Success

 BY SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS

 Author of "The Clarion, " "Common Cause, " etc. 

 1921

CONTENTS

 PART I. ENCHANTMENT

 PART II. THE VISION

 PART III. FULFILLMENT

SUCCESS

PART I

ENCHANTMENT

CHAPTER I

The lonely station of Manzanita stood out, sharp and unsightly, in thekeen February sunlight. A mile away in a dip of the desert, lay thetown, a sorry sprawl of frame buildings, patternless save for the onemain street, which promptly lost itself at either end in a maze ofcholla, prickly pear, and the lovely, golden-glowing roseo. Far as theeye could see, the waste was spangled with vivid hues, for the rarerains had come, and all the cacti were in joyous bloom, from the scarletstain of the ocatilla to the pale, dream-flower of the yucca. Overheadthe sky shone with a hard serenity, a blue, enameled dome through whichthe imperishable fires seemed magnified as they limned sharp shadows onthe earth; but in the southwest clouds massed and lurked darkly for asign that the storm had but called a truce. 

East to west, along a ridge bounding the lower desert, ran the railroad, a line as harshly uncompromising as the cold mathematics of theengineers who had mapped it. To the north spread unfathomably a forestof scrub pine and piñon, rising, here and there, into loftier growth. Itwas as if man, with his imperious interventions, had set those thinsteel parallels as an irrefragable boundary to the mutual encroachmentsof forest and desert, tree and cactus. A single, straggling trailsquirmed its way into the woodland. One might have surmised that it waswinding hopefully if blindly toward the noble mountain peak shimmeringin white splendor, mystic and wonderful, sixty miles away, but seemingin that lucent air to be brooding closely over all the varied lovelinessbelow. 

Though nine o'clock had struck on the brisk little station-clock, therewas still a tang of night chill left. The station-agent came out, carrying a chair which he set down in the sunniest corner of theplatform. He looked to be hardly more than a boy, but firm-knit andself-confident. His features were regular, his fairish hair slightlywavy, and in his expression there was a curious and incongruoussuggestion of settledness, of acceptance, of satisfaction with life ashe met it, which an observer of men would have found difficult toreconcile with his youth and the obvious intelligence of the face. Hiseyes were masked by deeply browned glasses, for he was bent uponliterary pursuits, witness the corpulent, paper-covered volume under hisarm. Adjusting his chair to the angle of ease, he tipped back againstthe wall and made tentative entry into his book. 

What a monumental work was that in the treasure-filled recesses of whichthe young explorer was straightway lost to the outer world! No humanneed but might find its contentment therein. Spread forth in itsalluringly illustrated pages was the whole universe reduced to thepurchasable. It was a perfect and detailed microcosm of the world oftrade, the cosmogony of commerce _in petto_. The style was brief, pithy, pregnant; the illustrations--oh, wonder of wonders!--unfailingly apt tothe text. He who sat by the Damascus Road of old marveling as thecaravans rolled dustily past bearing "emeralds and wheat, honey and oiland balm, fine linen and embroidered goods, iron, cassia and calamus, white wool, ivory and ebony, " beheld or conjectured no such wondrousofferings as were here gathered, collected, and presented for thepatronage of this heir of all the ages, between the gay-hued covers ofthe great Sears-Roebuck Semiannual Mail-Order Catalogue. Its happypossessor need but cross the talisman with the ready magic of a postalmoney order and the swift genii of transportation would attend, servileto his call, to deliver the commanded treasures at his very door. 

But the young reader was not purposefully shopping in this vastmarket-place of print. Rather he was adventuring idly, indulging theamateur spirit, playing a game of hit-or-miss, seeking oracles in thoseteeming pages. Therefore he did not turn to the pink insert, embodyingthe alphabetical catalogue (Abdominal Bands to Zither Strings), butopened at random. 

"Supertoned Banjos, " he read, beginning at the heading; and, running hiseye down the different varieties, paused at "Pride of the Plantation, afull-sized, well-made, snappy-toned instrument at a very moderate price. 12 T 4031/4. "

The explorer shook his head. Abovestairs rested a guitar (the Pearletta, 12 S 206, price $7. 95) which he had purchased at the instance of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck's insinuating representation as set forth in catalogueitem 12 S 01942, "Self-mastery of the Guitar in One Book, with AllChords, Also Popular Solos That Can Be Played Almost at Sight. " Thenineteen-cent instruction-book had gone into the fire after three daysof unequal combat between it and its owner, and the latter hadsubsequently learned something of the guitar (and more of life) from aMexican-American girl with lazy eyes and the soul of a capricious andself-indulged kitten, who had come uninvited to Manzanita to visit anaunt, deceased six months previously. With a mild pang of memory forthose dreamy, music-filled nights on the desert, the youth decidedagainst further experiments in stringed orchestration. 

Telescopes turned up next. He lingered a moment over 20 T 3513, anickel-plated cap pocket-glass, reflecting that with it he could discernany signal on the distant wooded butte occupied by Miss Camilla VanArsdale, back on the forest trail, in the event that she might wish awire sent or any other service performed. Miss Camilla had been verykind and understanding at the time of the parting with Carlotta, albeitwith a grimly humorous disapproval of the whole inflammatory affair; aswell as at other times; and there was nothing that he would not do forher. He made a neat entry in a pocket ledger (3 T 9901) against the timewhen he should have spare cash, and essayed another plunge. 

Arctics and Lumberman's Overs he passed by with a grin as inappropriateto the climate. Cod Liver Oil failed to interest him, as did theProvident Cast Iron Range and the Clean-Press Cider Mill. But he pausedspeculatively before Punching Bags, for he had the clean pride of body, typical of lusty Western youth, and loved all forms of exercise. Couldhe find space, he wondered, to install 6 T 1441 with its ScientificNoiseless Platform & Wall Attachment (6 T 1476) in the portable house(55 S 17) which, purchased a year before, now stood in the clearingbehind the station crammed with purchases from the Sears-Roebuckwonderbook. Anyway, he would make another note of it. What would it belike, he wondered, to have a million dollars to spend, and unlimitedaccess to the Sears-Roebuck treasures. Picturing himself as such aCroesus, he innocently thought that his first act would be to take trainfor Chicago and inspect the warehoused accumulations of those princes oftrade with his own eager eyes!

He mused humorously for a moment over a book on "Ease in Conversation. "("No trouble about conversation, " he reflected; "the difficulty is tofind anybody to converse with, " and he thought first of Carlotta, andthen of Miss Camilla Van Arsdale, but chiefly of the latter, forconversation had not been the strong point of the passionate, light-hearted Spanish girl. ) Upon a volume kindly offering to teachastronomy to the lay mind without effort or trouble (43 T 790) andmanifestly cheap at $1. 10, he bestowed a more respectful attention, forthe desert nights were long and lonely. 

Eventually he arrived at the department appropriate to his age and thealmost universal ambition of the civilized male, to wit, clothing. Deeply, judiciously, did he meditate and weigh the advantages as between745 J 460 ("Something new--different--economical--efficient. An all-woolsuit embodying all the features that make for clothes satisfaction. Thisannouncement is of tremendous importance"--as one might well haveinferred from the student's rapt expression) and 776 J 017 ("Adouble-breasted, snappy, yet semi-conservative effect in dark-greenworsted, a special social value"), leaning to the latter because of apurely literary response to that subtle and deft appeal of theattributive "social. " The devotee of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck was aninnately social person, though as yet his gregarious proclivities layundeveloped and unsuspected by himself. Also he was of a literarytendency; but of this he was already self-conscious. He passed on toulsters and raincoats, divagated into the colorful realm of neckwear, debated scarf-pins and cuff-links, visualized patterned shirtings, andemerged to dream of composite sartorial grandeurs which, dulysynthesized into a long list of hopeful entries, were duly filed awaywithin the pages of 3 T 9901, the pocket ledger. 

Footsteps shuffling along the right of way dispelled his visions. Helooked up to see two pedestrians who halted at his movement. They werepaired typically of that strange fraternity, the hobo, one being agrizzled, hard-bitten man of waning middle age, the other a vicious andscrawny boy of eighteen or so. The boy spoke first. 

"You the main guy here?"

The agent nodded. 

"Got a sore throat?" demanded the boy surlily. He started toward thedoor. The agent made no move, but his eyes were attentive. 

"That'll be near enough, " he said quietly. 

"Oh, we ain't on that lay, " put in the grizzled man. He was quitehoarse. "You needn't to be scared of us. "

"I'm not, " agreed the agent. And, indeed, the fact was self-evident. 

"What about the pueblo yonder?" asked the man with a jerk of his headtoward the town. 

"The hoosegow is old and the sheriff is new. "

"I got ya, " said the man, nodding. "We better be on our way. "

"I would think so. "

"You're a hell of a guy, you are, " whined the boy. "'On yer way' fromyou an' not so much as 'Are you hungry?' What about a little hand-out?"

"Nothing doing. "

"Tightwad! How'd you like--"

"If you're hungry, feel in your coat-pocket. "

"I guess you're a wise one, " put in the man, grinning appreciatively. "We got grub enough. Panhandlin's a habit with the kid; don't comenatural to him to pass a likely prospect without makin' a touch. "

He leaned against the platform, raising one foot slightly from theground in the manner of a limping animal. The agent disappeared into thestation, locking the door after him. The boy gave expression to aviolent obscenity directed upon the vanished man. When that individualemerged again, he handed the grizzled man a box of ointment and tossed apacket of tobacco to the evil-faced boy. Both were quick with theirthanks. That which they had most needed and desired had been, as itwere, spontaneously provided. But the elder of the wayfarers waspuzzled, and looked from the salve-box to its giver. 

"How'd you know my feet was blistered?"

"Been padding in the rain, haven't you?"

"Have you been on the hoof, too?" asked the hobo quickly. 

The other smiled. 

"Say!" exclaimed the boy. "I bet he's Banneker. Are you?" he demanded. 

"That's my name. "

"I heard of you three years ago when you was down on the Long LineSandy, " said the man. He paused and considered. "What's your lay, Mr. Banneker?" he asked, curiously but respectfully. 

"As you see it. Railroading. "

"A gay-cat, " put in the boy with a touch of scorn. 

"You hold your fresh lip, " his elder rebuked him. "This gent has treatedus _like_ a gent. But why? What's the idea? That's what I don't get. "

"Oh, some day I might want to run for Governor on the hobo ticket, "returned the unsmiling agent. 

"You get our votes. Well, so long and much obliged. "

The two resumed their journey. Banneker returned to his book. A freight, "running extra, " interrupted him, but not for long. The wire had beenpracticing a seemly restraint for uneventful weeks, so the agent feltthat he could settle down to a sure hour's bookishness yet, even thoughthe west-bound Transcontinental Special should be on time, which wasimprobable, as "bad track" had been reported from eastward, owing to therains. Rather to his surprise, he had hardly got well reimmersed in theenchantments of the mercantile fairyland when the "Open Office" wirewarned him to be attentive, and presently from the east came tidings ofNumber Three running almost true to schedule, as befitted the pride ofthe line, the finest train that crossed the continent. 

Past the gaunt station she roared, only seven minutes late, giving theimaginative young official a glimpse and flash of the uttermost luxuryof travel: rich woods, gleaming metal, elegance of finish, and on therear of the observation-car a group so lily-clad that Sears-Roebuck atits most glorious was not like unto them. Would such a train, theimplanted youth wondered, ever bear him away to unknown, undreamedenchantments?

Would he even wish to go if he might? Life was full of many things to doand learn at Manzanita. Mahomet need not go to the mountain when, withbut a mustard seed of faith in the proven potency of mail-order miracleshe could move mountains to come to him. Leaning to his telegraphinstrument, he wired to the agent at Stanwood, twenty-six milesdown-line, his formal announcement. 

"O. S. --G. I. No. 3 by at 10. 46. "

"O. K. --D. S. , " came the response. 

Banneker returned to the sunlight. In seven minutes or perhaps less, asthe Transcontinental would be straining to make up lost time, the trainwould enter Rock Cut three miles and more west, and he would recapturethe powerful throbbing of the locomotive as she emerged on the fartherside, having conquered the worst of the grade. 

Banneker waited. He drew out his watch. Seven. Seven and a half. Eight. No sound from westward. He frowned. Like most of the road's employees, he took a special and almost personal interest in having the regal trainon time, as if, in dispatching it through, he had given it a friendlypush on its swift and mighty mission. Was she steaming badly? There hadbeen no sign of it as she passed. Perhaps something had gone wrong withthe brakes. Or could the track have--

The agent tilted sharply forward, his lithe frame tense. A long drawn, quivering shriek came down-wind to him. It was repeated. Then short andsharp, piercing note on piercing note, sounded the shrill, clamantvoice. 

The great engine of Number Three was yelling for help. 

CHAPTER II

Banneker came out of his chair with a spring. 

"Help! Help! Help! Help! Help!" screamed the strident voice. 

It was like an animal in pain and panic. 

For a brief instant the station-agent halted at the door to assurehimself that the call was stationary. It was. Also it was slightlymuffled. That meant that the train was still in the cut. As he ran tothe key and sent in the signal for Stanwood, Banneker reflected whatthis might mean. Crippled? Likely enough. Ditched? He guessed not. Aditched locomotive is usually voiceless if not driverless as well. Blocked by a slide? Rock Cut had a bad repute for that kind of accident. But the quality of the call predicated more of a catastrophe than a mereblockade. Besides, in that case why could not the train back down--

The answering signal from the dispatcher at Stanwood interrupted hisconjectures. 

"Number Three in trouble in the Cut, " ticked Banneker fluently. "Thinkhelp probably needed from you. Shall I go out?"

"O. K. , " came the answer. "Take charge. Bad track reported three mileseast may delay arrival. "

Banneker dropped and locked the windows, set his signal for "trackblocked" and ran to the portable house. Inside he stood, considering. With swift precision he took from one of the home-carpentered shelves acompact emergency kit, 17 S 4230, "hefted" it, and adjusted it, knapsackfashion, to his back; then from a small cabinet drew a flask, which hedisposed in his hip-pocket. Another part of the same cabinet provided afirst-aid outfit, 3 R 0114. Thus equipped he was just closing the doorafter him when another thought struck him and he returned to slip a coilof light, strong sash-cord, 36 J 9078, over his shoulders to his waistwhere he deftly tautened it. He had seen railroad wrecks before. For amoment he considered leaving his coat, for he had upwards of three milesto go in the increasing heat; but, reflecting that the outward andvisible signs of authority might save time and questions, he thoughtbetter of it. Patting his pocket to make sure that his necessarynotebook and pencil were there, he set out at a moderate, even, springless lope. He had no mind to reach a scene which might require hisbest qualities of mind and body, in a semi-exhausted state. Nevertheless, laden as he was, he made the three miles in less than halfan hour. Let no man who has not tried to cover at speed the ribbedtreacheries of a railroad track minimize the achievement!

A sharp curve leads to the entrance of Rock Cut. Running easily, Banneker had reached the beginning of the turn, when he became aware ofa lumbering figure approaching him at a high and wild sort ofhalf-gallop. The man's face was a welter of blood. One hand was pressedto it. The other swung crazily as he ran. He would have swept pastBanneker unregarding had not the agent caught him by the shoulder. 

"Where are you hurt?"

The runner stared wildly at the young man. "I'll soom, " he mumbledbreathlessly, his hand still crumpled against the dreadfully smearedface. "Dammum, I'll soom. "

He removed his hand from his mouth, and the red drops splattered andwere lost upon the glittering, thirsty sand. Banneker wiped the man'sface, and found no injury. But the fingers which he had crammed into hismouth were bleeding profusely. 

"They oughta be prosecuted, " moaned the sufferer. "I'll soom. For tenthousan' dollars. M'hand is smashed. Looka that! Smashed like a bug. "

Banneker caught the hand and expertly bound it, taking the man's nameand address as he worked. 

"Is it a bad wreck?" he asked. 

"It's hell. Look at m'hand! But I'll soom, all right. _I_'ll show'm . . . Oh! . . . Cars are afire, too . . . Oh-h-h! Where's a hospital?"

He cursed weakly as Banneker, without answering, re-stowed his packetand ran on. 

A thin wisp of smoke rising above the nearer wall of rocks made theagent set his teeth. Throughout his course the voice of the engine had, as it were, yapped at his hurrying heels, but now it was silent, and hecould hear a murmur of voices and an occasional shouted order. He cameinto sight of the accident, to face a bewildering scene. 

Two hundred yards up the track stood the major portion of the train, intact. Behind it, by itself, lay a Pullman sleeper, on its side andapparently little harmed. Nearest to Banneker, partly on the rails butmainly beside them, was jumbled a ridiculous mess of woodwork, with hereand there a gleam of metal, centering on a large and jagged boulder. Smaller rocks were scattered through the _mélange_. It was exactly likea heap of giant jack-straws into which some mischievous spirit hadtossed a large pebble. At one end a flame sputtered and spreadcheerfully. 

A panting and grimy conductor staggered toward it with a pail of waterfrom the engine. Banneker accosted him. 

"Any one in--"

"Get outa my way!" gasped the official. 

"I'm agent at Manzanita. "

The conductor set down his pail. "O God!" he said. "Did you bring anyhelp?"

"No, I'm alone. Any one in there?" He pointed to the flaming debris. 

"One that we know of. He's dead. "

"Sure?" cried Banneker sharply. 

"Look for yourself. Go the other side. "

Banneker looked and returned, white and set of face. "How many others?"

"Seven, so far. "

"Is that all?" asked the agent with a sense of relief. It seemed as ifno occupant could have come forth of that ghastly and absurdrubbish-heap, which had been two luxurious Pullmans, alive. 

"There's a dozen that's hurt bad. "

"No use watering that mess, " said Banneker. "It won't burn much further. Wind's against it. Anybody left in the other smashed cars?"

"Don't think so. "

"Got the names of the dead?"

"Now, how would I have the time!" demanded the conductor resentfully. 

Banneker turned to the far side of the track where the seven bodies lay. They were not disposed decorously. The faces were uncovered. Thepostures were crumpled and grotesque. A forgotten corner of abattle-field might look like that, the young agent thought, bloody anddisordered and casual. 

Nearest him was the body of a woman badly crushed, and, crouching besideit, a man who fondled one of its hands, weeping quietly. Close by laythe corpse of a child showing no wound or mark, and next that, somethingso mangled that it might have been either man or woman--or neither. Theother victims were humped or sprawled upon the sand in postures ofexaggerated _abandon_; all but one, a blonde young girl whose upthrustarm seemed to be reaching for something just beyond her grasp. 

A group of the uninjured from the forward cars surrounded and enclosed aconfused sound of moaning and crying. Banneker pushed briskly throughthe ring. About twenty wounded lay upon the ground or were proppedagainst the rock-wall. Over them two women were expertly working, onetiny and beautiful, with jewels gleaming on her reddened hands; theother brisk, homely, with a suggestion of the professional in herprecise motions. A broad, fat, white-bearded man seemed to be informallyin charge. At least he was giving directions in a growling voice as hebent over the sufferers. Banneker went to him. 

"Doctor?" he inquired. 

The other did not even look up. "Don't bother me, " he snapped. 

The station-agent pushed his first-aid packet into the old man's hands. 

"Good!" grunted the other. "Hold this fellow's head, will you? Hold ithard. "

Banneker's wrists were props of steel as he gripped the tossing head. The old man took a turn with a bandage and fastened it. 

"He'll die, anyway, " he said, and lifted his face. 

Banneker cackled like a silly girl at full sight of him. The spreadingwhisker on the far side of his stern face was gayly pied in blotches ofred and green. 

"Going to have hysterics?" demanded the old man, striking not so farshort of the truth. 

"No, " said the agent, mastering himself. "Hey! you, trainman, " he calledto a hobbling, blue-coated fellow. "Bring two buckets of water from theboiler-tap, hot and clean. Clean, mind you!" The man nodded and limpedaway. "Anything else, Doctor?" asked the agent. "Got towels?"

