but when the servant at last made it plain that it was Hannibal C.
Wharton, not his son Robert, calling, she leaped from her bed with
the agility of an acrobat.

"Peter," she cried, "it's Mr. Wharton himself!"

Peter likewise awoke to a tremendous excitement. "He probably
wants to get acquainted," exclaimed the invalid. "Tell him to come
right up. I can see him any time."

His wife was nervously pinning up her straggling hair, as if she
feared the millions of the steel baron gave him the occult power
to direct his vision along the wire.

"What shall I say to him?" she gasped. "I suppose I'll have to
call on him and Mrs. Wharton, but I haven't a thing to wear."

"For God's sake, don't mention money," implored Peter. "Try to be
pleasant for once in your life. Better let me talk to him."

But at this suggestion Mrs. Knight flared up angrily. "You stay
where you are!" she snapped. "I know how to handle rich people."

"Mathilda," he shouted, as she hurried from the room, her slippers
slapping loosely, a discolored wrapper clutched over her bony
chest, "when he talks about Lorelei, cry for him. She's our only
daughter and our only support, see? We can't bear to let her go.
If you'd only help me to the 'phone--"

The retort that came back was shrewish, but the next instant