"Hello! ... Hello! ... Central ... My party rang off. ... Hello!"

The door of Jim's room burst open.

"What the devil?" he cried.

"Mathilda! Mathilda!" wailed Peter.

Mrs. Knight rushed into her husband's presence like a destroying
angel. Jim followed in his pajamas. She was more disheveled than
ever, her eyes were rolling, her cheeks were livid, her hair
seemed to bristle from its fastenings. She was panting in a
labored effort to relieve her feelings.

"What's the matter, ma?"

"Matter? Hell! That was Hannibal Wharton!" stormed the invalid.

"It's--all over," shrilled Mrs. Knight. "He won't have it. He's
cut them off. He called me a--a--" Once more she choked in her
rage; her teeth chattered. "BOB'S BROKE!"

"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."