"Yes. And I'm not a doctor--not for forty years. But I'm the nearestthing to it in this shambles. Who are you?"

Banneker explained. "I'll be back in five minutes, " he said and passedinto the subdued and tremulous crowd. 

On the outskirts loitered a lank, idle young man clad beyond the gloriesof Messrs. Sears-Roebuck's highest-colored imaginings. 

"Hurt?" asked Banneker. 

"No, " said the youth. 

"Can you run three miles?"

"I fancy so. "

"Will you take an urgent message to be wired from Manzanita?"

"Certainly, " said the youth with good-will. 

Tearing a leaf from his pocket-ledger, Banneker scribbled a dispatchwhich is still preserved in the road's archives as giving more vitalinformation in fewer words than any other railroad document extant. Heinstructed the messenger where to find a substitute telegrapher. 

"Answer?" asked the youth, unfurling his long legs. 

"No, " returned Banneker, and the courier, tossing his coat off, took theroad. 

Banneker turned back to the improvised hospital. 

"I'm going to move these people into the cars, " he said to the man incharge. "The berths are being made up now. "

The other nodded. Banneker gathered helpers and superintended thetransfer. One of the passengers, an elderly lady who had shown no signof grave injury, died smiling courageously as they were lifting her. 

It gave Banneker a momentary shock of helpless responsibility. Whyshould she have been the one to die? Only five minutes before she hadspoken to him in self-possessed, even tones, saying that hertraveling-bag contained camphor, ammonia, and iodine if he needed them. She had seemed a reliable, helpful kind of lady, and now she was dead. It struck Banneker as improbable and, in a queer sense, discriminatory. Remembering the slight, ready smile with which she had addressed him, hefelt as if he had suffered a personal loss; he would have liked to stayand work over her, trying to discover if there might not be some sparkof life remaining, to be cherished back into flame, but the burly oldman's decisive "Gone, " settled that. Besides, there were other things, official things to be looked to. 

A full report would be expected of him, as to the cause of the accident. The presence of the boulder in the wreckage explained that grimly. Itwas now his routine duty to collect the names of the dead and wounded, and such details as he could elicit. He went about it briskly, conscientiously, and with distaste. All this would go to the claim agentof the road eventually and might serve to mitigate the total of damagesexacted of the company. Vaguely Banneker resented such probablepenalties as unfair; the most unremitting watchfulness could not havedetected the subtle undermining of that fatal boulder. But essentiallyhe was not interested in claims and damages. His sensitive mind hoveredaround the mystery of death; that file of crumpled bodies, the woman ofthe stilled smile, the man fondling a limp hand, weeping quietly. Officially, he was a smooth-working bit of mechanism. As an individualhe probed tragic depths to which he was alien otherwise than by a largeand vague sympathy. Facts of the baldest were entered neatly; but in theback of his eager brain Banneker was storing details of a far differentkind and of no earthly use to a railroad corporation. 

He became aware of some one waiting at his elbow. The lank young man hadspoken to him twice. 

"Well?" said Banneker sharply. "Oh, it's you! How did you get back sosoon?"

"Under the hour, " replied the other with pride. "Your message has gone. The operator's a queer duck. Dealing faro. Made me play through a casebefore he'd quit. I stung him for twenty. Here's some stuff I thoughtmight be useful. "

From a cotton bag he discharged a miscellaneous heap of patentpreparations; salves, ointments, emollients, liniments, plasters. 

"All I could get, " he explained. "No drug-store in the funny burg. "

"Thank you, " said Banneker. "You're all right. Want another job?"

"Certainly, " said the lily of the field with undiminished good-will. 

"Go and help the white-whiskered old boy in the Pullman yonder. "

"Oh, he'd chase me, " returned the other calmly. "He's my uncle. Hethinks I'm no use. "

"Does he? Well, suppose you get names and addresses of the slightlyinjured for me, then. Here's your coat. "

"Tha-anks, " drawled the young man. He was turning away to his new dutieswhen a thought struck him. "Making a list?" he asked. 

"Yes. For my report. "

"Got a name with the initials I. O. W. ?"

Banneker ran through the roster in the pocket-ledger. "Not yet. Some onethat's hurt?"

"Don't know what became of her. Peach of a girl. Black hair, big, sleepy, black eyes with a fire in 'em. Dressed _right_. Traveling alone, and minding her own business, too. Had a stateroom in that Pullman therein the ditch. Noticed her initials on her traveling-bag. "

"Have you seen her since the smash?"

"Don't know. Got a kind of confused recklection of seeing her wobblingaround at the side of the track. Can't be sure, though. Might have beenme. "

"Might have been you? How could--"

"Wobbly, myself. Mixed in my thinks. When I came to I was pretty busyputting my lunch, " explained the other with simple realism. "One of Mr. Pullman's seats butted me in the stomach. They ain't upholstered as softas you'd think to look at 'em. I went reeling around, looking for MissI. O. W. , she being alone, you know, and I thought she might need somelooking after. And I had that idea of having seen her with her hand toher head dazed and running--yes; that's it, she was running. Wow!" saidthe young man fervently. "She was a pretty thing! You don't suppose--" Heturned hesitantly to the file of bodies, now decently covered withsheets. 

For a grisly instant Banneker thought of the one mangledmonstrosity--_that_ to have been so lately loveliness and charm, withdeep fire in its eyes and perhaps deep tenderness and passion in itsheart. He dismissed the thought as being against the evidence andentered the initials in his booklet. 

"I'll look out for her, " said he. "Probably she's forward somewhere. "

Without respite he toiled until a long whistle gave notice of the returnof the locomotive which had gone forward to meet the delayed specialfrom Stanwood. Human beings were clinging about it in little clusterslike bees; physicians, nurses, officials, and hospital attendants. Thedispatcher from Stanwood listened to Banneker's brief report, and senthim back to Manzanita, with a curt word of approval for his work. 

Banneker's last sight of the wreck, as he paused at the curve, was thehelpful young man perched on the rear heap of wreckage which had beenthe observation car, peering anxiously into its depths ("Looking for I. O. W. Probably, " surmised the agent), and two commercial gentlemen fromthe smoker whiling away a commercially unproductive hiatus by playingpinochle on a suitcase held across their knees. Glancing at the vast, swollen, blue-black billows rolling up the sky, Banneker guessed thattheir game would be shortly interrupted. 

He hoped that the dead would not get wet. 

CHAPTER III

Back in his office, Banneker sent out the necessary wires, and learnedfrom westward that it might be twelve hours before the break in thetrack near Stanwood could be fixed up. Then he settled down to hisreport. 

Like his earlier telegram, the report was a little masterpiece ofconcise information. Not a word in it that was not dry, exact, meaningful. This was the more to the writer's credit in that his brainwas seething with impressions, luminous with pictures, aflash with oddsand ends of minor but significant things heard and seen and felt. It washis first inner view of tragedy and of the reactions of the humancreature, brave or stupid or merely absurd, to a crisis. For all of thishe had an outlet of expression. 

Taking from the wall a file marked "Letters. Private"-it was 5 S 0027, and one of his most used purchases--he extracted some sheets of aspecial paper and, sitting at his desk, wrote and wrote and wrote, absorbedly, painstakingly, happily. Wind swept the outer world into avortex of wild rain; the room boomed and trembled with thereverberations of thunder. Twice the telegraph instrument broke in onhim; but these matters claimed only the outer shell; the soul of the manwas concerned with committing its impressions of other souls to thesecrecy of white paper, destined to personal and inviolable archives. 

Some one entered the waiting-room. There was a tap on his door. Raisinghis head impatiently, Banneker saw, through the window already dimmingwith the gathering dusk, a large roan horse, droopy and disconsolate inthe downpour. He jumped up and threw open his retreat. A tall woman, slipping out of a streaming poncho, entered. The simplicity, vergingupon coarseness, of her dress detracted nothing from her distinction ofbearing. 

"Is there trouble on the line?" she asked in a voice of peculiarclarity. 

"Bad trouble, Miss Camilla, " answered Banneker. He pushed forward achair, but she shook her head. "A loosened rock smashed into NumberThree in the Cut. Eight dead, and a lot more in bad shape. They've gotdoctors and nurses from Stanwood. But the track's out below. And fromwhat I get on the wire"--he nodded toward the east--"it'll be out abovebefore long. "

"I'd better go up there, " said she. Her lips grew bloodless as she spokeand there was a look of effort and pain in her face. 

"No; I don't think so. But if you'll go over to the town and see thatTorrey gets his place cleaned up a bit, I suppose some of the passengerswill be coming in pretty soon. "

She made a quick gesture of repulsion. "Women can't go to Torrey's, " shesaid. "It's too filthy. Besides--I'll take in the women, if there aren'ttoo many and I can pick up a buckboard in Manzanita. "

He nodded. "That'll be better, if any come in. Give me their names, won't you? I have to keep track of them, you know. "

The manner of the two was that of familiars, of friends, though therewas a touch of deference in Banneker's bearing, too subtly personal tobe attributed to his official status. He went out to adjust thevisitor's poncho, and, swinging her leg across the Mexican saddle of herhorse with the mechanical ease of one habituated to this mode of travel, she was off. 

Again the agent returned to his unofficial task and was instantlysubmerged in it. Impatiently he interrupted himself to light the lampsand at once resumed his pen. An emphatic knock at his door only causedhim to shake his head. The summons was repeated. With a sigh Bannekergathered the written sheets, enclosed them in 5 S 0027, and restoredthat receptacle to its place. Meantime the knocking continuedimpatiently, presently pointed by a deep--

"Any one inside there?"

"Yes, " said Banneker, opening to face the bulky old man who had caredfor the wounded. "What's wanted?"

Uninvited, and with an assured air, the visitor stepped in. 

"I am Horace Vanney, " he announced. 

Banneker waited. 

"Do you know my name?"

"No. "

In no wise discountenanced by the matter-of-fact negative, Mr. Vanney, still unsolicited, took a chair. "You would if you read the newspapers, "he observed. 

"I do. "

"The New York papers, " pursued the other, benignly explanatory. "Itdoesn't matter. I came in to say that I shall make it my business toreport your energy and efficiency to your superiors. "

"Thank you, " said Banneker politely. 

"And I can assure you that my commendation will carry weight. Weight, sir. "

The agent accepted this with a nod, obviously unimpressed. In fact, Mr. Vanney suspected with annoyance, he was listening not so much to theseencouraging statements as to some unidentified noise outside. The agentraised the window and addressed some one who had approached through thesteady drive of the rain. A gauntleted hand thrust through the window aslip of paper which he took. As he moved, a ray of light from the lamp, unblocked by his shoulder, fell upon the face of the person in thedarkness, illuminating it to the astounded eyes of Mr. Horace Vanney. 

"Two of them are going home with me, " said a voice. "Will you send thesewires to the addresses?"

"All right, " replied Banneker, "and thank you. Good-night. "

"Who was that?" barked Mr. Vanney, half rising. 

"A friend of mine. "

"I would swear to that face. " He seemed quite excited. "I would swear toit anywhere. It is unforgettable. That was Camilla Van Arsdale. Was shein the wreck?"

"No. "

"Don't tell me that it wasn't she! Don't try to tell me, for I won'tbelieve it. "

"I'm not trying to tell you anything, " Banneker pointed out. 

"True; you're not. You're close-mouthed enough. But--Camilla VanArsdale! Incredible! Does she live here?"

"Here or hereabouts. "

"You must give me the address. I must surely go and see her. "

"Are you a friend of Miss Van Arsdale?"

"I could hardly say so much. A friend of her family, rather. She wouldremember me, I am sure. And, in any case, she would know my name. Wheredid you say she lived?"

"I don't think I said. "

"Mystery-making!" The big man's gruffness had a suggestion of amusementin it. "But of course it would be simple enough to find out from town. "

"See here, Mr. Vanney, Miss Van Arsdale is still something of aninvalid--"

"After all these years, " interposed the other, in the tone of one whoruminates upon a marvel. 

"--and I happen to know that it isn't well for--that is, she doesn'tcare to see strangers, particularly from New York. "

The old man stared. "Are you a gentleman?" he asked with abruptsurprise. 

"A gentleman?" repeated Banneker, taken aback. 

"I beg your pardon, " said the visitor earnestly. "I meant no offense. You are doubtless quite right. As for any intrusion, I assure you therewill be none. "

Banneker nodded, and with that nod dismissed the subject quite aseffectually as Mr. Horace Vanney himself could have done. "Did youattend all the injured?" he asked. 

"All the serious ones, I think. "

"Was there a young girl among them, dark and good-looking, whose namebegan--"

"The one my addle-brained young nephew has been pestering me about? MissI. O. W. ?"

"Yes. He reported her to me. "

"I handled no such case that I recall. Now, as to your own helpfulness, I wish to make clear that I appreciate it. "

Mr. Vanney launched into a flowery tribute of the after-dinner variety, leaning forward to rest a hand upon Banneker's desk as he spoke. Whenthe speech was over and the hand withdrawn, something remained among thestrewn papers. Banneker regarded it with interest. It showed a blotch ofyellow upon green and a capital C. Picking it up, he looked from it toits giver. 

"A little tribute, " said that gentleman: "a slight recognition of yourservices. " His manner suggested that hundred-dollar bills wereinconsiderable trifles, hardly requiring the acknowledgment of thanks. 

In this case the bill did not secure such acknowledgment. 

"You don't owe me anything, " stated the agent. "I can't take this!"

"What! Pride? Tut-tut. "

"Why not?" asked Banneker. 

Finding no immediate and appropriate answer to this simple question, Mr. Vanney stared. 

"The company pays me. There's no reason why you should pay me. Ifanything, I ought to pay you for what you did at the wreck. But I'm notproposing to. Of course I'm putting in my report a statement about yourhelp. "

Mr. Vanney's cheek flushed. Was this composed young hireling makingsport of him?

"Tut-tut!" he said again, this time with obvious intent to chide in hismanner. "If I see fit to signify my appreciation--remember, I am oldenough to be your father. "

"Then you ought to have better judgment, " returned Banneker with suchcandor and good-humor that the visitor was fairly discomfited. 

An embarrassing silence--embarrassing, that is, to the older man; theyounger seemed not to feel it--was happily interrupted by the advent ofthe lily-clad messenger. 

Hastily retrieving his yellow-back, which he subjected to some furtiveand occult manipulations, Mr. Vanney, after a few words, took hisdeparture. 

Banneker invited the newcomer to take the chair thus vacated. As he didso he brushed something to the floor and picked it up. 

"Hello! What's this? Looks like a hundred-bucker. Yours?" He held outthe bill. 

Banneker shook his head. "Your uncle left it. "

"It isn't a habit of his, " replied the other. 

"Give it to him for me, will you?"

"Certainly. Any message?"

"No. "

The newcomer grinned. "I see, " he said. "He'll be bored when he getsthis back. He isn't a bad old bird, but he don't savvy some things. Soyou turned him down, did you?"

"Yes. "

"Did he offer you a job and a chance to make your way in the world inone of his banks, beginning at ten-per?"

"No. "

"He will to-morrow. "

"I doubt it. "

The other gave a thought to the bill. "Perhaps you're right. He likes'em meek and obedient. He'd make a woolly lamb out of you. Most fellowswould jump at the chance. "

"I won't. "

"My name's Herbert Cressey. " He handed the agent a card. "Philadelphiais my home, but my New York address is on there, too. Ever get East?"

"I've been to Chicago. "

"Chicago?" The other stared. "What's that got to do with--Oh, I see. You'll be coming to New York one of these days, though. "

"Maybe. "

"Sure as a gun. A chap that can handle a situation like you handled thewreck isn't going to stick in a little sand-heap like this. "

"It suits me here. "

"No! Does it? I'd think you'd die of it. Well, when you do get East lookme up, will you? I mean it; I'd like to see you. "

"All right. "

"And if there's anything I can do for you any time, drop me a line. "

The sumptuous ripple and gleam of the young man's faultless coat, registered upon Banneker's subconscious memory as it had fallen at hisfeet, recalled itself to him. 

"What store do you buy your clothes at?"

"Store?" Cressey did not smile. "I don't buy 'em at a store. I have 'emmade by a tailor. Mertoun, 505 Fifth Avenue. "

"Would he make me a suit?"

"Why, yes. I'll give you a card to him and you go in there when you'rein New York and pick out what you want. "

"Oh! He wouldn't make them and send them out here to me? Sears-Roebuckdo, if you send your measure. They're in Chicago. "

"I never had any duds built in Chicago, so I don't know them. But Ishouldn't think Mertoun would want to fit a man he'd never seen. Theylike to do things _right_, at Mertoun's. Ought to, too; they stick youenough for it. "

"How much?"

"Not much short of a hundred for a sack suit. "

Banneker was amazed. The choicest "made-to-measure" in his UniversalGuide, "Snappy, fashionable, and up to the minute, " came to less thanhalf of that. 

His admiring eye fell upon his visitor's bow-tie, faultless andunderanged throughout the vicissitudes of that arduous day, and heyearned to know whether it was "made-up" or self-confected. Sears-Roebuck were severely impartial as between one practice and theother, offering a wide range in each variety. He inquired. 

"Oh, tied it myself, of course, " returned Cressey. "Nobody wears theready-made kind. It's no trick to do it. I'll show you, any time. "

They fell into friendly talk about the wreck. 

It was ten-thirty when Banneker finished his much-interrupted writing. Going out to the portable house, he lighted an oil-stove and proceededto make a molasses pie. He was due for a busy day on the morrow andmight not find time to take the mile walk to the hotel for dinner, aswas his general habit. With the store of canned goods derived from themail-order catalogue, he could always make shift to live. Besides, hewas young enough to relish keenly molasses pie and the manufacture ofit. Having concluded his cookery in strict accordance with the rules setforth in the guide to this art, he laid it out on the sill to cool overnight. 

Tired though he was, his brain was too busy for immediate sleep. Hereturned to his den, drew out a book and began to read with absorption. That in which he now sought release and distraction was not the _magnumopus_ of Messrs. Sears-Roebuck, but the work of a less practical andpopular writer, being in fact the "Eve of St. Agnes, " by John Keats. Soothed and dreamy, he put out the lights, climbed to his livingquarters above the office, and fell asleep. It was then eleven-thirtyand his official day had terminated five hours earlier. 

At one o'clock he arose and patiently descended the stairs again. Someone was hammering on the door. He opened without inquiry, which was notthe part of wisdom in that country and at that hour. His pocket-flashgleamed on a thin young man in a black-rubber coat who, with head andhands retracted as far as possible from the pouring rain, resembled adisconsolate turtle with an insufficient carapace. 

"I'm Gardner, of the Angelica City Herald, " explained the untimelyvisitor. 

Banneker was surprised. That a reporter should come all the way from themetropolis of the Southwest to his wreck--he had already establishedproprietary interest in it--was gratifying. Furthermore, for reasons ofhis own, he was glad to see a journalist. He took him in and lighted upthe office. 

"Had to get a horse and ride to Manzanita to interview old Vanney and acouple of other big guys from the East. My first story's on the wire, "explained the newcomer offhand. "I want some local-color stuff for mysecond day follow-up. "

"It must be hard to do that, " said Banneker interestedly, "when youhaven't seen any of it yourself. "

"Patchwork and imagination, " returned the other wearily. "That's what Iget special rates for. Now, if I'd had your chance, right there on thespot, with the whole stage-setting around one--Lordy! How a fellow couldwrite that!"

"Not so easy, " murmured the agent. "You get confused. It's a sort ofblur, and when you come to put it down, little things that aren't reallyimportant come up to the surface--"

"Put it down?" queried the other with a quick look. "Oh, I see. Yourreport for the company. "

"Well, I wasn't thinking of that. "

"Do you write other things?" asked the reporter carelessly. 

"Oh, just foolery. " The tone invited--at least it did notdiscourage--further inquiry. Mr. Gardner was bored. Amateurs who"occasionally write" were the bane of him who, having a signature of hisown in the leading local paper, represented to the aspiring mind thegilded and lofty peaks of the unattainable. However he must play thisyouth as a source of material. 

