore,
There's none so sweet as Sa-a-a-hall-ee.
"Ouch! Who's that?" queried Lilas.
"Bob Wharton and the Judge. Wharton's waiting to take me to supper."
"Drunk, as usual, of course. Think of a fool like that with millions behind him—millions that his father wrung out of sweating, suffering foreigners like my father. He's squandering blood-money. That's what it is—blood-money."
"You ARE bitter to-night. Is Mr. Hammon living on blood-money, too?"
"Yes; he is."
"Is that why you're planning to blackmail it out of him?"
Lilas paused in her dressing and turned slowly, brows lifted. Her dark eyes met the blue ones unwaveringly.