"What did it mean?" queried Jim, with brotherly interest.
"Blackmail. The word was written all over it. Melcher's connection with the affair was proof of that; then—the way it was handled! Nobody touched it except the Despatch, and, of course, it got its price."
"I thought newspapers paid for copy," innocently commented Jim.
"Yes, real newspapers; but the gang had to publish the stuff somewhere.
It is reported that Hammon paid fifty thousand dollars to prevent
Melcher from filing suit. I dare say things will be quiet around Tony
the Barber's now."
"You press people certainly have got a lot up your sleeves." James's involuntary start of dismay did not pass unnoticed. He did not relish the gleam in Pope's eyes, and he hastily sought refuge in a goblet of water, notwithstanding his distaste for the liquid.
"We sometimes know as much as the police, and we invariably tell more," continued Pope. "Yes, a business man can get a hair-cut in Tony's without fear of family complications now. I suppose Armistead is smoking hop; young Sullivan is probably laying an alcoholic foundation for a wife-beating, and—the others are spending Hammon's money in the cafes."
Jimmy Knight paled, for behind Pope's genial smile were both mockery and contempt; a panic swept him lest this fellow should acquaint Lorelei with the truth. Jim lost interest in his clams and thereafter avoided conversation with the wariness of a fox.
He was still glowing with resentment when Robert Wharton paused at the table and greeted its occupants cheerily. In response to Jim's invitation Bob drew up a fourth chair, seated himself, and began to beam upon Lorelei. Noting the faint line of annoyance between her brows, he laughed.
"Retreat is cut off," he announced, complacently; "escape is hopeless.
I've left orders to have the windows barred and the doors walled up."
"Eh? What's the idea?" inquired Pope.