"Ever try for the papers?"

"Not yet. I've thought maybe I might get a chance sometime as a sort oflocal correspondent around here, " was the diffident reply. 

Gardner repressed a grin. Manzanita would hardly qualify as a newscenter. Diplomacy prompted him to state vaguely that there was always achance for good stuff locally. 

"On a big story like this, " he added, "of course there'd be nothingdoing except for the special man sent out to cover it. "

"No. Well, I didn't write my--what I wrote, with any idea of getting itprinted. "

The newspaper man sighed wearily, sighed like a child and lied like aman of duty. "I'd like to see it. "

Without a trace of hesitation or self-consciousness Banneker said, "Allright, " and, taking his composition from its docket, motioned the otherto the light. Mr. Gardner finished and turned the first sheet beforemaking any observation. Then he bent a queer look upon Banneker andgrunted:

"What do you call this stuff, anyway?"

"Just putting down what I saw. "

Gardner read on. "What about this, about a Pullman sleeper 'elegant as ahotel bar and rigid as a church pew'? Where do you get that?"

Banneker looked startled. "I don't know. It just struck me that is theway a Pullman is. "

"Well, it is, " admitted the visitor, and continued to read. "And thisguy with the smashed finger that kept threatening to 'soom'; is thatright?"

"Of course it's right. You don't think I'd make it up! That reminds meof something. " And he entered a memo to see the litigious-mindedcomplainant again, for these are the cases which often turn up in thecourts with claims for fifty-thousand-dollar damages and heartrendingdetails of all-but-mortal internal injuries. 

Silence held the reader until he had concluded the seventh and lastsheet. Not looking at Banneker, he said:

"So that's your notion of reporting the wreck of the swellest train thatcrosses the continent, is it?"

"It doesn't pretend to be a report, " disclaimed the writer. "It's prettybad, is it?"

"It's rotten!" Gardner paused. "From a news-desk point of view. Anycopy-reader would chuck it. Unless I happened to sign it, " he added. "Then they'd cuss it out and let it pass, and the dear old pin-headpublic would eat it up. "

"If it's of any use to you--"

"Not so, my boy, not so! I might pinch your wad if you left it aroundloose, or even your last cigarette, but not your stuff. Let me take italong, though; it may give me some ideas. I'll return it. Now, where canI get a bed in the town?"

"Nowhere. Everything's filled. But I can give you a hammock out in myshack. "

"That's better. I'll take it. Thanks. "

Banneker kept his guest awake beyond the limits of decent hospitality, asking him questions. 

The reporter, constantly more interested in this unexpected find of areal personality in an out-of-the-way minor station of the high desert, meditated a character study of "the hero of the wreck, " but could notquite contrive any peg whereon to hang the wreath of heroism. By his ownmodest account, Banneker had been competent but wholly unpicturesque, though the characters in his sketch, rude and unformed though it was, stood out clearly. As to his own personal history, the agent wasunresponsive. At length the guest, apologizing for untimely weariness, it being then 3. 15 A. M. , yawned his way to the portable shack. 

He slept heavily, except for a brief period when the rain let up. In themorning--which term seasoned newspaper men apply to twelve noon and thehour or two thereafter--he inquired of Banneker, "Any tramps aroundhere?"

"No, " answered the agent, "Not often. There were a pair yesterdaymorning, but they went on. "

"Some one was fussing around the place about first light. I was toosleepy to get up. I yipped and they beat it. I don't think they gotinside. "

Banneker investigated. Nothing was missing from within the shack. Butoutside he made a distressing discovery. 

His molasses pie was gone. 

CHAPTER IV

"To accomplish a dessert as simple and inexpensive as it is tasty, "prescribes The Complete Manual of Cookery, p. 48, "take one cup of thickmolasses--" But why should I infringe a copyright when the culinaryreader may acquire the whole range of kitchen lore by expendingeighty-nine cents plus postage on 39 T 337? Banneker had faithfullyfollowed the prescribed instructions. The result had certainly beensimple and inexpensive; presumably it would have proven tasty. Heregretted and resented the rape of the pie. What aroused greaterconcern, however, was the presence of thieves. In the soft ground nearthe window he found some rather small footprints which suggested that itwas the younger of the two hoboes who had committed the depredation. 

Theorizing, however, was not the order of his day. Routine andextra-routine claimed all his time. There was his supplementary reportto make out; the marooned travelers in Manzanita to be looked after andtheir bitter complaints to be listened to; consultations over the wireas to the condition and probabilities of the roadbed, for the floods hadcome again; and in and out of it all, the busy, weary, indefatigableGardner, giving to the agent as much information as he asked from him. When their final lists were compared, Banneker noticed that there was noname with the initials I. O. W. On Gardner's. He thought of mentioning theclue, but decided that it was of too little definiteness and importance. The news value of mystery, enhanced by youth and beauty, which theveriest cub who had ever smelled printer's ink would have appreciated, was a sealed book to him. 

Not until late that afternoon did a rescue train limp cautiously alongan improvised track to set the interrupted travelers on their way. Gardner went on it, leaving an address and an invitation to "keep intouch. " Mr. Vanney took his departure with a few benign and well-chosenwords of farewell, accompanied by the assurance that he would "make ithis special purpose to commend, " and so on. His nephew, Herbert Cressey, the lily-clad messenger, stopped at the station to shake hands and grinrather vacantly, and adjure Banneker, whom he addressed as "old chap, "to be sure and look him up in the East; he'd be glad to see him anytime. Banneker believed that he meant it. He promised to do so, thoughwithout particular interest. With the others departed Miss Camilla VanArsdale's two emergency guests, one of them the rather splendid youngwoman who had helped with the wounded. They invaded Banneker's officewith supplementary telegrams and talked about their hostess with thatfreedom which women of the world use before dogs or uniformed officials. 

"What a woman!" said the amateur nurse. 

"And what a house!" supplemented the other, a faded and linedmiddle-aged wife who had just sent a reassuring and very long wire to ahusband in Pittsburgh. 

"Very much the châtelaine; grande dame and that sort of thing, " pursuedthe other. "One might almost think her English. "

"No. " The other shook her head positively. "Old American. As old and asgood as her name. You wouldn't flatter her by guessing her to beanything else. I dare say she would consider the average Britisharistocrat a little shoddy and loud. "

"So they are when they come over here. But what on earth is her typedoing out here, buried with a one-eyed, half-breed manservant?"

"And a concert grand piano. Don't forget that. She tunes it herself, too. Did you notice the tools? A possible romance. You've quite a nosefor such things, Sue. Couldn't you get anything out of her?"

"It's much too good a nose to put in the crack of a door, " retorted thepretty woman. "I shouldn't care to lay myself open to being snubbed byher. It might be painful. "

"It probably would. " The Pittsburgher turned to Banneker with a changeof tone, implying that he could not have taken any possible heed of whatwent before. "Has Miss Van Arsdale lived here long, do you know?"

The agent looked at her intently for a moment before replying: "Longerthan I have. " He transferred his gaze to the pretty woman. "You two wereher guests, weren't you?" he asked. 

The visitors glanced at each other, half amused, half aghast. The toneand implication of the question had been too significant to bemisunderstood. "Well, of all extraordinary--" began one of them underher breath; and the other said more loudly, "I really beg--" and thenshe, too, broke off. 

They went out. "Châtelaine and knightly defender, " commented the youngerone in the refuge of the outer office. "Have we been dumped off a traininto the midst of the Middle Ages? Where do you get station-agents likethat?"

"The one at our suburban station chews tobacco and says 'Marm' throughhis nose. "

Banneker emerged, seeking the conductor of the special with a message. 

"He is rather a beautiful young thing, isn't he?" she added. 

Returning, he helped them on the train with their hand-luggage. When thebustle and confusion of dispatching an extra were over, he sat down tothink. But not of Miss Camilla Van Arsdale. That was an old story, though its chapters were few, and none of them as potentially eventfulas this intrusion of Vanneys and female chatterers. 

It was the molasses pie that stuck in his mind. There was no time tomake another. Further, the thought of depredators hanging aboutdisturbed him. That shack of his was full of Aladdin treasures, delivered by the summoned genii of the Great Book. Though it was securedby Little Guardian locks and fortified with the Scarem Buzz alarm, hedid not feel sure of it. He decided to sleep there that night with his. 45-caliber Sure-shot revolver. Let them come again; he'd give 'em alesson! On second thought, he rebaited the window-ledge with a can ofSpecial Juicy Apricot Preserve. At ten o'clock he turned in, determinedto sleep lightly, and immediately plunged into fathomless depths ofunconsciousness, lulled by a singing wind and the drone of the rain. 

A light, flashing across his eyes, awakened him. For a moment he lay, dazed, confused by the gentle and unfamiliar oscillations of hishammock. Another flicker of light and a rumble of thunder brought him tohis full senses. The rain had degenerated into a casual drizzle and thewind had withdrawn into the higher areas. He heard some one movingoutside. 

Very quietly he reached out to the stand at his elbow, got his revolverand his flashlight, and slipped to the floor. The malefactor without wasapproaching the window. Another flash of lightning would have revealedmuch to Banneker had he not been crouching close under the sill, on theinside, so that the radiance of his light, when he found the button, should not expose him to a straight shot. 

A hand fumbled at the open window. Finger on trigger, Banneker held uphis flashlight in his left hand and irradiated the spot. He saw thehand, groping, and on one of its fingers something which returned a morebrilliant gleam than the electric ray. In his crass amazement, the agentstraightened up, a full mark for murder, staring at a diamond-and-rubyring set upon a short, delicate finger. 

No sound came from outside. But the hand became instantly tense. It fellupon the sill and clutched it so hard that the knuckles stood out, white, strained and garish. Banneker's own strong hand descended uponthe wrist. A voice said softly and tremulously:

"Please!"

The appeal went straight to Banneker's heart and quivered there, like asoft flame, like music heard in an unrealizable dream. 

"Who are you?" he asked, and the voice said:

"Don't hurt me. "

"Why should I?" returned Banneker stupidly. 

"Some one did, " said the voice. 

"Who?" he demanded fiercely. 

"Won't you let me go?" pleaded the voice. 

In the shock of his discovery he had released the flash-lever so thatthis colloquy passed in darkness. Now he pressed it. A girlish figurewas revealed, one protective arm thrown across the eyes. 

"Don't strike me, " said the girl again, and again Banneker's heart wasshaken within him by such tremors as the crisis of some deadly fearmight cause. 

"You needn't be afraid, " he stammered. 

"I've never been afraid before, " she said, hanging her weight away fromhim. "Won't you let me go?"

His grip relaxed slightly, then tightened again. "Where to?"

"I don't know, " said the appealing voice mournfully. 

An inspiration came to Banneker. "Are you afraid of me?" he askedquietly. 

"Of every thing. Of the night. "

He pressed the flash into her hand, turning the light upon himself. "Look, " he said. 

It seemed to him that she could not fail to read in his face theprofound and ardent wish to help her; to comfort and assure an uneasyand frightened spirit wandering in the night. 

He heard a little, soft sigh. "I don't know you, " said the voice. "DoI?"

"No, " he answered soothingly as if to a child. "I'm the station-agenthere. You must come in out of the wet. "

"Very well. "

He tossed an overcoat on over his pajamas, ran to the door and swung itopen. The tiny ray of light advanced, hesitated, advanced again. Shewalked into the shack, and immediately the rain burst again upon theouter world. Banneker's fleeting impression was of a vivid but dimmedbeauty. He pushed forward a chair, found a blanket for her feet, lightedthe "Quick-heater" oil-stove on which he did his cooking. She followedhim with her eyes, deeply glowing but vague and troubled. 

"This is not a station, " she said. 

"No. It's my shack. Are you cold?"

"Not very. " She shivered a little. 

"You say that some one hurt you?"

"Yes. They struck me. It made my head feel queer. "

A murderous fury surged into his brain. His hand twitched toward hisrevolver. 

"The hoboes, " he whispered under his breath. "But they didn't rob you, "he said aloud, looking at the jeweled hand. 

"No. I don't think so. I ran away. "

"Where was it?"

"On the train. "

Enlightenment burst upon him. "You're sure--" he began. Then, "Tell meall you can about it. "

"I don't remember anything. I was in my stateroom in the car. The doorwas open. Some one must have come in and struck me. Here. " She put herleft hand tenderly to her head. 

Banneker, leaning over her, only half suppressed a cry. Back of thetemple rose a great, puffed, leaden-blue wale. 

"Sit still, " he said. "I'll fix it. "

While he busied himself heating water, getting out clean bandages andgauze, she leaned back with half-closed eyes in which there was neitherfear nor wonder nor curiosity: only a still content. Banneker washed thewound very carefully. 

"Does it hurt?" he asked. 

"My head feels queer. Inside. "

"I think the hair ought to be cut away around the place. Right here. It's quite raw. "

It was glorious hair. Not black, as Cressey had described it in hishasty sketch of the unknown I. O. W. ; too alive with gleams and glints ofluster for that. Nor were her eyes black, but rather of a deep-hued, clouded hazel, showing troubled shadows between their dark-lashed, heavylids. Yet Banneker made no doubt but that this was the missing girl ofCressey's inquiry. 

"May I?" he said. 

"Cut my hair?" she asked. "Oh, no!"

"Just a little, in one place. I think I can do it so that it won't show. There's so much of it. "

"Please, " she answered, yielding. 

He was deft. She sat quiet and soothed under his ministerings. Completed, the bandage looked not too unworkmanlike, and was cool andcomforting to the hot throb of the wound. 

"Our doctor went back on the train, worse luck!" he said. 

"I don't want any other doctor, " she murmured. "I'd rather have you. "

"But I'm not a doctor. "

"No, " she acquiesced. "Who are you? Did you tell me? You are one of thepassengers, aren't you?"

"I'm the station-agent at Manzanita. "

For a moment she looked at him wonderingly. "Are you? I don't seem tounderstand. My head is very queer. "

"Don't try to. Here's some tea and crackers. "

"I'm starved, " she said. 

With subtle stirrings of delight, he watched her eat the bit that he hadprepared for her while heating the water. But he was wise enough to knowthat she must not have much while the extent of her injury was stillundetermined. 

"Are you wet?" he inquired. 

She nodded. "I haven't been dry since the flood. "

"I have a room with a real stove in it over the station. I'll build afire, and you must take off your wet things and go to bed and sleep. Ifyou need anything you can hammer on the floor. "

"But you--"

"I'll be in my office, below. I'm on night duty to-night, " said he, tactfully fabricating. 

"Very well. You're awfully kind. "

He adjusted the oil-stove, threw a warmed blanket over her feet, andhurried to his room to build the promised fire. When he came back shesmiled. 

"You are good to me! It's stupid of me--my head is so queer--did you sayyou were--"

"The station-agent. My name is Banneker. I'm responsible to the companyfor your safety and comfort. You're not to worry about it, nor thinkabout it, nor ask any questions. "

"No, " she agreed, and rose. 

He threw the blanket around her shoulders. At the protective touch sheslipped her hand through his arm. So they went out into the night. 

Mounting the stairs, she stumbled, and for a moment he felt the firm, warm pressure of her body against him. It shook him strangely. 

"I'm sorry, " she murmured. And, a moment later, "Good-night, and thankyou. "

Taking the hand which she held out, he returned her good-night. The doorclosed. He turned away and was halfway down the flight when a suddenthought recalled him. He tapped on the door. 

"What is it?" asked the serene music of the voice. 

"I don't want to bother you, but there's just one thing I forgot. Pleasegive me your name. "

"What for?" returned the voice doubtfully. 

"I must report it to the company. "

"Must you?" The voice seemed to be vaguely troubled. "To-night?"

"Don't give a thought to it, " he said. "To-morrow will do just as well. I'm sorry to have troubled you. "

"Good-night, " she said again. 

"Can't remember her own name!" thought Banneker, moved and pitiful. 

Darkness and quiet were grateful to him as he entered the office. Bysense of direction he found his chair, and sank into it. Overhead hecould hear the soft sound of her feet moving about the room, his room. Quiet succeeded. Banneker, leagues removed from sleep, or the hope ofit, despite his bodily weariness, followed the spirit of wonder throughstarlit and sunlit realms of dream. 

The telegraph-receiver clicked. Not his call. But it brought him back toactualities. He lighted his lamp and brought down the letter-file fromwhich had been extracted the description of the wreck for Gardner of theAngelica City Herald. 

Drawing out the special paper, he looked at the heading and smiled. "Letters to Nobody. " He took a fresh sheet and began to write. Throughthe night he wrote and dreamed and dozed and wrote again. When a soundof song, faint and sweet and imminent, roused him to lift hissleep-bowed head from the desk upon which it had sunk, the gray, soiledlight of a stormy morning was in his eyes. The last words he had writtenwere:

"The breast of the world rises and falls with your breathing. "

Banneker was twenty-four years old, and had the untainted soul of a boyof sixteen. 

CHAPTER V

Overhead she was singing. The voice was clear and sweet and happy. Hedid not know the melody; some minor refrain of broken rhythm whichseemed always to die away short of fulfillment. A haunting thing ofmystery and glamour, such mystery and glamour as had irradiated his longand wonderful night. He heard the door open and then her light footstepson the stair outside. Hot-eyed and disheveled, he rose, staggering alittle at first as he hurried to greet her. 

She stood poised on the lower step. 

"Good-morning, " he said. 

She made no return to his accost other than a slow smile. "I thought youwere a dream, " she murmured. 

"No. I'm real enough. Are you better? Your head?"

She put a hand to the bandage. "It's sore. Otherwise I'm quite fit. I'veslept like the dead. "

"I'm glad to hear it, " he replied mechanically. He was drinking her in, all the grace and loveliness and wonder of her, himself quiteunconscious of the intensity of his gaze. 

She accepted the mute tribute untroubled; but there was a suggestion ofpuzzlement in the frown which began to pucker her forehead. 

"You're really the station-agent?" she asked with a slight emphasis uponthe adverb. 

"Yes. Why not?"

"Nothing. No reason. Won't you tell me what happened?"

"Come inside. " He held open the door against the wind. 

"No. It's musty. " She wrinkled a dainty nose. "Can't we talk here? Ilove the feel of the air and the wet. And the world! I'm glad I wasn'tkilled. "

"So am I, " he said soberly. 

"When my brain wouldn't work quite right yesterday, I thought that someone had hit me. That isn't so, is it?"

"No. Your train was wrecked. You were injured. In the confusion you musthave run away. "

"Yes. I remember being frightened. Terribly frightened. I'd never beenthat way before. Outside of that one idea of fear, everything was mixedup. I ran until I couldn't run any more and dropped down. "

"And then?"

"I got up and ran again. Have you ever been afraid?"

"Plenty of times. "

"I hadn't realized before that there was anything in the world to beafraid of. But the thought of that blow, coming so suddenly fromnowhere, and the fear that I might be struck again--it drove me. " Sheflung out her hands in a little desperate gesture that twitched atBanneker's breath. 

"You must have been out all night in the rain. "'

"No. I found a sort of cabin in the woods. It was deserted. "

"Dutch Cal's place. It's only a few rods back in. "

"I saw a light from there and that suggested to my muddled brain that Imight get something to eat. "

"So you came over here. "

"Yes. But the fear came on me again and I didn't dare knock. I suppose Iprowled. "

"Gardner thought he heard ghosts. But ghosts don't steal molasses pie. "

She looked at him solemnly. "Must one steal to get anything to eathere?"

"I'm sorry, " he cried. "I'll get you breakfast right away. What will youhave? There isn't much. "

"Anything there is. But if I'm to board with you, you must let me pay myway. "

"The company is responsible for that. "

Her brooding eyes were still fixed upon him. "You actually are theagent, " she mused. "That's quaint. "

"I don't see anything quaint about it. Now, if you'll make yourselfcomfortable I'll go over to the shack and rustle something forbreakfast. "

"No; I'd rather go with you. Perhaps I can help. "

Such help as the guest afforded was negligible. When, from sundry of theSears-Roebuck cans and bottles, a condensed and preserved sort of mealhad been derived, she set to it with a good grace. 

