"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:

"Shut up! Or I'll--" He left his threat unfinished and rushed back
to his room, muttering under his breath. As he flung himself into
his clothes he could hear the quarrel still raging between the
other two, and he lifted his clenched hands above his head with an