The Auction Block. Rex Beach

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      Lorelei turned from—the man on her left, who had regaled her with an endless story, the point of which had sent the teller into hiccoughs of laughter, and said to John Merkle:

      "I'm glad I'm with you to-night. I don't like drinking men."

      "Can a girl in your position afford preferences?" he inquired, tartly.

       Thus far the banker had fully lived up to his sour reputation.

      "All women are extravagant. I have preferences, even if I CAN'T afford them. If you were a tippler instead of a plain grouch I could tell you precisely how you'd act and what you'd talk about as the evening goes on. First you'd be gallant and attentive; then you'd forget me and talk business with Mr. Wharton—he's nearest you. About that time I'd begin to learn the real names of these lords of finance. After that you'd become interested in my future. That's always the worst period. Once I'd made you realize that you meant nothing in my life and that my future was provided for, you'd tell me stories about your family—how your wife is an invalid, how Tom is at Yale, how Susie is coming out in the autumn, and how you really had no idea ladies were to be present tonight or you'd never have risked coming. Finally you'd confess that you were naturally impulsive, generous, and affectionate, and merely lacked the encouragement of a kindred spirit like me to become a terrible cut-up. Then you'd insist upon dancing. I'd die if I had to teach you the tango."

      Mr. Merkle grunted, "So would I."

      She smiled sweetly. "You see, we're both unpleasant people."

      Merkle meditated in silence while she attacked her food with a healthy, youthful appetite that awoke his envy.

      "I suppose you see a lot of this sort of thing?" he at length suggested.

      "There's something of the kind nearly every night. Is this your first experience?"

      "Um-m—no. Steel men are notoriously sporty when they get away from home. But I don't go out often."

      "This party isn't as bad as some, for the very reason that most of the men are from out of town and it's a bit of a novelty to them. But there's a crowd of regular New-Yorkers—the younger men-about-town—" She paused significantly. "I accepted one invitation from them."

      "Only one?"

      "It was quite enough."

      "I've traveled some," observed Merkle, "but this city is getting to be the limit."

      She nodded her amber head. "There's only one Paris, after all, and that's New York. Don't laugh; I read that. We girls remember all the clever things we hear, and use them. Do you see the young person in black and white with the red-nosed man—the one who looks as if he were smelling a rose? Well, she's in our company, and she's very popular at these parties because she's so witty. As a matter of fact, she memorizes the jokes in all the funny papers and springs them as her own. Her men friends say she's too original to be in the show business."

      For a moment the girl at Merkle's right engaged his attention, and Lorelei turned again to the incoherent story-teller beside her, who had made it plain by pawing at her that he was bursting once more with tidings of great merriment.

      The meal grew noisier; the orchestra interspersed sensuous melodies from the popular successes with the tantalizing rag-time airs that had set the city to singing. Silent-footed attendants deposited tissue-covered packages before the guests. There was a flutter of excitement as the women began to examine their favors.

      "What is it?" Merkle inquired, leaning toward Lorelei.

      "The new saddle-bag purse. See? It's very Frenchy. Gold fittings—and a coin-purse and card-case inside. See the monogram? I'm going to keep this."

      "Don't you keep all your gifts?"

      "Not the expensive ones. Lilas picked these out for Mr. Hammon, and they're exquisite. We share the same dressing-room, you know."

      Merkle regarded her with a sudden new interest.

      "You and she dress together?"

      "Yes."

      "Then—I dare say you're close friends?"

      "We're close enough—in that room; but scarcely friends. What did you get?"

      He unrolled the package at his plate.

      "A gold safety razor—evidently a warning not to play with edged tools.

       I wonder if Miss Lynn bought one for Jarvis?"

      "Now, why did you say that," Lorelei asked, quickly, "and why did you ask in that peculiar tone if she and I were friends?"

      The man leaned closer, saying in a voice that did not carry above the clamor:

      "I suppose you know she's making a fool of him? I suppose you realize what it means when a woman of her stamp gets a man with money in her power? You must know all there is to know from the outside; it occurred to me that you might also know something about the inside of the affair. Do you?"

      "I'm afraid not. All I've heard is the common gossip."

      "There's a good deal here that doesn't show on the surface. That woman is a menace to a great many people, of whom I happen to be one."

      "You speak as if she were a dangerous character, and as if she had deliberately entangled him," Lorelei said, defendingly. "As a matter of fact, she did nothing of the sort; she avoided him as long as she could, but he forced his attentions upon her. He's a man who refuses defeat. He persisted, he persecuted her until she was forced to—accept him. Men of his wealth can do anything, you know. Sometimes I think—but it's none of my business."

      "What do you sometimes think?"

      "That she hates him."

      "Nonsense."

      "I know she did at first; I don't wonder that she makes him pay now.

       It's according to her code and the code of this business."

      "I can't believe she—dislikes him."

      "He may have won her finally, but at first she refused his gifts, refused even to meet him."

      "She had scruples?"

      "No more than the rest of us, I presume. She gave her two weeks' notice because he annoyed her; but before the time was up Bergman took a hand. He sent for her one evening, and when she went down there was Mr. Hammon, too. When she came up-stairs she was hysterical. She cried and laughed and cursed—it was terrible."

      "Curious," murmured the man, staring at the object of their controversy. "What did she say?"

      "Oh, nothing connected. She called him every kind of a monster, accused him of every crime from murder to—"

      "Murder!" The banker started.

      "He had made a long fight to beat her down, and she was unstrung. She seemed to have a queer physical aversion to him."

      "Humph! She's got nobly over THAT."

      "I've told you this because you seemed to think she's to blame, when it is all Mr. Hammon's doing."

      "It's a peculiar situation—very. You've interested me. But the man himself is peculiar, extraordinary. You can't draw a proper line on his conduct without knowing the circumstances of his home life, and, in fact, his whole mental make-up. Sometime I'll tell you his story; I think it would interest you. In a way I don't blame him for seeking amusement and happiness where he can find it, and yet—I'm afraid of the result. This supper means more than you can understand or than I can explain."

      "The city is full of Samsons, and most of them have their Delilahs."

      Merkle agreed. "These men put Hammon where he is. I wonder if they will let him stay there. It depends upon that girl yonder." He turned to answer a question from Hannibal Wharton, and Lorelei gave her attention to the part of the entertainment which was beginning on the