"There's more of a kick in tea than in a cocktail, I believe, when youreally need it, " she remarked gratefully. "You spoke of a Mr. Gardner. Who is he?"

"A reporter who spent night before last here. "

She dropped her cracker, oleomargarine-side down. "A reporter?"

"He came down to write up the wreck. It's a bad one. Nine dead, so far. "

"Is he still here?"

"No. Gone back to Angelica City. "

Retrieving her cracker, the guest finished her meal, heartily butthoughtfully. She insisted on lending a hand to the washing-up process, and complimented Banneker on his neatness. 

"You haven't told me your name yet, " he reminded her when the lastshining tin was hung up. 

"No; I haven't. What will you do with it when you get it?"

"Report it to the company for their lists. "

"Suppose I don't want it reported to the company?'

"Why on earth shouldn't you?"

"I may have my reasons. Would it be put in the papers?"

"Very likely. "

"I don't _want_ it in the papers, " said the girl with decision. 

"Don't you want it known that you're all right? Your people--"

"I'll wire my people. Or you can wire them for me. Can't you?"

"Of course. But the company has a right to know what has happened to itspassengers. "

"Not to me! What has the company done for me but wreck me and give me anawful bang on the head and lose my baggage and--Oh, I nearly forgot. Itook my traveling-bag when I ran. It's in the hut. I wonder if you wouldget it for me?"

"Of course. I'll go now. "

"That's good of you. And for your own self, but not your old company, I'll tell you my name. I'm--"

"Wait a moment. Whatever you tell me I'll have to report. "

"You can't, " she returned imperiously. "It's in confidence. "

"I won't accept it so. "

"You're a most extraordinary sta--a most extraordinary sort of man. ThenI'll give you this much for yourself, and if your company collects petnames, you can pass it on. My friends call me Io. "

"Yes. I know. You're I. O. W. "

"How do you know that? And how much more do you know?"

"No more. A man on the train reported your initials from your baggage. "

"I'll feel ever so much better when I have that bag. Is there a hotelnear here?"

"A sort of one at Manzanita. It isn't very clean. But there'll be atrain through to-night and I'll get you space on that. I'd better get adoctor for you first, hadn't I?"

"No, indeed! All I need is some fresh things. "

Banneker set off at a brisk pace. He found the extravagant littletraveling-case safely closed and locked, and delivered it outside hisown door which was also closed and, he suspected, locked. 

"I'm thinking, " said the soft voice of the girl within. "Don't let meinterrupt your work. "

Beneath, at his routine, Banneker also set himself to think; confused, bewildered, impossibly conjectural thoughts not unmingled withsemi-official anxiety. Harboring a woman on company property, eventhough she were, in some sense, a charge of the company, might be opento misconceptions. He wished that the mysterious Io would declareherself. 

At noon she did. She declared herself ready for luncheon. There wasabout her a matter-of-fact acceptance of the situation as natural, eveninevitable, which entranced Banneker when it did not appall him. Afterthe meal was over, the girl seated herself on a low bench which Bannekerhad built with his own hands and the Right-and-Ready Tool Kit (9 T 603), her knee between her clasped hands and an elfish expression on her face. 

"Don't you think, " she suggested, "that we'd get on quicker if youwashed the dishes and I sat here and talked to you?"

"Very likely. "

"It isn't so easy to begin, you know, " she remarked, nursing her kneethoughtfully. "Am I--Do you find me very much in the way?'"

"No. "

"Don't suppress your wild enthusiasm on my account, " she besought him. "I haven't interfered with your duties so far, have I?"

"No, " answered Banneker wondering what was coming next. 

"You see"--her tone became ruminative and confidential--"if I give youmy name and you report it, there'll be all kinds of a mix-up. They'llcome after me and take me away. "

Banneker dropped a tin on the floor and stood, staring. 

"Isn't that what you want?"

"It's evident enough that it's what _you_ want, " she returned, aggrieved. 

"No. Not at all, " he disclaimed. "Only--well, out here--alone--I don'tunderstand. "

"Can't you understand that if one had happened to drop out of the worldby chance, it might be desirable to stay out for a while?"

"For _you_? No; I can't understand that. "

"What about yourself?" she challenged with a swift, amused gleam. "Youare certainly staying out of the world here. "

"This is my world. "

Her eyes and voice dropped. "Truly?" she murmured. Then, as he made noreply, "It isn't much of a world for a man. "

To this his response touched the heights of the unexpected. He stretchedout his arm toward the near window through which could be seen the whitesplendor of Mount Carstairs, dim in the wreathing murk. 

"Lo! For there, amidst the flowers and grasses, Only the mightiermovement sounds and passes, Only winds and rivers, Life and death, "he quoted. 

Her eyes glowed with sheer, incredulous astonishment. "How came you bythat Stevenson?" she demanded. "Are you poet as well as recluse?"

"I met him once. "

"Tell me about it. "

"Some other time. We've other things to talk of now. "

"Some other time? Then I'm to stay!"

"In Manzanita?"

"Manzanita? No. Here. "

"In this station? Alone? But why--"

"Because I'm Io Welland and I want to, and I always get what I want, "she retorted calmly and superbly. 

"Welland, " he repeated. "Miss I. O. Welland. And the address is New York, isn't it?"

Her hands grew tense across her knee, and deep in her shadowed eyesthere was a flash. But her voice suggested not only appeal, but almost ahint of caress as she said:

"Are you going to betray a guest? I've always heard that Westernhospitality--"

"You're not my guest. You're the company's. "

"And you won't take me for yours?"

"Be reasonable, Miss Welland. "

"I suppose it's a question of the conventionalities, " she mocked. 

"I don't know or care anything about the conventionalities--"

"Nor I, " she interrupted. "Out here. "

"--but my guess would be that they apply only to people who live in thesame world. We don't, you and I. "

"That's rather shrewd of you, " she observed. 

"It isn't an easy matter to talk about to a young girl, you know. "

"Oh, yes, it is, " she returned with composure. "Just take it for grantedthat I know about all there is to be known and am not afraid of it. I'mnot afraid of anything, I think, except of--of having to go back justnow. " She rose and went to him, looking down into his eyes. "A womanknows whom she can trust in--in certain things. That's her gift, a giftno man has or quite understands. Dazed as I was last night, I knew Icould trust you. I still know it. So we may dismiss that. "

"That is true, " said Banneker, "so far as it goes. "

"What farther is there? If it's a matter of the inconvenience--"

"No. You know it isn't that. "

"Then let me stay in this funny little shack just for a few days, " shepleaded. "If you don't, I'll get on to-night's train and go on and--anddo something I'll be sorry for all the rest of my life. And it'll beyour fault! I was going to do it when the accident prevented. Do youbelieve in Providence?"

"Not as a butt-in, " he answered promptly. "I don't believe thatProvidence would pitch a rock into a train and kill a lot of people, just to prevent a girl from making a foo--a bad break. "

"Nor I, " she smiled. "I suppose there's some kind of a General Managerover this queer world; but I believe He plays the game fair and squareand doesn't break the rules He has made Himself. If I didn't, I wouldn'twant to play at all!. . . Oh, my telegram! I must wire my aunt in NewYork. I'll tell her that I've stopped off to visit friends, if you don'tobject to that description as being too compromising, " she addedmischievously. She accepted a pad which he handed her and sat at thetable, pondering. "Mr. Banneker, " she said after a moment. 

"Well?"

"If the telegram goes from here, will it be headed by the name of thestation?"

"Yes. "

"So that inquiry might be made here for me?"

"It might, certainly. "

"But I don't want it to be. Couldn't you leave off the station?"

"Not very well. "

"Just for me?" she wheedled. "For your guest that you've been soinsistent on keeping, " she added slyly. 

"The message wouldn't be accepted. "

"Oh, dear! Then I won't send it. "

"If you don't notify your family, I must report you to the company. "

"What an irritating sense of duty you have! It must be dreadful to beafflicted that way. Can't you suggest something?" she flashed. "Won'tyou do a _thing_ to help me stay? I believe you don't want me, afterall. "

"If the up-train gets through this evening, I'll give your wire to theengineer and he'll transmit it from any office you say. "

Childlike with pleasure she clapped her hands. "Of course! Give himthis, will you?" From a bag at her wrist she extracted a five-dollarbill. "By the way, if I'm to be a guest I must be a paying guest, ofcourse. "

"You can pay for a cot that I'll get in town, " he agreed, "and yourshare of the food. "

"But the use of the house, and--and all the trouble I'm making you, " shesaid doubtfully. "I ought to pay for that. "

"Do you think so?" He looked at her with a peculiar expression which, however, was not beyond the power of her intuition to interpret. 

"No; I don't, " she declared. 

Banneker answered her smile with his own, as he resumed his dish-wiping. Io wrote out her telegram with care. Her next observation startled theagent. 

"Are you, by any chance, married?"

"No; I'm not. What makes you ask that?"

"There's been a woman in here before. "

Confusedly his thoughts flew back to Carlotta. But the Mexican girl hadnever been in the shack. He was quite absurdly and inexplicably glad nowthat she had not. 

"A woman?" he said. "Why do you think so?"

"Something in the arrangement of the place. That hanging, yonder. Andthat little vase--it's good, by the way. The way that Navajo is placedon the door. One feels it. "

"It's true. A friend of mine came here one day and turned everythingtopsy-turvy. "

"I'm not asking questions just for curiosity. But is that the reason youdidn't want me to stay?"

He laughed, thinking of Miss Van Arsdale. "Heavens, no! Wait till youmeet her. She's a very wonderful person; but--"

"Meet her? Does she live near here, then?"

"A few miles away. "

"Suppose she should come and find me here?"

"It's what I've been wishing. "

"Is it! Well, it isn't what I wish at all. "

"In fact, " continued the imperturbable Banneker, "I rather planned toride over to her place this afternoon. "

"Why, if you please?"

"To tell her about you and ask her advice. "

Io's face darkened rebelliously. "Do you think it necessary to tattle toa woman who is a total stranger to me?"

"I think it would be wise to get her view, " he replied, unmoved. 

"Well, I think it would be horrid. I think if you do any such thing, youare--Mr. Banneker! You're not listening to me. "

"Some one is coming through the woods trail, " said he. 

"Perhaps it's your local friend. "

"That's my guess. "

"Please understand this, Mr. Banneker, " she said with an obstinateoutthrust of her little chin. "I don't know who your friend is and Idon't care. If you make it necessary, I can go to the hotel in town; butwhile I stay here I won't have my affairs or even my presence discussedwith any one else. "

"You're too late, " said Banneker. 

Out from a hardly discernible opening in the brush shouldered a bigroan. Tossing up his head, he stretched out in the long, easy lope ofthe desert-bred, his rider sitting him loosely and with slack bridle. 

"That's Miss Van Arsdale, " said Banneker. 

CHAPTER VI

Seated in her saddle the newcomer hailed Banneker. 

"What news, Ban? Is the wreck cleared up?"

"Yes. But the track is out twenty miles east. Every arroyo and barrancais bank-high and over. "

He had crossed the platform to her. Now she raised her deep-set, quieteyes and rested them on the girl. That the station should harbor avisitor at that hour was not surprising. But the beauty of the strangercaught Miss Van Arsdale's regard, and her bearing held it. 

"A passenger, Ban?" she asked, lowering her voice. 

"Yes, Miss Camilla. "

"Left over from the wreck?"

He nodded. "You came in the nick of time. I don't quite know what to dowith her. "

"Why didn't she go on the relief train?"

"She didn't show up until last night. "

"Where did she stay the night?"

"Here. "

"In your office?"

"In my room. I worked in the office. "

"You should have brought her to me. "

"She was hurt. Queer in the head. I'm not sure that she isn't so yet. "

Miss Van Arsdale swung her tall form easily out of the saddle. The girlcame forward at once, not waiting for Banneker's introduction, with aformal gravity. 

"How do you do? I am Irene Welland. "

The older woman took the extended hand. There was courtesy rather thankindliness in her voice as she asked, "Are you much hurt?"

"I'm quite over it, thank you. All but the bandage. Mr. Banneker wasjust speaking of you when you rode up, Miss Van Arsdale. "

The other smiled wanly. "It is a little startling to hear one's namelike that, in a voice from another world. When do you go on?"

"Ah, that's a point under discussion. Mr. Banneker would, I believe, summon a special train if he could, in his anxiety to get rid of me. "

"Not at all, " disclaimed the agent. 

But Miss Van Arsdale interrupted, addressing the girl:

"You must be anxious, yourself, to get back to civilization. "

"Why?" returned the girl lightly. "This seems a beautiful locality. "

"Were you traveling alone?"

The girl flushed a little, but her eyes met the question withoutwavering. "Quite alone. "

"To the coast?"

"To join friends there. "

"If they can patch up the washed-out track, " put in Banneker, "NumberSeven ought to get through to-night. "

"And Mr. Banneker in his official capacity was almost ready to put meaboard by force, when I succeeded in gaining a reprieve. Now he callsyou to his rescue. "

"What do you want to do?" inquired Miss Van Arsdale with lifted brows. 

"Stay here for a few days, in that funny little house. " She indicatedthe portable shack. 

"That is Mr. Banneker's own place. "

"I understand perfectly. "

"I don't think it would do, Miss Welland. It is _Miss_ Welland, isn'tit?"

"Yes, indeed. Why wouldn't it do, Miss Van Arsdale?"

"Ask yourself. "

"I am quite capable of taking care of myself, " returned the girl calmly. "As for Mr. Banneker, I assume that he is equally competent. And, " sheadded with a smiling effrontery, "he's quite as much compromised alreadyas he could possibly be by my staying. "

Banneker flushed angrily. "There's no question of my being compromised, "he began shortly. 

"You're wrong, Ban; there is, " Miss Van Arsdale's quiet voice cut himshort again. "And still more of Miss Welland's. What sort of escapadethis may be, " she added, turning to the girl, "I have no idea. But youcannot stay here alone. "

"Can't I?" retorted the other mutinously. "I think that rests with Mr. Banneker to say. Will you turn me out, Mr. Banneker? After ouragreement?"

"No, " said Banneker. 

"You can hardly kidnap me, even with all the conventionalities on yourside, " Miss Welland pointed out to Miss Van Arsdale. 

That lady made no answer to the taunt. She was looking at thestation-agent with a humorously expectant regard. He did not disappointher. 

"If I get an extra cot for the shack, Miss Van Arsdale, " he asked, "could you get your things and come over here to stay?"

"Certainly. "

"I won't be treated like a child!" cried the derelict in exactly thetone of one, and a very naughty one. "I won't! I won't!" She stamped. 

Banneker laughed. 

"You're a coward, " said Io. 

Miss Van Arsdale laughed. 

"I'll go to the hotel in the town and stay there. "

"Think twice before you do that, " advised the woman. 

"Why?" asked Io, struck by the tone. 

"Crawly things, " replied Miss Van Arsdale sententiously. 

"Big, hungry ones, " added Banneker. 

He could almost feel the little rippling shudders passing across thegirl's delicate skin. "Oh, I think you're _loathly_!" she cried. "Bothof you. "

Tears of vexation made lucent the shadowed depths of her eyes. "I'venever been treated so in my life!" she declared, overcome by theself-pity of a struggling soul trammeled by the world's injustice. 

"Why not be sensible and stay with me to-night while you think it allover?" suggested Miss Van Arsdale. 

"Thank you, " returned the other with an unexpected and baffling changeto the amenable and formal "You are very kind. I'd be delighted to. "

"Pack up your things, then, and I'll bring an extra horse from the town. I'll be back in an hour. "

The girl went up to Banneker's room, and got her few belongingstogether. Descending she found the agent busy among his papers. He putthem aside and came out to her. 

"Your telegram ought to get off from Williams sometime to-morrow, " hesaid. 

"That will be time enough, " she answered. 

"Will there be any answer?"

"How can there be? I haven't given any address. "

"I could wire Williams later. "

"No. I don't want to be bothered. I want to be let alone. I'm tired. "

He cast a glance about the lowering horizon. "More rain coming, " hesaid. "I wish you could have seen the desert in the sunshine. "

"I'll wait. "

"Will you?" he cried eagerly. "It may be quite a while. "

"Perhaps Miss Van Arsdale will keep me, as you wouldn't. "

He shook his head. "You know that it isn't because I don't want you tostay. But she is right. It just wouldn't do. . . . Here she comes now. "

Io took a step nearer to him. "I've been looking at your books. "

He returned her gaze unembarrassed. "Odds and ends, " he said. "Youwouldn't find much to interest you. "

"On the contrary. Everything interested me. You're a mystery--and I hatemysteries. "

"That's rather hard. "

"Until they're solved. Perhaps I shall stay until I solve you. "

"Stay longer. It wouldn't take any time at all. There's no mystery tosolve. " He spoke with an air of such perfect candor as compelled herbelief in his sincerity. 

"Perhaps you'll solve it for me. Here's Miss Van Arsdale. Good-bye, andthank you. You'll come and see me? Or shall I come and see you?"

"Both, " smiled Banneker. "That's fairest. "

The pair rode away leaving the station feeling empty and unsustained. Atleast Banneker credited it with that feeling. He tried to get back towork, but found his routine dispiriting. He walked out into the desert, musing and aimless. 

Silence fell between the two women as they rode. Once Miss Wellandstopped to adjust her traveling-bag which had shifted a little in thestraps. 

"Is riding cross-saddle uncomfortable for you?" asked Miss Van Arsdale. 

"Not in the least. I often do it at home. "

Suddenly her mount, a thick-set, soft-going pony shied, almost unseatingher. A gun had banged close by. Immediately there was a second report. Miss Van Arsdale dismounted, replacing a short-barreled shot-gun in itssaddle-holster, stepped from the trail, and presently returned carryinga brace of plump, slate-gray birds. 

"Wild dove, " she said, stroking them. "You'll find them a welcomeaddition to a meager bill of fare. "

"I should be quite content with whatever you usually have. "

"Doubted, " replied the other. "I live rather a frugal life. It savestrouble. "

"And I'm afraid I'm going to make you trouble. But you brought it uponyourself. "

"By interfering. Exactly. How old are you?"

"Twenty. "

"Good Heavens! You have the aplomb of fifty. "

"Experience, " smiled the girl, flattered. 

"And the recklessness of fifteen. "

"I abide by the rules of the game. And when I find myself--well, out ofbounds, I make my own rules. "

Miss Van Arsdale shook her firmly poised head. "It won't do. The rulesare the same everywhere, for honorable people. "

"Honorable!" There was a flash of resentful pride as the girl turned inthe saddle to face her companion. 

"I have no intention of preaching at you or of questioning you, "continued the calm, assured voice. "If you are looking forsanctuary"--the fine lips smiled slightly--"though I'm sure I can't seewhy you should need it, this is the place. But there are rules ofsanctuary, also. "

"I suppose, " surmised the girl, "you want to know why I don't go backinto the world at once. "

"No. "

"Then I'll tell you. "

"As you wish. "

"I came West to be married. "

"To Delavan Eyre?"

Again the dun pony jumped, this time because a sudden involuntarycontraction of his rider's muscles had startled him. "What do you knowof Delavan Eyre, Miss Van Arsdale?"

"I occasionally see a New York newspaper. "

"Then you know who I am, too?"

"Yes. You are the pet of the society column paragraphers; the famous'Io' Welland. " She spoke with a curious intonation. 

"Ah, you read the society news?"

"With a qualmish stomach. I see the names of those whom I used to knowadvertising themselves in the papers as if they had a shaving-soap or achewing-gum to sell. "

"Part of the game, " returned the girl airily. "The newcomers, theclimbers, would give their souls to get the place in print that we getwithout an effort. "

"Doesn't it seem to you a bit vulgar?" asked the other. 

"Perhaps. But it's the way the game is played nowadays. "

"With counters which you have let the parvenues establish for you. In myday we tried to keep out of the papers. "

"Clever of you, " approved the girl. "The more you try to keep out, themore eager the papers are to print your picture. They're crazy overexclusiveness, " she laughed. 

"Speculation, pro and con, as to who is going to marry whom, and who isabout to divorce whom, and whether Miss Welland's engagement to Mr. Eyreis authentic, 'as announced exclusively in this column'--moreexclusiveness--; or whether--"

"It wasn't Del Eyre that I came out here to marry. "

"No?"

"No. It's Carter Holmesley. Of course you know about him. "

"By advertisement, also; the society-column kind. "

"Really, you know, he couldn't keep out of the papers. He hates it withall his British soul. But being what he is, a prospective duke, aninternational poloist, and all that sort of thing, the reportersnaturally swarm to him. Columns and columns; more pictures than apopular _danseuse_. And all without his lifting his hand. "

"_Une mariage de reclame_, " observed Miss Van Arsdale. "Is it that thatconstitutes his charm for you?"

Miss Van Arsdale's smile was still instinct with mockery, but there hadcrept into it a quality of indulgence. 

"No, " answered the girl. Her face became thoughtful and serious. "It'ssomething else. He--he carried me off my feet from the moment I met him. He was drunk, too, that first time. I don't believe I've ever seen himcold sober. But it's a joyous kind of intoxication; vine-leaves andBacchus and that sort of thing 'weave a circle 'round him thrice'--_you_know. It _is_ honey-dew and the milk of Paradise to him. " She laughednervously. "And charm! It's in the very air about him. He can make mefollow his lead like a little curly poodle when I'm with him. "

"Were you engaged to Delavan Eyre when you met him?"

"Oh, engaged!" returned the girl fretfully. "There was never more than asort of understanding. A _mariage de convenance_ on both sides, if itever came off. I _am_ fond of Del, too. But he was South, and the othercame like a whirlwind, and I'm--I'm queer about some things, " she wenton half shamefacedly. "I suppose I'm awfully susceptible to physicalimpressions. Are all girls that way? Or is that gross and--andunderbred?"

"It's part of us, I expect; but we're not all so honest with ourselves. So you decided to throw over Mr. Eyre and marry your Briton. "

"Well--yes. The new British Ambassador, who arrives from Japan nextweek, is Carty's uncle, and we were going to make him stage-manage thewedding, you see. A sort of officially certified elopement. "

"More advertisement!" said Miss Van Arsdale coldly. "Really, MissWelland, if marriage seems to you nothing more than an opportunity tocreate a newspaper sensation I cannot congratulate you on yourprospects. "

This time her tone stung. Io Welland's eyes became sullen. But her voicewas almost caressingly amiable as she said:

"Tastes differ. It is, I believe, possible to create a sensation in NewYork society without any newspaper publicity, and without at all meaningor wishing to. At least, it was, fifteen years ago; so I'm told. "

Camilla Van Arsdale's face was white and lifeless and still, as sheturned it toward the girl. 

"You must have been a very precocious five-year-old, " she said steadily. 

"All the Olneys are precocious. My mother was an Olney, a first cousinof Mrs. Willis Enderby, you know. "

"Yes; I remember now. "

The malicious smile on the girl's delicate lips faded. "I wish I, hadn'tsaid that, " she cried impulsively. "I hate Cousin Mabel. I always havehated her. She's a cat. And I think the way she, acted in--inthe--the--well, about Judge Enderby and--". 

"Please!" Miss Van Arsdale's tone was peremptory. "Here is my place. "She indicated a clearing with a little nest of a camp in it. 

"Shall I go back?" asked Io remorsefully. 

"No. "

Miss Van Arsdale dismounted and, after a moment's hesitancy, the otherfollowed her example. The hostess threw open the door and a beautiful, white-ruffed collie rushed to her with barks of joy. She held out a handto her new guest. 

"Be welcome, " she said with a certain stately gravity, "for as long asyou will stay. "

"It might be some time, " answered Io shyly. "You're tempting me. "

"When is your wedding?"

"Wedding! Oh, didn't I tell you? I'm not going to marry Carter Holmesleyeither. "

"You are not going--"

"No. The bump on my head must have settled my brain. As soon as I cameto I saw how crazy it would be. That is why I don't want to go on West. "

"I see. For fear of his overbearing you. "

"Yes. Though I don't think he could now. I think I'm over it. Poor oldDel! He's had a narrow escape from losing me. I hope he never hears ofit. Placid though he is, that might stir him up. "

"Then you'll go back to him?"

The girl sighed. "I suppose so. How can I tell? I'm only twenty, and itseems to me that somebody has been trying to marry me ever since Istopped petting my dolls. I'm tired of men, men, men! That's why I wantto live alone and quiet for a while in the station-agent's shack. "

"Then you don't consider Mr. Banneker as belonging to the tribe of men?"

"He's an official. I could always see his uniform, at need. " She fellinto thought. "It's a curious thing, " she mused. 

Miss Van Arsdale said nothing. 

"This queer young cub of a station-agent of yours is strangely likeCarter Holmesley, not as much in looks as in--well--atmosphere. Only, he's ever so much better-looking. "

"Won't you have some tea? You must be tired, " said Miss Van Arsdalepolitely. 

CHAPTER VII

Somewhere within the soul of civilized woman burns a craving for thathigher power of sensation which we dub sensationalism. Girls of IoWelland's upbringing live in an atmosphere which fosters it. To outshinetheir rivals in the startling things which they do, always withinaccepted limits, is an important and exciting phase of existence. Io hadrun away to marry the future Duke of Carfax, partly through the charmwhich a reckless, headlong, and romantic personality imposed upon her, but largely for the excitement of a reckless, headlong, and romanticescapade. The tragic interposition of the wreck seemed to her presentconsciousness, cooled and sobered by the spacious peace of the desert, to have been providential. 

Despite her disclaimer made to Banneker she felt, deep within the placidacceptances of subconsciousness, that the destruction of a train was nottoo much for a considerate Providence to undertake on behalf of herpetted and important self. She clearly realized that she had had anarrow escape from Holmesley; that his attraction for her was transientand unsubstantial, a surface magnetism without real value or promise. 

In her revulsion of feeling she thought affectionately of Delavan Eyre. There lay the safe basis of habitude, common interests, settled liking. True, he bored her at times with his unimpeachable good-nature, his easyself-assurance that everything was and always would be "all right, " andnothing "worth bothering over. "

If he knew of her escapade, that would at least shake him out of hissoft and well-lined rut. Indeed, Io was frank enough with herself toadmit that a perverse desire to explode a bomb under her imperturbableand too-assured suitor had been an element in her projected elopement. Never would that bomb explode. It would not even fizzle enough to alarmEyre or her family. For not a soul knew of the frustrated scheme, exceptHolmesley and the reliable friend in Paradiso whom she was to visit; nother father, Sims Welland, traveling in Europe on business, nor her aunt, Mrs. Thatcher Forbes, in whose charge she had been left. Ostensibly shehad been going to visit the Westerleys, that was all: Mrs. Forbes'smisgivings as to a twenty-year-old girl crossing the continent alone hadbeen unavailing against Io's calm willfulness. 

Well, she would go back and marry Del Eyre, and be comfortable everafter. After all, liking and comprehension were a sounder foundation formatrimony than the perishable glamour of an attraction like Holmesley's. Any sensible person would know that. She wished that she had some olderand more experienced woman to talk it out with. Miss Van Arsdale, ifonly she knew her a little better. . . . 

Camilla Van Arsdale, even on so casual an acquaintance, would have toldIo, reckoning with the slumbering fire in her eyes, and the sensitiveand passionate turn of the lips, but still more with the subtle andsignificant emanation of a femininity as yet unawakened to itself, thatfor her to marry on the pallid expectancies of mere liking would be toinvite disaster and challenge ruin. 

Meantime Io wanted to rest and think. 

Time enough for that was to be hers, it appeared. Her first night as aguest had been spent in a semi-enclosed porch, to which every breezewafted the spicy and restful balm of the wet pines. Io's hot braincooled itself in that peace. Quite with a feeling of welcome sheaccepted the windy downpour which came with the morning to keep herindoors, as if it were a friendly and opportune jailer. Reaction fromthe mental strain and the physical shock had set in. She wanted only, asshe expressed it to her hostess, to "laze" for a while. 

"Then this is the ideal spot for you, " Miss Van Arsdale answered her. "I'm going to ride over to town. "

"In this gale?" asked the surprised girl. 

"Oh, I'm weather-proof. Tell Pedro not to wait luncheon for me. And keepan eye on him if you want anything fit to eat. He's the worst cook westof the plains. You'll find books, and the piano to amuse you when youget up. "

She rode away, straight and supple in the saddle, and Io went back tosleep again. Halfway to her destination, Miss Van Arsdale'swoods-trained ear caught the sound of another horse's hooves, taking ashort cut across a bend in the trail. To her halloo, Banneker's clearvoice responded. She waited and presently he rode up to her. 

"Come back with me, " she invited after acknowledging his greeting. 

"I was going over to see Miss Welland. "

"Wait until to-morrow. She is resting. "

A shade of disappointment crossed his face. "All right, " he agreed. "Iwanted to tell her that her messages got off all right. "

"I'll tell her when I go back. "

"That'll be just as well, " he answered reluctantly. "How is shefeeling?"

"Exhausted. She's been under severe strain. "

"Oughtn't she to have a doctor? I could ride--"

"She won't listen to it. And I think her head is all right now. But sheought to have complete rest for several days. "

"Well, I'm likely to be busy enough, " he said simply. "The schedule isall shot to pieces, and, unless this rain lets up, we'll have more trackout. What do you think of it?"

Miss Van Arsdale looked up through the thrashing pines to the rush ofthe gray-black clouds. "I think we're in for a siege of it, " was herpronouncement. 

They rode along single file in the narrow trail until they emerged intothe open. Then Banneker's horse moved forward, neck and neck with theother. Miss Van Arsdale reined down her uneasy roan. 

"Ban. "

"Yes?"

"Have you ever seen anything like her before?"

"Only on the stage. "

She smiled. "What do you think of her?"

"I hardly know how to express it, " he answered frankly, thoughhesitantly. "She makes me think of all the poetry I've ever read. "

"That's dangerous. Ban, have you any idea what kind of a girl she is?"

"What kind?" he repeated. He looked startled. 

"Of course you haven't. How should you? I'm going to tell you. "

"Do you know her, Miss Camilla?"

"As well as if she were my own sister. That is, I know her type. It'scommon enough. "

"It can't be, " he protested eagerly. 

"Oh, yes! The type is. She is an exquisite specimen of it; that's all. Listen, Ban. Io Welland is the petted and clever and willful daughter ofa rich man; a very rich man he would be reckoned out here. She lives ina world as remote from this as the moon. "

"Of course. I realize that. "

"It's well that you do. And she's as casual a visitant here as if shehad floated down on one moonbeam and would float back on the next. "

"She'll have to, to get out of here if this rain keeps up, " observed thestation-agent grimly. 

"I wish she would, " returned Miss Van Arsdale. 

"Is she in your way?"

"I shouldn't mind that if I could keep her out of yours, " she answeredbluntly. 

Banneker turned a placid and smiling face to her. "You think I'm a fool, don't you, Miss Camilla?"

"I think that Io Welland, without ill-intent at all, but with a periodof idleness on her hands, is a dangerous creature to have around. She'stoo lovely and, I think, too restless a spirit. "

"She's lovely, all right, " assented Banneker. 

"Well; I've warned you, Ban, " returned his friend in slightly dispiritedtones. 

"What do you want me to do? Keep away from your place? I'll do whateveryou say. But it's all nonsense. "

"I dare say it is, " sighed Miss Van Arsdale. "Forget that I've said it, Ban. Meddling is a thankless business. "

"You could never meddle as far as I'm concerned, " said Banneker warmly. "I'm a little worried, " he added thoughtfully, "about not reporting heras found to the company. What do you think?"

"Too official a question for me. You'll have to settle that foryourself. "

"How long does she intend to stay?"

"I don't know. But a girl of her breeding and habits would hardly settleherself on a stranger for very long unless a point were made of urgingher. "

"And you won't do that?"

"I certainly shall not!"

"No; I suppose not. You've been awfully good to her. "

"Hospitality to the shipwrecked, " smiled Miss Van Arsdale as she crossedthe track toward the village. 

Late afternoon, darkening into wilder winds and harsher rain, broughtthe hostess back to her lodge dripping and weary. On a bearskin beforethe smouldering fire lay the girl, her fingers intertwined behind herhead, her eyes half closed and dreamy. Without directly responding tothe other's salutation she said:

"Miss Van Arsdale, will you be very good to me?"

"What is it?"

"I'm tired, " said Io. "So tired!"

"Stay, of course, " responded the hostess, answering the implicationheartily, "as long as you will. "

"Only two or three days, until I recover the will to do something. You're awfully kind. " Io looked very young and childlike, with herlanguid, mobile face irradiated by the half-light of the fire. "Perhapsyou'll play for me sometime. "

"Of course. Now, if you like. As soon as the chill gets out of myhands. "

"Thank you. And sing?" suggested the girl diffidently. 

A fierce contraction of pain marred the serenity of the older woman'sface. "No, " she said harshly. "I sing for no one. "

"I'm sorry, " murmured the girl. 

"What have you been doing all day?" asked Miss Van Arsdale, holding outher hands toward the fire. 

"Resting. Thinking. Scaring myself with bogy-thoughts of what I'veescaped. " Io smiled and sighed. "I hadn't known how worn out I was untilI woke up this morning. I don't think I ever before realized the meaningof refuge. "

"You'll recover from the need of it soon enough, " promised the other. She crossed to the piano. "What kind of music do you want? No; don'ttell me. I should be able to guess. " Half turning on the bench she gazedspeculatively at the lax figure on the rug. "Chopin, I think. I'veguessed right? Well, I don't think I shall play you Chopin to-day. Youdon't need that kind of--of--well, excitation. "

Musing for a moment over a soft mingling of chords she began with alittle ripple of melody, MacDowell's lovely, hurrying, buoyant"Improvisation, " with its aeolian vibrancies, its light, bright surgesof sound, sinking at the last into cradled restfulness. Without pause ortransition she passed on to Grieg; the wistful, remote appeal of thestrangely misnamed "Erotique, " plaintive, solemn, and in the fulfillmentalmost hymnal: the brusque pursuing minors of the wedding music, and thediamond-shower of notes of the sun-path song, bleak, piercing, Northernsunlight imprisoned in melody. Then, the majestic swing of Åse'sdeath-chant, glorious and mystical. 

"Are you asleep?" asked the player, speaking through the chords. 

"No, " answered Io's tremulous voice. "I'm being very unhappy. I loveit!"

Bang! It was a musical detonation, followed by a volley of chords andthen a wild, swirling waltz; and Miss Van Arsdale jumped up and stoodover her guest. "There!" she said. "That's better than letting youpamper yourself with the indulgence of unhappiness. "

"But I want to be unhappy, " pouted Io. "I want to be pampered. "

"Naturally. You always will be, I expect, as long as there are men inthe world to do your bidding. However, I must see to supper. "

So for two days Io Welland lolled and lazed and listened to Miss VanArsdale's music, or read, or took little walks between showers. Nofurther mention was made by her hostess of the circumstances of thevisit. She was a reticent woman; almost saturnine, Io decided, thoughher perfect and effortless courtesy preserved her from beingantipathetic to any one beneath her own roof. How much her silence as tothe unusual situation was inspired by consideration for her guest, howmuch due to natural reserve, Io could not estimate. 

A little less reticence would have been grateful to her as the hoursspun out and she felt her own spirit expand slowly in the calm. It wasshe who introduced the subject of Banneker. 

"Our quaint young station-agent seems to have abandoned hisresponsibilities so far as I'm concerned, " she observed. 

"Because he hasn't come to see you?"

"Yes. He said he would. "

"I told him not to. "

"I see, " said Io, after thinking it over. "Is he a little--just a wee, little bit queer in his head?"

"He's one of the sanest persons I've ever known. And I want him to stayso. "

"I see again, " stated the girl. 

"So you thought him a bit unbalanced? That _is_ amusing. " That thehostess meant the adjective in good faith was proved by her quietlaughter. 

Io regarded her speculatively and with suspicion. "He asked the sameabout me, I suppose. " Such was her interpretation of the laugh. 

"But he gave you credit for being only temporarily deranged. "

"Either he or I ought to be up for examination by a medical board, "stated the girl poutingly. "One of us must be crazy. The night that Istole his molasses pie--it was pretty awful pie, but I was starved--Istumbled over something in the darkness and fell into it with an awfulclatter. What do you suppose it was?"

"I think I could guess, " smiled the other. 

"Not unless you knew. Personally I couldn't believe it. It felt like aboat, and it rocked like a boat, and there were the seats and the oars. I could feel them. A steel boat! Miss Van Arsdale, it isn't reasonable. "

"Why isn't it reasonable?'

"I looked on the map in his room and there isn't so much as a mud-puddlewithin miles and miles and miles. Is there?"

"Not that I know of. "

"Then what does he want of a steel boat?"

"Ask him. "

"It might stir him up. They get violent if you question their petlunacies, don't they?"

"It's quite simple. Ban is just an incurable romanticist. He loves thewater. And his repository of romance is the catalogue of Sears, Roebuckand Co. When the new issue came, with an entrancing illustration of afully equipped steel boat, he simply couldn't stand it. He had to haveone, to remind him that some day he would be going back to the coastlagoons. . . . Does that sound to you like a fool?"

"No; it sounds delicious, " declared the girl with a ripple of mirth. "What a wonderful person! I'm going over to see him to-morrow. May I?"

"My dear; I have no control over your actions. "

"Have you made any other plans for me to-morrow morning?" inquired MissWelland in a prim and social tone, belied by the dancing light in hereyes. 

"I've told you that he was romantic, " warned the other. 

"What higher recommendation could there be? I shall sit in the boat withhim and talk nautical language. Has he a yachting cap? Oh, do tell methat he has a yachting cap!"

Miss Van Arsdale, smiling, shook her head, but her eyes were troubled. There was compunction in Io's next remark. 

"I'm really going over to see about accommodations. Sooner or later Imust face the music--meaning Carty. I'm fit enough now, thanks to you. "

"Wouldn't an Eastern trip be safer?" suggested her hostess. 

"An Eastern trip would be easier. But I've made my break, and it's inthe rules, as I understand them, that I've got to see it through. If hecan get me now"--she gave a little shrug--"but he can't. I've come to mysenses. "

Sunlight pale, dubious, filtering through the shaken cloud veils, ushered in the morning. Meager of promise though it was, Io's spiritsbrightened. Declining the offer of a horse in favor of a pocket compass, she set out afoot, not taking the trail, but forging straight throughthe heavy forest for the line of desert. Around her, brisk and busyflocks of piñon jays darted and twittered confidentially. The warm spiceof the pines was sweet in her nostrils. Little stirrings and rustlingsjust beyond the reach of vision delightfully and provocatively suggestedthe interest which she was inspiring by her invasion among the lesserdenizens of the place. The sweetness and intimacy of an unknown lifesurrounded her. She sang happily as she strode, lithe and strong andthrobbing with unfulfilled energies and potencies, through thespringtide of the woods. 

But when she emerged upon the desert, she fell silent. A spaciousness asof endless vistas enthralled and, a little, awed her. On all sides wereranged the disordered ranks of the cacti, stricken into immobility inthe very act of reconstituting their columns, so that they gave theeffect of a discord checked on the verge of its resolution into form andharmony, yet with a weird and distorted beauty of its own. From a littledistance, there came a murmur of love-words. Io moved softly forward, peering curiously, and from the arc of a wide curving ocatilla two wilddoves sprang, leaving the branch all aquiver. Bolder than his companionsof the air, a cactus owl, perched upon the highest column of a greatgreen candelabrum, viewed her with a steady detachment, "sleepless, withcold, commemorative eyes. " The girl gave back look for look, into thebig, hard, unwavering circles. 

"You're a funny little bird, " said she. "Say something!"

Like his congener of the hortatory poem, the owl held his peace. 

"Perhaps you're a stuffed little bird, " said Io, "and this not a realdesert at all, but a National Park or something, full of educationalspecimens. "

She walked past the occupant of the cactus, and his head, turning, followed her with the slow, methodical movement of a toy mechanism. 

"You give me a crick in my neck, " protested the intruder plaintively. "Now, I'll step over behind you and you'll _have_ to move or stopwatching me. "

She walked behind the watcher. The eyes continued to hold her in directrange. 

"Now, " said Io, "I know where the idea for that horrid advertisementthat always follows you with its finger came from. However, I'll fixyou. "

She fetched a deliberate circle. The bird's eyes followed her withoutcessation. Yet his feet and body remained motionless. Only the head hadturned. That had made a complete revolution. 

"This is a very queer desert, " gasped Io. "It's bewitched. Or am I? Now, I'm going to walk once more around you, little owl, or mighty magician, whichever you are. And after I've completely turned your head, you'llfall at my feet. Or else. . . "

Again she walked around the feathered center of the circle. The headfollowed her, turning with a steady and uninterrupted motion, on itspivot. Io took a silver dime from her purse. 

"Heaven save us from the powers of evil!" she said appreciatively. "Aroint thee, witch!"

She threw the coin at the cactus. 

"Chrr-rr-rrum!" burbled the owl, and flew away. 

"I'm dizzy, " said Io. "I wonder if the owl is an omen and whether theother inhabitants of this desert are like him; however much you turntheir heads, they won't fall for you. Charms and counter-charms!. . . Be agood child, Io, " she admonished herself. "Haven't you got yourself intoenough trouble with your deviltries? I can't help it, " she defendedherself. "When I see a new and interesting specimen, I've just _got_ toinvestigate its nature and habits. It's an inherited scientific spirit, I suppose. And he is new, and awfully interesting--even if he is only astation-agent. " Wherefrom it will be perceived that her thoughts hadveered from the cactus owl, to another perplexing local phenomenon. 

The glaring line of the railroad right-of-way rose before her feet, adiscordant note of rigidity and order in the confused prodigality ofdesert growth. Io turned away from it, but followed its line until shereached the station. No sign of life greeted her. The door was locked, and the portable house unresponsive to her knocking. Presently, however, she heard the steady click of the telegraph instrument and, lookingthrough the half-open office window, saw Banneker absorbed in his work. 

"Good-morning, " she called. 

Without looking up he gave back her greeting in an absent echo. 

"As you didn't come to see me, I've come to see you, " was her nextattempt. 

Did he nod? Or had he made no motion at all?

"I've come to ask important questions about trains, " she pursued, alittle aggrieved by his indifference to her presence. 

No reply from the intent worker. 

"And 'tell sad stories of the death of kings, '" she quoted with a fairychuckle. She thought that she saw a small contortion pass over hisfeatures, only to be banished at once. He had retired within the wallsof that impassive and inscrutable reserve which minor railroad officialscan at will erect between themselves and the lay public. Only the brokenrhythms of the telegraph ticker relieved the silence and furnished thejustification. 

A little piqued but more amused, for she was far too confident ofherself to feel snubbed, the girl waited smilingly. Presently she saidin silken tones:

"When you're quite through and can devote a little attention toinsignificant me, I shall perhaps be sitting on the sunny corner of theplatform, or perhaps I shall be gone forever. "

But she was not gone when, ten minutes later, Banneker came out. Helooked tired. 

"You know, you weren't very polite to me, " she remarked, glancing at himslantwise as he stood before her. 

If she expected apologies, she was disappointed, and perhaps thoughtnone the less of him for his dereliction. 

"There's trouble all up and down the line, " he said. "Nothing like aschedule left west of Allbright. Two passenger trains have come through, though. Would you like to see a paper? It's in my office. "

"Goodness, no! Why should I want a newspaper here? I haven't time forit. I want to see the world"--she swept a little, indicating hand abouther; "all that I can take in in a day. "

"A day?" he echoed. 

"Yes. I'm going to-morrow. "

"That's as may be. Ten to one there's no space to be had. "

"Surely you can get something for me. A section will do if you can't geta stateroom. "

He smiled. "The president of the road might get a stateroom. I doubt ifanybody else could even land an upper. Of course I'll do my best. Butit's a question when there'll be another train through. "

"What ails your road?" she demanded indignantly. "Is it just stucktogether with glue?"

"You've never seen this desert country when it springs a leak. It candevelop a few hundred Niagaras at the shortest notice of any place Iknow. "

"But it isn't leaking now, " she objected. 

He turned his face to the softly diffused sunlight. "To be continued. The storm isn't over yet, according to the way I feel about it. Weatherreports say so, too. "

"Then take me for a walk!" she cried. "I'm tired of rain and I want togo over and lean against that lovely white mountain. "

"Well, it's only sixty miles away, " he answered. "Perhaps you'd bettertake some grub along or you might get hungry. "

"Aren't you coming with me?"

"This is my busy morning. If it were afternoon, now--"

"Very well. Since you are so urgent, I _will_ stay to luncheon. I'lleven get it up myself if you'll let me into the shack. "

"That's a go!" said Banneker heartily. "What about your horse?"

"I walked over. "

"No; did you?" He turned thoughtful, and his next observation had aslightly troubled ring. "Have you got a gun?"

"A gun? Oh, you mean a pistol. No; I haven't. Why should I?"

He shook his head. "This is no time to be out in the open without a gun. They had a dance at the Sick Coyote in Manzanita last night, andthere'll be some tough specimens drifting along homeward all day. "

"Do you carry a gun?"

"I would if I were going about with you. "

"Then you can loan me yours to go home with this afternoon, " she saidlightly. 

"Oh, I'll take you back. Just now I've got some odds and ends that willtake a couple of hours to clear up. You'll find plenty to read in theshack, such as it is. "

Thus casually dismissed, Io murmured a "Thank you" which was not as meekas it sounded, and withdrew to rummage among the canned edibles drawnfrom the inexhaustible stock of Sears-Roebuck. Having laid out aselection, housewifely, and looked to the oil stove derived from thesame source, she turned with some curiosity to the mental pabulum withwhich this strange young hermit had provided himself. Would this, too, bear the mail-order imprint and testify to mail-order standards? Atfirst glance the answer appeared to be affirmative. The top shelf of thehome-made case sagged with the ineffable slusheries of that most popularand pious of novelists, Harvey Wheelwright. Near by, "How to Behave onAll Occasions" held forth its unimpeachable precepts, while a littlebeyond, "Botany Made Easy" and "The Perfect Letter Writer" profferedfurther aid to the aspiring mind. Improvement, stark, blatantImprovement, advertised itself from that culturous and reekingcompartment. But just below--Io was tempted to rub her eyes--stoodBurton's "Anatomy of Melancholy"; a Browning, complete; that inimitablyjocund fictional prank, Frederic's "March Hares, " together with the sameauthor's fine and profoundly just "Damnation of Theron Ware"; Taylor'stranslation of Faust; "The [broken-backed] Egoist"; "Lavengro" (Iotouched its magic pages with tender fingers), and a fat, faded, reddishvolume so worn and obscured that she at once took it down and madeexplorative entry. She was still deep in it when the owner arrived. 

"Have you found enough to keep you amused?"

She looked up from the pages and seemed to take him all in anew beforeanswering. "Hardly the word. Bewildered would be nearer the feeling. "

"It's a queerish library, I suppose, " he said apologetically. 

"If I believed in dual personality--" she began; but broke off to holdup the bulky veteran. "Where did you get 'The Undying Voices'?"

"Oh, that's a windfall. What a bully title for a collection of the greatpoetries, isn't it!"

She nodded, one caressing hand on the open book, the other propping herchin as she kept the clear wonder of her eyes upon him. 

"It makes you think of singers making harmony together in a great openspace. I'd like to know the man who made the selections, " he concluded. 

"What kind of a windfall?" she asked. 

"A real one. Pullman travelers sometimes prop their windows open withbooks. You can see the window-mark on the cover of this one. I found ittwo miles out, beside the right-of-way. There was no name in it, so Ikept it. It's the book I read most except one. "

"What's the one?"

He laughed, holding up the still more corpulent Sears-Roebuck catalogue. 

"Ah, " said she gravely. "That accounts, I suppose, for the top shelf. "

"Yes, mostly. "

"Do you like them? The Conscientious Improvers, I mean?"

"I think they're bunk. "

"Then why did you get them?"

"Oh, I suppose I was looking for something, " he returned; and though histone was careless, she noticed for the first time a tinge ofself-consciousness. 

"Did you find it there?"

"No. It isn't there. "

"Here?" She laid both hands on the "windfall. "

His face lighted subtly. 

"It _is_ there, isn't it! If one has the sense to get it out. "

"I wonder, " mused the girl. And again, "I wonder. " She rose, and takingout "March Hares" held it up. "I could hardly believe this when I sawit. Did it also drop out of a car window?"

"No. I never heard of that until I wrote for it. I wrote to a Bostonbookstore that I'd heard about and told 'em I wanted two books to cheerup a fool with the blues, and another to take him into a strangeworld--and keep the change out of five dollars. They sent me 'The BabBallads' and this, and 'Lavengro. '"

"Oh, how I'd like to see that letter! If the bookstore has an ounce ofreal bookitude about it, they've got it preserved in lavender! And whatdo you think of 'March Hares'?"

"Did you ever read any of the works of Harvey Wheelwright?" hequestioned in turn. 

"Now, " thought Io, "he is going to compare Frederic to Wheelwright, andI shall abandon him to his fate forever. So here's his chance . . . Ihave, " she replied aloud. 

"It's funny, " ruminated Banneker. "Mr. Wheelwright writes about the kindof things that might happen any day, and probably do happen, and yet youdon't believe a word of it. 'March Hares'--well, it just couldn'thappen; but what do you care while you're in it! It seems realer thanany of the dull things outside it. That's the literary part of it, Isuppose, isn't it?"

"That's the magic of it, " returned Io, with a little, half-suppressedcrow of delight. "Are you magic, too, Mr. Banneker?"

"Me? I'm hungry, " said he. 

"Forgive the cook!" she cried. "But just one thing more. Will you lendme the poetry book?"

"It's all marked up, " he objected, flushing. 

"Are you afraid that I'll surprise your inmost secrets?" she taunted. "They'd be safe. I can be close-mouthed, even though I've beenchattering like a sparrow. "

"Take it, of course, " he said. "I suppose I've marked all the wrongthings. "

"So far, " she laughed, "you're batting one hundred per cent as aliterary critic. " She poured coffee into a tin cup and handed it to him. "What do you think of my coffee?"

He tasted it consideringly; then gave a serious verdict. "Pretty bad. "

"Really! I suppose it isn't according to the mail-order book recipe. "

"It's muddy and it's weak. "

"Are you always so frank in your expression of views?"

"Well, you asked me. "

"Would you answer as plainly whatever I asked you?"

"Certainly. I'd have too much respect for you not to. "

She opened wide eyes at this. Then provocatively: "What do you think ofme, Mr. Banneker?"

"I can't answer that. "

"Why not?" she teased. 

"I don't know you well enough to give an opinion. "

"You know me as well as you ever will. "

"Very likely. "

"Well, a snap judgment, for what it's worth. . . . What are you doingthere?"

"Making more coffee. "

Io stamped her foot. "You're the most enraging man I ever met. "

"It's quite unintentional, " he replied patiently, but with no hint ofcompunction. "You may drink yours and I'll drink mine. "

"You're only making it worse!"

"Very well; then I'll drink yours if you like. "

"And say it's good. "

"But what's the use?"

"And say it's good, " insisted Io. 

"It's marvelous, " agreed her unsmiling host. 

Far from being satisfied with words and tone, which were correctnessitself, Io was insensately exasperated. 

"You're treating me like a child, " she charged. 

"How do you want me to treat you?"

"As a woman, " she flashed, and was suddenly appalled to feel the bloodflush incredibly to her cheeks. 

If he noted the phenomenon, he gave no sign, simply assenting with hiscustomary equanimity. During the luncheon she chattered vaguely. She wasin two minds about calling off the projected walk. As he set aside hishalf-emptied cup of coffee--not even tactful enough to finish it out ofcompliment to her brew--Banneker said:

"Up beyond the turn yonder the right-of-way crosses an arroyo. I want totake a look at it. We can cut through the woods to get there. Are yougood for three miles?"

"For a hundred!" cried Io. 

The wine of life was potent in her veins. 

CHAPTER VIII

Before the walk was over, Io knew Banneker as she had never before, inher surrounded and restricted life, known any man; the character andevolution and essence of him. Yet with all his frankness, the rare, simple, and generous outgiving of a naturally rather silent natureyielding itself to an unrecognized but overmastering influence, heretained the charm of inner mystery. Her sudden understanding of himstill did not enable her to place him in any category of life as sheknew it to be arranged. 

The revelation had come about through her description of her encounterwith the queer and attentive bird of the desert. 

"Oh, " said Banneker. "You've been interviewing a cactus owl. "

"Did he unwind his neck carefully and privately after I had gone?"

"No, " returned Banneker gravely. "He just jumped in the air and his bodyspun around until it got back to its original relation. "

"How truly fascinating! Have you seen him do it?"

"Not actually seen. But often in the evenings I've heard them buzzing asthey unspin the day's wind-up. During the day, you see, they make asmany as ten or fifteen revolutions until their eyes bung out. Reversingmakes them very dizzy, and if you are around when they're doing it, youcan often pick them up off the sand. "

"And doesn't it ever make _you_ dizzy? All this local lore, I mean, thatyou carry around in your head?"

"It isn't much of a strain to a practiced intellect, " he deprecated. "Ifyou're interested in natural history, there's the Side-hill Wampus--"

"Yes; I know. I've been West before, thank you! Pardon my curiosity, butare all you creatures of the desert queer and inexplicable?"

"Not me, " he returned promptly if ungrammatically, "if you're looking inmy direction. "

"I'll admit that I find you as interesting as the owl--almost. And quiteas hard to understand. "

"Nobody ever called me queer; not to my face. "

"But you are, you know. You oughtn't to be here at all. "

"Where ought I to be?"

"How can I answer that riddle without knowing where you have been? Areyou Ulysses--"

"'Knowing cities and the hearts of men, '" he answered, quick to catchthe reference. "No; not the cities, certainly, and very little of themen. "

"There, you see!" she exclaimed plaintively. "You're up on a classicalreference like a college man. No; not like the college men I know, either. They are too immersed in their football and rowing and tooafraid to be thought high-brow, to confess to knowing anything aboutUlysses. What was your college?"

"This, " he said, sweeping a hand around the curve of the horizon. 

"And in any one else, " she retorted, "that would be priggish as well asdisingenuous. "

"I suppose I know what you mean. Out here, when a man doesn't explainhimself, they think it's for some good reason of his own, or bad reason, more likely. In either case, they don't ask questions. "

"I really beg your pardon, Mr. Banneker!"

"No; that isn't what I meant at all. If you're interested, I'd like tohave you know about me. It isn't much, though. "

"You'll think me prying, " she objected. 

"I think you a sort of friend of a day, who is going away very soonleaving pleasant memories, " he answered, smiling. "A butterfly visit. I'm not much given to talking, but if you'd like it--"

"Of course I should like it. "

So he sketched for her his history. His mother he barely remembered;"dark, and quite beautiful, I believe, though that might be only achild's vision; my father rarely spoke of her, but I think all theemotional side of his life was buried with her. " The father, an Americanof Danish ancestry, had been ousted from the chair of Sociology in old, conservative Havenden College, as the logical result of his writingswhich, because they shrewdly and clearly pointed out certain ulcerousspots in the economic and social system, were denounced as "radical" bya Board of Trustees honestly devoted to Business Ideals. Having a smallincome of his own, the ex-Professor decided upon a life of investigatoryvagrancy, with special reference to studies, at first hand, of thevoluntarily unemployed. Not knowing what else to do with the only childof his marriage, he took the boy along. Contemptuous of, rather thanembittered against, an academic system which had dispensed with hisservices because it was afraid of the light--"When you cast a light, they see only the resultant shadows, " was one of his sayings which hadremained with Banneker--he had resolved to educate the child himself. 

Their life was spent frugally in cities where they haunted libraries, or, sumptuously, upon the open road where a modest supply of ready cashgoes a long way. Young Banneker's education, after the routinefoundation, was curiously heterodox, but he came through it with hisintellectual digestion unimpaired and his mental appetite avid. Byexample he had the competent self-respect and unmistakable bearing of agentleman, and by careful precept the speech of a liberally educatedman. When he was seventeen, his father died of a twenty-four hours'pneumonia, leaving the son not so much stricken as bewildered, for theirrelations had been comradely rather than affectionate. For a time it wasa question whether the youngster, drifting from casual job to casualjob, would not degenerate into a veritable hobo, for he had drunk deepof the charm of the untrammeled and limitless road. Want touched him, but lightly; for he was naturally frugal and hardy. He got a railroadjob by good luck, and it was not until he had worked himself into apermanency that his father's lawyers found and notified him of thepossession of a small income, one hundred dollars per annum of which, they informed him, was to be expended by them upon such books as theythought suitable to his circumstances, upon information provided by thedeceased, the remainder to be at his disposal. 

Though quite unauthorized to proffer advice, as they honorably stated, they opined that the heir's wisest course would be to prepare himself atonce for college, the income being sufficient to take him through, withcare--and they were, his Very Truly, Cobb & Morse. 

Banneker had not the smallest idea of cooping up his mind in a college. As to future occupation, his father had said nothing that was definite. His thesis was that observation and thought concerning men and theiractivities, pointed and directed by intimate touch with what others hadobserved and set down--that is, through books--was the gist of life. Anyjob which gave opportunity or leisure for this was good enough. Livelihood was but a garment, at most; life was the body beneath. Furthermore, young Banneker would find, so his senior had assured him, that he possessed an open sesame to the minds of the really intelligentwheresoever he might encounter them, in the form of a jewel which hemust keep sedulously untarnished and bright. What was that? asked theboy. His speech and bearing of a cultivated man. 

Young Banneker found that it was almost miraculously true. Wherever hewent, he established contacts with people who interested him and whom heinterested: here a brilliant, doubting, perturbed clergyman, slowlydying of tuberculosis in the desert; there a famous geologist fromWashington who, after a night of amazing talk with the young prodigywhile awaiting a train, took him along on a mountain exploration; againan artist and his wife who were painting the arid and colorful gloriesof the waste places. From these and others he got much; but notfriendship or permanent associations. He did not want them. He wasessentially, though unconsciously, a lone spirit; so his listenergathered. Advancement could have been his in the line of work which hadby chance adopted him; but he preferred small, out-of-the-way stations, where he could be with his books and have room to breathe. So here hewas at Manzanita. That was all there was to it. Nothing very mysteriousor remarkable about it, was there?

Io smiled in return. "What is your name?" she asked. 

"Errol. But every one calls me Ban. "

"Haven't you ever told this to any one before?"

"No. "

"Why not?"

"Why should I?"

"I don't know really, " hesitated the girl, "except that it seems almostinhuman to keep one's self so shut off. "

"It's nobody else's business. "

"Yet you've told it to me. That's very charming of you. "

"You said you'd be interested. "

"So I am. It's an extraordinary life, though you don't seem to thinkso. "

"But I don't want to be extraordinary. "

"Of course you do, " she refuted promptly. "To be ordinary is--is--well, it's like being a dust-colored beetle. " She looked at him queerly. "Doesn't Miss Van Arsdale know all this?"

"I don't see how she could. I've never told her. "

"And she's never asked you anything?"

"Not a word. I don't quite see Miss Camilla asking any one questionsabout themselves. Did she ask you?"

The girl's color deepened almost imperceptibly. "You're right, " shesaid. "There's a standard of breeding that we up-to-date people don'tattain. But I'm at least intelligent enough to recognize it. You reckonher as a friend, don't you?"

"Why, yes; I suppose so. "

"Do you suppose you'd ever come to reckon me as one?" she asked, halfbantering, half wistful. 

"There won't be time. You're running away. "

"Perhaps I might write you. I think I'd like to. "

"Would you?" he murmured. "Why?"

"You ought to be greatly flattered, " she reproved him. "Instead youshoot a 'why' at me. Well; because you've got something I haven't got. And when I find anything new like that, I always try to get some of itfor myself. "

"I don't know what it could be, but--"

"Call it your philosophy of life. Your contentment. Or is it onlydetachment? That can't last, you know. "

He turned to her, vaguely disturbed as by a threat. "Why not?"

"You're too--well, distinctive. You're too rare and beautiful aspecimen. You'll be grabbed. " She laughed softly. 

"Who'll grab me?"

"How should I know? Life, probably. Grab you and dry you up and put youin a case like the rest of us. "

"Perhaps that's why I like to stay out here. At least I can be myself. "

"Is that your fondest ambition?"

However much he may have been startled by the swift stab, he gave nosign of hurt in his reply. 

"Call it the line of least resistance. In any case, I shouldn't like tobe grabbed and dried up. "

"Most of us are grabbed and catalogued from our birth, and eventuallydried up and set in our proper places. "

"Not you, certainly. "

"Because you haven't seen me in my shell. That's where I mostly live. I've broken out for a time. "

"Don't you like it outside, Butterfly?" he queried with a hint ofplayful caress in his voice. 

"I like that name for myself, " she returned quickly. "Though a butterflycouldn't return to its chrysalis, no matter how much it wanted to, couldit? But you may call me that, since we're to be friends. "

"Then you do like it outside your shell. "

"It's exhilarating. But I suppose I should find it too rough for myhighly sensitized skin in the long run. . . . Are you going to write to meif I write to you?"

"What about? That Number Six came in making bad steam, and that awest-bound freight, running extra, was held up on the siding at Marchandfor half a day?"

"Is that all you have to write about?"

Banneker bethought himself of the very private dossier in his office. "No; it isn't. "

"You _could_ write in a way all your own. Have you ever written anythingfor publication?"

"No. That is--well--I don't really know. " He told her about Gardner andthe description of the wreck. 

"How did you happen to do that?" she asked curiously. 

"Oh, I write a lot of things and put them away and forget them. "

"Show me, " she wheedled. "I'd love to see them. "

He shook his head. "They wouldn't interest you. " The words were those ofan excuse. But in the tone was finality. 

"I don't think you're very responsive, " she complained. "I'm awfullyinterested in you and your affairs, and you won't play back the leastbit. "

They walked on in silence for a space. He had, she reflected, a mostdisconcerting trick of silence, of ignoring quite without embarrassmentleads, which in her code imperatively called for return. Annoyancestirred within her, and the eternal feline which is a component part ofthe eternal feminine asserted itself. 

"Perhaps, " she suggested, "you are afraid of me. "

"No; I'm not. "

"By that you mean 'Why should I be'?"

"Something of the sort. "

"Didn't Miss Van Arsdale warn you against me?"

"How did you know that?" he asked, staring. 

"A solemn warning not to fall in love with me?" pursued the girl calmly. 

He stopped short. "She told you that she had said something to me?"

"Don't be idiotic! Of course she didn't. "

"Then how did you know?" he persisted. 

"How does one snake know what another snake will do?" she retorted. "Being of the same--"

"Wait a moment. I don't like that word 'snake' in connection with MissVan Arsdale. "

"Though you're willing to accept it as applying to me. I believe you aretrying to quarrel with me, " accused Io. "I only meant that, being awoman, I can make a guess at what another woman would do in any givenconditions. And she did it!" she concluded in triumph. 

"No; she didn't. Not in so many words. But you're very clever. "

"Say, rather, that _you_ are very stupid, " was the disdainful retort. "So you're not going to fall in love with me?"

"Of course not, " answered Banneker in the most cheerfully commonplace oftones. 

Once embarked upon this primrose path, which is always an imperceptiblebut easy down-slope, Io went farther than she had intended. "Why not?"she challenged. 

"Brass buttons, " said Banneker concisely. 

She flushed angrily. "You _can_ be rather a beast, can't you!"

"A beast? Just for reminding you that the Atkinson and St. Philipstation-agent at Manzanita does not include in his official duties thatof presuming to fall in love with chance passengers who happen to bemore or less in his care. "

"Very proper and official! Now, " added the girl in a different manner, "let's stop talking nonsense, and do you tell me one thing honestly. Doyou feel that it would be presumption?"

"To fall in love with you?"

"Leave that part of it out; I put my question stupidly. I'm reallycurious to know whether you feel any--any difference between yourstation and mine. "

"Do you?"

"Yes; I do, " she answered honestly, "when I think of it. But you make itvery hard for me to remember it when I'm with you. "

"Well, I don't, " he said. "I suppose I'm a socialist in all matters ofthat kind. Not that I've ever given much thought to them. You don't haveto out here. "

"No; you wouldn't. I don't know that _you_ would have to anywhere. . . . Are we almost home?"

"Three minutes' more walking. Tired?"

"Not a bit. You know, " she added, "I really would like it if you'd writeme once in a while. There's something here I'd like to keep a hold on. It's tonic. I'll _make_ you write me. " She flashed a smile at him. 

"How?"

"By sending you books. You'll have to acknowledge them. "

"No. I couldn't take them. I'd have to send them back. "

"You wouldn't let me send you a book or two just as a friendly memento?"she cried, incredulous. 

"I don't take anything from anybody, " he retorted doggedly. 

"Ah; that's small-minded, " she accused. "That's ungenerous. I wouldn'tthink that of you. "

He strode along in moody thought for a few paces. Presently he turned toher a rigid face. "If you had ever had to accept food to keep you alive, you'd understand. "

For a moment she was shocked and sorry. Then her tact asserted itself. "But I have, " she said readily, "all my life. Most of us do. "

The hard muscles around his mouth relaxed. "You remind me, " he said, "that I'm not as real a socialist as I thought. Nevertheless, thatrankles in my memory. When I got my first job, I swore I'd never acceptanything from anybody again. One of the passengers on your train triedto tip me a hundred dollars. "

"He must have been a fool, " said Io scornfully. 

Banneker held open the station-door for her. "I've got to send a wire ortwo, " said he. "Take a look at this. It may give some news about generalrailroad conditions. " He handed her the newspaper which had arrived thatmorning. 

When he came out again, the station was empty. 

Io was gone. So was the newspaper. 

CHAPTER IX

Deep in work at her desk, Camilla Van Arsdale noted, with the outertentacles of her mind, slow footsteps outside and a stir of air thattold of the door being opened. Without lifting her head she called:

"You'll find towels and a bathrobe in the passageway. "

There was no reply. Miss Van Arsdale twisted in her chair, gave onelook, rose and strode to the threshold where Io Welland stood rigid andstill. 

"What is it?" she demanded sharply. 

The girl's hands gripped a folded newspaper. She lifted it as if forMiss Van Arsdale's acceptance, then let it fall to the floor. Her throatworked, struggling for utterance, as it might be against the pressure ofinvisible fingers. 

"The beast! Oh, the beast!" she whispered. 

The older woman threw an arm over her shoulders and led her to the bigchair before the fireplace. Io let herself be thrust into it, stiff andunyielding as a manikin. Any other woman but Camilla Van Arsdale wouldhave asked questions. She went more directly to the point. Picking upthe newspaper she opened it. Halfway across an inside page ran theexplanation of Io's collapse. 

BRITON'S BEAUTIFUL FIANCÉE LOST

read the caption, in the glaring vulgarity of extra-heavy type, andbelow;

_Ducal Heir Offers Private Reward to Dinner Party of Friends_

After an estimating look at the girl, who sat quite still with hot, blurred eyes, Miss Van Arsdale carefully read the article through. 

"Here is advertising enough to satisfy the greediest appetite forprint, " she remarked grimly. 

"He's on one of his brutal drunks. " The words seemed to grit in thegirl's throat. "I wish he were dead! Oh, I wish he were dead!"

Miss Van Arsdale laid hold on her shoulders and shook her hard. "Listento me, Irene Welland. You're on the way to hysterics or some suchfoolishness. I won't have it! Do you understand? Are you listening tome?"

"I'm listening. But it won't make any difference what you say. "

"Look at me. Don't stare into nothingness that way. Have you read this?"

"Enough of it. It ends everything. "

"I should hope so, indeed. My dear!" The woman's voice changed andsoftened. "You haven't found that you cared for him, after all, morethan you thought? It isn't that?"

"No; it isn't that. It's the beastliness of the whole thing. It's thedisgrace. "

Miss Van Arsdale turned to the paper again. 

"Your name isn't given. "

"It might as well be. As soon as it gets back to New York, every onewill know. "

"If I read correctly between the lines of this scurrilous thing, Mr. Holmesley gave what was to have been his bachelor dinner, took too muchto drink, and suggested that every man there go on a separate search forthe lost bride offering two thousand dollars reward for the one whofound her. Apparently it was to have been quite private, but it leakedout. There's a hint that he had been drinking heavily for some days. "

"My fault, " declared Io feverishly. "He told me once that if ever Iplayed anything but fair with him, he'd go to the devil the quickest wayhe could. "

"Then he's a coward, " pronounced Miss Van Arsdale vigorously. 

"What am I? I didn't play fair with him. I practically jilted himwithout even letting him know why. "

Miss Van Arsdale frowned. "Didn't you send him word?"

"Yes. I telegraphed him. I told him I'd write and explain. I haven'twritten. How could I explain? What was there to say? But I ought to havesaid something. Oh, Miss Van Arsdale, why didn't I write!"

"But you did intend to go on and face him and have it out. You told methat. "

A faint tinge of color relieved the white rigidity of Io's face. "Yes, "she agreed. "I did mean it. Now it's too late and I'm disgraced. "

"Don't be melodramatic. And don't waste yourself in self-pity. To-morrowyou'll see things clearer, after you've slept. "

"Sleep? I couldn't. " She pressed both hands to her temples, liftingtragic and lustrous eyes to her companion. "I think my head is going toburst from trying not to think. "

After some hesitancy Miss Van Arsdale went to a wall-cabinet, took out aphial, shook into her hand two little pellets, and returned the phial, carefully locking the cabinet upon it. 

"Take a hot bath, " she directed. "Then I'm going to give you just alittle to eat. And then these. " She held out the drug. 

Io acquiesced dully. 

Early in the morning, before the first forelight of dawn had started thebirds to prophetic chirpings, the recluse heard light movements in theouter room. Throwing on a robe she went in to investigate. On thebearskin before the flickering fire sat Io, an apparition of softcurves. 

"D--d--don't make a light, " she whimpered. "I've been crying. "

"That's good. The best thing you could do. "

"I want to go home, " wailed Io. 

"That's good, too. Though perhaps you'd better wait a little. Why, inparticular do you want to go home?"

"I w-w-w-want to m-m-marry Delavan Eyre. "

A quiver of humor trembled about the corners of Camilla Van Arsdale'smouth. "Echoes of remorse, " she commented. 

"No. It isn't remorse. I want to feel safe, secure. I'm afraid ofthings. I want to go to-morrow. Tell Mr. Banneker he must arrange it forme. "

"We'll see. Now you go back to bed and sleep. "

"I'd rather sleep here, " said Io. "The fire is so friendly. " She curledherself into a little soft ball. 

Her hostess threw a coverlet over her and returned to her own room. 

When light broke, there was no question of Io's going that day, even hadaccommodations been available. A clogging lassitude had descended uponher, the reaction of cumulative nervous stress, anesthetizing her will, her desires, her very limbs. She was purposeless, ambitionless, exceptto lie and rest and seek for some resolution of peace out of the tangledweb wherein her own willfulness had involved her. 

"The best possible thing, " said Camilla Van Arsdale. "I'll write yourpeople that you are staying on for a visit. "

"Yes; they won't mind. They're used to my vagaries. It's awfully good ofyou. "

At noon came Banneker to see Miss Welland. Instead he found a curiouslyreticent Miss Van Arsdale. Miss Welland was not feeling well and couldnot be seen. 

"Not her head again, is it?" asked Banneker, alarmed. 

"More nerves, though the head injury probably contributed. "

"Oughtn't I to get a doctor?"

"No. All that she needs is rest. "

"She left the station yesterday without a word. "

"Yes, " replied the non-committal Miss Van Arsdale. 

"I came over to tell her that there isn't a thing to be had going west. Not even an upper. There was an east-bound in this morning. But theschedule isn't even a skeleton yet. "

"Probably she won't be going for several days yet, " said Miss VanArsdale, and was by no means reassured by the unconscious brightnesswhich illumined Banneker's face. "When she goes it will be east. She'schanged her plans. "

"Give me as much notice as you can and I'll do my best for her. "

The other nodded. "Did you get any newspapers by the train?" sheinquired. 

"Yes; there was a mail in. I had a letter, too, " he added after a littlehesitation, due to the fact that he had intended telling Miss Wellandabout that letter first. Thus do confidences, once begun, inspire eventhe self-contained to further confidences. 

"You know there was a reporter up from Angelica City writing up thewreck. "

"Yes. "

"Gardner, his name is. A nice sort of fellow. I showed him some nonsensethat I wrote about the wreck. "

"You? What kind of nonsense?"

"Oh, just how it struck me, and the queer things people said and did. Hetook it with him. Said it might give him some ideas. "

"One might suppose it would. Did it?"

"Why, he didn't use it. Not that way. He sent it to the New York Spherefor what he calls a 'Sunday special, ' and what do you think! Theyaccepted it. He had a wire. "

"As Gardner's?"

"Oh, no. As the impressions of an eye-witness. What's more, they'll payfor it and he's to send me the check. "

"Then, in spite of a casual way of handling other people's ideas, Mr. Gardner apparently means to be honest. "

"It's more than square of him. I gave him the stuff to use as he wantedto. He could just as well have collected for it. Probably he touched itup, anyway. "

"The Goths and Vandals usually did 'touch up' whatever they acquired, Ibelieve. Hasn't he sent you a copy?"

"He's going to send it. Or bring it. "

"Bring it? What should attract him to Manzanita again?"

"Something mysterious. He says that there's a big sensational storyfollowing on the wreck that he's got a clue to; a tip, he calls it. "

"That's strange. Where did this tip come from? Did he say?"

Miss Van Arsdale frowned. 

"New York, I think. He spoke of its being a special job for The Sphere. "

"Are you going to help him?"

"If I can. He's been white to me. "

"But this isn't white, if it's what I suspect. It's yellow. One of theiryellow sensations. The Sphere goes in for that sort of thing. "

Miss Van Arsdale became silent and thoughtful. 

"Of course, if it's something to do with the railroad I'd have to becareful. I can't give away the company's affairs. "

"I don't think it is. " Miss Van Arsdale's troubled eyes strayed towardthe inner room. 

Following them, Banneker's lighted up with a flash of astonishedcomprehension. 

"You don't think--" he began. 

His friend nodded assent. 

"Why should the newspapers be after her?"

"She is associated with a set that is always in the lime-light, "explained Miss Van Arsdale, lowering her voice to a cautious pitch. "Itmakes its own lime-light. Anything that they do is material for thepapers. "

"Yes; but what has she done?"

"Disappeared. "

"Not at all. She sent back messages. So there can't be any mystery aboutit. "

"But there might be what the howling headlines call 'romance. ' In fact, there is, if they happen to have found out about it. And this looks verymuch as if they had. Ban, are you going to tell your reporter friendabout Miss Welland?"

Banneker smiled gently, indulgently. "Do you think it likely?"

"No; I don't. But I want you to understand the importance of notbetraying her in any way. Reporters are shrewd. And it might be quiteserious for her to know that she was being followed and hounded now. Shehas had a shock. "

"The bump on the head, you mean?"

"Worse than that. I think I'd better tell you since we are all in thisthing together. "

Briefly she outlined the abortive adventure that had brought Io west, and its ugly outcome. 

"Publicity is the one thing we must protect her from, " declared Miss VanArsdale. 

"Yes; that's clear enough. "

"What shall you tell this Gardner man?"

"Nothing that he wants to know. "

"You'll try to fool him?"

"I'm an awfully poor liar, Miss Camilla, " replied the agent with hisdisarming smile. "I don't like the game and I'm no good at it. But I caneverlastingly hold my tongue. "

"Then he'll suspect something and go nosing about the village makinginquiries. "

"Let him. Who can tell him anything? Who's even seen her except you andme?"

"True enough. Nobody is going to see her for some days yet if I can helpit. Not even you, Ban. "

"Is she as bad as that?" he asked anxiously. 

"She won't be any the better for seeing people, " replied Miss VanArsdale firmly, and with that the caller was forced to be content as hewent back to his own place. 

The morning train of the nineteenth, which should have been the noontrain of the eighteenth, deposited upon the platform Gardner of theAngelica City Herald, and a suitcase. The thin and bespectacled reportershook hands with Banneker. 

"Well, Mr. Man, " he observed. "You've made a hit with that story ofyours even before it's got into print. "

"Did you bring me a copy of the paper?"

Gardner grinned. "You seem to think Sunday specials are set up andprinted overnight. Wait a couple of weeks. "

"But they're going to publish it?"

"Surest thing you know. They've wired me to know who you are and whatand why. "

"Why what?"

"Oh, I dunno. Why a fellow who can do that sort of thing hasn't done itbefore or doesn't do it some more, I suppose. If you should ever want ajob in the newspaper game, that story would be pretty much enough to getit for you. "

"I wouldn't mind getting a little local correspondence to do, " announcedBanneker modestly. 

"So you intimated before. Well, I can give you some practice right now. I'm on a blind trail that goes up in the air somewhere around here. Doyou remember, we compared lists on the wreck?"

"Yes. "

"Have you got any addition to your list since?"

"No, " replied Banneker. "Have you?" he added. 

"Not by name. But the tip is that there was a prominent New York societygirl, one of the Four Hundred lot, on the train, and that she'svanished. "

"All the bodies were accounted for, " said the agent. 

"They don't think she's dead. They think she's run away. "

"Run away?" repeated Banneker with an impassive face. 

"Whether the man was with her on the train or whether she was to joinhim on the coast isn't known. That's the worst of these society tips, "pursued the reporter discontentedly. "They're always vague, and usuallywrong. This one isn't even certain about who the girl is. But they thinkit's Stella Wrightington, " he concluded in the manner of one who hasimparted portentous tidings. 

"Who's she?" said Banneker. 

"Good Lord! Don't you ever read the news?" cried the disgustedjournalist. "Why, she's had her picture published more times than amovie queen. She's the youngest daughter of Cyrus Wrightington, themulti-millionaire philanthropist. Now did you see anything of that kindon the train?"

"What does she look like?" asked the cautious Banneker. 

"She looks like a million dollars!" declared the other with enthusiasm. "She's a killer! She's tall and blonde and a great athlete: baby-blueeyes and general rosebud effect. "

"Nothing of that sort on the train, so far as I saw, " said the agent. 

"Did you see any couple that looked lovey-dovey?"

"No. "

"Then, there's another tip that connects her up with Carter Holmesley. Know about him?"

"I've seen his name. "

"He's been on a hell of a high-class drunk, all up and down the coast, for the last week or so. Spilled some funny talk at a dinner, that gotinto print. But he put up such a heavy bluff of libel, afterward, thatthe papers shied off. Just the same, I believe they had it right, andthat there was to have been a wedding-party on. Find the girl: that'sthe stunt now. "

"I don't think you're likely to find her around here. "

"Maybe not. But there's something. Holmesley has beaten it for the FarEast. Sailed yesterday. But the story is still in this country, if thelady can be rounded up. . . . Well, I'm going to the village to makeinquiries. Want to put me up again for the night if there's no trainback?"

"Sure thing! There isn't likely to be, either. "

Banneker felt greatly relieved at the easy turn given to the inquiry bythe distorted tip. True, Gardner might, on his return, enter upon somemore embarrassing line of inquiry; in which case the agent decided totake refuge in silence. But the reporter, when he came back late in theevening disheartened and disgusted with the fallibility of long-distancetips, declared himself sick of the whole business. 

"Let's talk about something else, " he said, having lighted his pipe. "What else have you written besides the wreck stuff?"

"Nothing, " said Banneker. 

"Come off! That thing was never a first attempt. "

"Well, nothing except random things for my own amusement. "

"Pass 'em over. "

Banneker shook his head. "No; I've never shown them to anybody. "

"Oh, all right. If you're shy about it, " responded the reportergood-humoredly. "But you must have thought of writing as a profession. "

"Vaguely, some day. "

"You don't talk much like a country station-agent. And you don't actlike one. And, judging from this room"--he looked about at thewell-filled book-shelves--"you don't look like one. Quite a library. Harvey Wheelwright! Lord! I might have known. Great stuff, isn't it?"

"Do you think so?"

"Do I think so! I think it's the damndest spew that ever got into print. But it sells; millions. It's the piety touch does it. The worst of it isthat Wheelwright is a thoroughly decent chap and not onto himself a bit. Thinks he's a grand little booster for righteousness, sweetness andlight, and all that. I had to interview him once. Oh, if I could justhave written about him and his stuff as it really is!"

"Why didn't you?"

"Why, he's a popular literary hero out our way, and the biggestadvertised author in the game. I'd look fine to the business office, knocking their fat graft, wouldn't I!"

"I don't believe I understand. "

"No; you wouldn't. Never mind. You will if you ever get into the game. Hello! This is something different again. 'The Undying Voices. ' Do yougo in for poetry?"

"I like to read it once in a while. "

"Good man!" Gardner took down the book, which opened in his hand. Heglanced into it, then turned an inquiring and faintly quizzical lookupon Banneker. "So Rossetti is one of the voices that sings to you. Hesang to me when I was younger and more romantic. Heavens! he can sing, can't he! And you've picked one of his finest for your floraldecoration. " He intoned slowly and effectively:

"Ah, who shall dare to search in what sad maze Thenceforth theirincommunicable ways Follow the desultory feet of Death?"

Banneker took the book from him. Upon the sonnet a crushed bloom of thesage had left its spiced and fragrant stain. How came it there? Throughbut one possible agency of which Banneker could think. Io Welland!

After the reporter had left him, Banneker bore the volume to his roomand read the sonnet again and again, devout and absorbed, a seeker forthe oracle. 

CHAPTER X

"Wouldn't you like to know when I'm going home?"

Io Welland looked up from beneath her dark lashes at her hostess with amixture of mischief and deprecation. 

"No, " said Miss Van Arsdale quietly. 

"Ah? Well, I would. Here it is two full weeks since I settled down onyou. Why don't you evict me?"

Miss Van Arsdale smiled. The girl continued:

"Why don't I evict myself? I'm quite well and sane again--at least Ithink so--thanks to you. Very well, then, Io; why don't you go home?"

"Instinct of self-preservation, " suggested the other. "You're better offhere until your strength is quite restored, aren't you?"

The girl propped her chin in her hand and turned upon her companion aspeculative regard. "Camilla Van Arsdale, you don't really like me, " sheasserted. 

"Liking is such an undefined attitude, " replied the other, unembarrassed. 

"You find me diverting, " defined Io. "But you resent me, don't you?"

"That's rather acute in you. I don't like your standards nor those ofyour set. "

"I've abandoned them. "

"You'll resume them as soon as you get back. "

"Shall I ever get back?" The girl moved to the door. Her figure swayedforward yieldingly as if she would give herself into the keeping of thesun-drenched, pine-soaked air. "Enchantment!" she murmured. 

"It is a healing place, " said the habitant of it, low, as if to herself. 

A sudden and beautiful pity softened and sobered Io's face. "Miss VanArsdale, " said she with quiet sincerity; "if there should ever come atime when I can do you a service in word or deed, I would come from theother side of the world to do it. "

"That is a kindly, but rather exaggerated gratitude. "

"It isn't gratitude. It's loyalty. Whatever you have done, I believe youwere right. And, right or wrong, I--I am on your side. But I wonder whyyou have been so good to me. Was it a sort of class feeling?"

"Sex feeling would be nearer it, " replied the other. "There is somethinginstinctive which makes women who are alone stand by each other. "

Io nodded. "I suppose so. Though I've never felt it, or the need of itbefore this. Well, I had to speak before I left, and I suppose I must goon soon. "

"I shall miss you, " said the hostess, and added, smiling, "as one missesa stimulant. Stay through the rest of the month, anyway. "

"I'd like to, " answered Io gratefully. "I've written Delavan that I'mcoming back--and now I'm quite dreading it. Do you suppose there everyet was a woman with understanding of herself?"

"Not unless she was a very dull and stupid woman with little tounderstand, " smiled Miss Van Arsdale. "What are you doing to-day?"

"Riding down to lunch with your paragon of a station-agent. "

Miss Van Arsdale shook her head dubiously. "I'm afraid he'll miss hisdaily stimulant after you've gone. It has been daily, hasn't it?"

"I suppose it has, just about, " admitted the girl. "The stimulus hasn'tbeen all on one side, I assure you. What a mind to be buried here in thedesert! And what an annoying spirit of contentment! It's that thatpuzzles me. Sometimes it enrages me. "

"Are you going to spoil what you cannot replace?" The retort was swift, almost fierce. 

"Surely, you won't blame me if he looks beyond this horizon, " protestedIo. "Life is sure to reach out in one form or another and seize on him. I told him so. "

"Yes, " breathed the other. "You would. "

"What were you intending to do with him?"

There was a hint of challenge in the slight emphasis given to the query. 

"I? Nothing. He is under no obligation to me. "

"There you and he differ. He regards you as an infallible mentor. " Atwinkle of malice crept into the slumbrous eyes. "Why do you let himwear made-up bow ties?" demanded Io. 

"What does it matter?"

"Out here, nothing. But elsewhere--well, it does define a man, doesn'tit?"

"Undoubtedly. I've never gone into it with him. "

"I wonder if I could guess why. "

"Very likely. You seem preternaturally acute in these matters. "

"Is it because the Sears-Roebuck mail-order double-bow knot in polka-dotpattern stands as a sign of pristine innocence?"

In spite of herself Miss Van Arsdale laughed. "Something of that sort. "

Io's soft lips straightened. "It's rotten bad form. Why shouldn't he beright? It's so easy. Just a hint--"

"From you?"

"From either of us. Yes; from me, if you like. "

"It's quite an intimate interest, isn't it?"

"'But never can battle of men compare With merciless feminine fray'"--quoted Io pensively. 

"Kipling is a sophomore about women, " retorted Miss Van Arsdale. "We'renot going to quarrel over Errol Banneker. The odds are too unfair. "

"Unfair?" queried Io, with a delicate lift of brow. 

"Don't misunderstand me. I know that whatever you do will be within therules of the game. That's the touchstone of honor of your kind. "

"Isn't it good enough? It ought to be, for it's about the only one mostof us have. " Io laughed. "We're becoming very serious. May I take thepony?"

"Yes. Will you be back for supper?"

"Of course. Shall I bring the paragon?"

"If you wish. "

Outside the gaunt box of the station, Io, from the saddle sent forth herresonant, young call:

"Oh, Ban!"

"'Tis the voice of the Butterfly; hear her declare, 'I've come down tothe earth; I am tired of the air'"

chanted Banneker's voice in cheerful paraphrase. "Light and preen yourwings, Butterfly. "

Their tone was that of comrades without a shade of anything deeper. 

"Busy?" asked Io. 

"Just now. Give me another five minutes. "

"I'll go to the hammock. "

One lone alamo tree, an earnest of spring water amongst the dry-sandgrowth of the cactus, flaunted its bright verdency a few rods back ofthe station, and in its shade Banneker had swung a hammock for Io. Hitching her pony and unfastening her hat, the girl stretched herselfluxuriously in the folds. A slow wind, spice-laden with the faint, crispfragrancies of the desert, swung her to a sweet rhythm. She closed hereyes happily . . . And when she opened them, Banneker was standing overher, smiling. 

"Don't speak to me, " she murmured; "I want to believe that this willlast forever. "

Silent and acquiescent, he seated himself in a camp-chair close by. Shestretched a hand to him, closing her eyes again. 

"Swing me, " she ordered. 

He aided the wind to give a wider sweep to the hammock. Io stirredrestlessly. 

"You've broken the spell, " she accused softly. "Weave me another one. "

"What shall it be?" He bent over the armful of books which he hadbrought out. 

"You choose this time. "

"I wonder, " he mused, regarding her consideringly. 

"Ah, you may well wonder! I'm in a very special mood to-day. "

"When aren't you, Butterfly?" he laughed. 

"Beware that you don't spoil it. Choose well, or forever after hold yourpeace. "

He lifted the well-worn and well-loved volume of poetry. It parted inhis hand to the Rossetti sonnet. He began to read at the lines:

"When Work and Will awake too late, to gaze After their life sailed by, and hold their breath. "

Io opened her eyes again. 

"Why did you select that thing?"

"Why did you mark it?"

"Did I mark it?"

"Certainly, I'm not responsible for the sage-blossom between the pages. "

"Ah, the sage! That's for wisdom, " she paraphrased lightly. 

"Do you think Rossetti so wise a preceptor?"

"It isn't often that he preaches. When he does, as in that sonnet--well, the inspiration may be a little heavy, but he does have something tosay. "

"Then it's the more evident that you marked it for some special reason. "

"What supernatural insight, " she mocked. "Can you read your name betweenthe lines?"

"What is it that you want me to do?"

"You mean to ask what it is that Mr. Rossetti wants you to do. I didn'twrite the sonnet, you know. "

"You didn't fashion the arrow, but you aimed it. "

"Am I a good marksman?"

"I suppose you mean that I'm wasting my time here. "

"Surely not!" she gibed. "Forming a link of transcontinental traffic. Helping to put a girdle 'round the earth in eighty days--or is it fortynow?--enlightening the traveling public about the three-twenty-fourtrain; dispensing time-tables and other precious mediums of education--"

"I'm happy here, " he said doggedly. 

"Are you going to be, always?"

His face darkened with doubt. "Why shouldn't I be?" he argued. "I've goteverything I need. Some day I thought I might write. "

"What about?" The question came sharp and quick. 

He looked vaguely around the horizon. 

"Oh, no, Ban!" she said. "Not this. You've got to know something besidescactuses and owls to write, these days. You've got to know men. Andwomen, " she added, in a curious tone, with a suspicion of effort, evenof jealousy in it. 

"I've never cared much for people, " he said. 

"It's an acquired taste, I suppose for some of us. There's somethingelse. " She came slowly to a sitting posture and fixed her questioning, baffling eyes on his. "Ban, don't you want to make a success in life?"

For a moment he did not answer. When he spoke, it was with apparentirrelevance to what she had said. "Once I went to a revival. A reformedtough was running it. About every three minutes he'd thrust out hishands and grab at the air and say, 'Oh, brothers; don't you yearn forJesus?'"

"What has that to do with it?" questioned Io, surprised and impatient. 

"Only that, somehow, the way you said 'success in life' made me think ofhim and his 'yearn for Jesus. '"

"Errol Banneker, " said Io, amused in spite of her annoyance, "you arepossessed of a familiar devil who betrays other people's inner thoughtsto you. Success _is_ a species of religion to me, I suppose. "

"And you are making converts, like all true enthusiasts. Tell, tell me. What kind of success?"

"Oh, power. Money. Position. Being somebody. "

"I'm somebody here all right. I'm the station-agent of the Atkinson andSt. Philip Railroad Company. "

"Now you're trying to provoke me. "

"No. But to get success you've got to want it, haven't you?" he askedmore earnestly. "To want it with all your strength. "

"Of course. Every man ought to. "

"I'm not so sure, " he objected. "There's a kind of virtue in stayingput, isn't there?"

She made a little gesture of impatience. 

"I'll give you a return for your sonnet, " he pursued, and repeated frommemory:

"What else is Wisdom? What of man's endeavor Or God's high grace, solovely and so great? To stand from fear set free, to breathe and wait;To hold a hand uplifted over Hate. And shall not Loveliness be lovedforever?"

"I don't know it. It's beautiful. What is it?"

"Gilbert Murray's translation of 'The Bacchae. ' My legal mentors had alapse of dry-as-dustness and sent it to me. "

"'To stand from fear set free, to breathe and wait, '" murmured the girl. "That is what I've been doing here. How good it is! But not for you, "she added, her tone changing from dreamy to practical. "Ban, I suspectthere's too much poetry in your cosmos. "

"Very probably. Poetry isn't success, is it?"

Her face grew eager. "It might be. The very highest. But you've got tomake yourself known and felt among people. "

"Do you think I could? And how does one get that kind of desire?" heasked lazily. 

"How? I've known men to do it for love; and I've known them to do it forhate; and I've known them to do it for money. Yes; and there's anothercause. "

"What is it?"

"Restlessness. "

"That's ambition with its nerves gone bad, isn't it?"

Again she smiled. "You'll know what it is some day. "

"Is it contagious?" he asked solicitously. 

"Don't be alarmed. I haven't it. Not now. I'd love to stay on and on andjust 'breathe and wait, ' if the gods were good. "

'"Dream that the gods are good, '" he echoed. "The last thing they everthink of being according to my reading. "

She capped his line;

"We twain, once well in sunder, What will the mad gods do--'"

she began; then broke off, jumping to her feet. "I'm talking sheernonsense!" she cried. "Take me for a walk in the woods. The desertglares to-day. "

"I'll have to be back by twelve, " he said. "Excuse me just a moment. "

He disappeared into the portable house. When he rejoined her, she asked:

"What did you go in there for? To get your revolver?"

"Yes. "

"I've carried one since the day you told me to. Not that I've met a soulthat looked dangerous, nor that I'd know how to shoot or when, if Idid. "

"The sight of it would be taken as evidence that you knew how to useit, " he assured her. 

For a time, as they walked, she had many questions to put about the treeand bird life surrounding them. In the midst of it he asked her:

"Do you ever get restless?"

"I haven't, here. I'm getting rested. "

"And at home I suppose you're too busy. "

"Being busy is no preventive. Somebody has said that St. Vitus is thepatron saint of New York society. "

"It must take almost all the time those people have to keep up with thetheaters and with the best in poetry and what's being done and thought, and the new books and all that, " he surmised. 

"I beg your pardon; what was that about poetry and books?"

"Girls like you--society girls, I mean--read everything there is, don'tthey?"

"Where do you get that extraordinary idea?"

"Why, from knowing you. "

"My poor, innocent Ban! If you were to try and talk books and poetry, 'Shakespeare and the musical glasses, ' to the average society girl, asyou call her, what do you suppose would happen?"

"Why, I suppose I'd give myself away as an ignoramus. "

"Heaven save you for a woolly lambkin! The girl would flee, shrieking, and issue a warning against you as a high-brow, a prig, and a hopelessbore. They don't read books, except a few chocolate-cream novels. Theyhaven't the time. "

"But you--"

"Oh, I'm a freak! I get away with it because I'm passably good-lookingand know how to dress, and do what I please by the divine rightof--well, of just doing it. But, even so, a lot of the men are ratherafraid of me in their hearts. They suspect the bluestocking. Let 'emsuspect! The market is plenty good enough, " declared Io flippantly. 

"Then you just took up books as a sort of freak; a side issue?" Thedisappointment in his face was almost ludicrous. 

"No. " A quiet gravity altered her expression. "I'll tell you about me, if you want to hear. My mother was the daughter of a famous classicalscholar, who was opposed to her marriage because Father has always beena man of affairs. From the first, Mother brought me up to love books andmusic and pictures. She died when I was twelve, and poor Father, whoworshiped her, wanted to carry out her plans for me, though he had nospecial sympathy with them. To make things worse for him, nobody butMother ever had any control over me; I was spoiled and self-willed andprecocious, and I thought the world owed me a good time. Dad's businessjudgment of human nature saved the situation, he thoroughly understoodone thing about me, that I'd keep a bargain if I made it. So we fixed upour little contract; I was to go through college and do my best, andafter I graduated, I was to have a free hand and an income of my own, anice one. I did the college trick. I did it well. I was third in myclass, and there wasn't a thing in literature or languages that theycould stop me from getting. At eighteen they turned me loose on theworld, and here I am, tired of it, but still loving it. That's all ofme. Aren't I a good little autobiographer. Every lady her own Boswell!What are you listening to?"

"There's a horse coming along the old trail, " said Banneker. 

"Who is it?" she asked. "Some one following us?"

He shook his head. A moment later the figure of a mounted man loomedthrough the brush. He was young, strong-built, and not ill-looking. "Howdy, Ban, " he said. 

Banneker returned the greeting. 

"Whee-ew!" shrilled the other, wiping his brow. "This sure does fetchthe licker outen a man's hide. Hell of a wet night at the Sick Coyotelast night. Why wasn't you over?"

"Busy, " replied Banneker. 

Something in his tone made the other raise himself from his weary droop. He sighted Io. 

"Howdy, ma'am, " he said. "Didn't see there was ladies present. "

"Good-morning, " said Io. 

"Visitin' hereabouts?" inquired the man, eyeing her curiously. 

"Yes. "

"Where, if I might be bold to ask?"

"If you've got any questions to ask, ask them of me, Fred, " directedBanneker. 

While there was nothing truculent in his manner, it left no doubt as tohis readiness and determination. 

Fred looked both sullen and crestfallen. 

"It ain't nothin', " he said. "Only, inquiries was bein' made by a gentfrom a Angelica City noospaper last week. "

"Somebody else meant, " asserted Banneker. "You keep that in mind, willyou? And it isn't necessary that you should mention this lady at all. Savvy, Fred?"

The other grunted, touched his sombrero to Io and rode on. 

"Has a reporter been here inquiring after me?" asked Io. 

"Not after you. It was some one else. "

"If the newspapers tracked me here, I'd have to leave at once. "

"They won't. At least, it isn't likely. "

"You'd get me out some way, wouldn't you, Ban?" she said trustfully. 

"Yes. "

"Ban; that Fred person seemed afraid of you. "

"He's got nothing to be afraid of unless he talks too much. "

"But you had him 'bluffed. ' I'm sure you had. Ban, did you ever kill aman?"

"No. "

"Or shoot one?"

"Not even that. "

"Yet, I believe, from the way he looked at you, that you've got areputation as a 'bad man'?"

"So I have. But it's no fault of mine. "

"How did you get it?"

"You'll laugh if I tell you. They say I've got a 'killer's' eye. "

The girl examined his face with grave consideration. "You've got niceeyes, " was her verdict. "That deep brown is almost wasted on a man; somegirl ought to have it. I used to hear a--a person, who made a deepimpression on me at the time, insist that there was always a flaw in thecharacter of a person with large, soft brown eyes. "

"Isn't there a flaw in every character?"

"Human nature being imperfect, there must be. What is yours; suppressedmurderousness?"

"Not at all. My reputation is unearned, though useful. Just before Icame here, a young chap showed up from nowhere and loafed aroundManzanita. He was a pretty kind of lad, and one night in the Sick Coyotesome of the old-timers tried to put something over on him. When thesmoke cleared away, there was one dead and six others shot up, andLittle Brownie was out on the desert, riding for the next place, awfullysore over a hole in his new sombrero. He was a two-gun man from downnear the border. Well, when I arrived in town, I couldn't understand whyevery one looked so queerly at my eyes, until Mindle, the mail-driver, told me they were exactly like the hair-trigger boy's. Cheap and easyway to get a reputation, isn't it?"

"But you must have something back of it, " insisted the girl. "Are you agood shot?"

"Nothing fancy; there are twenty better in town. "

"Yet you pin some faith to your 'gun, '" she pointed out. 

He glanced over his shoulder to right and left. Io jumped forward with astartled cry. So swift and secret had been his motion that she hardlysaw the weapon before--PLACK--PLACK--PLACK--the three shots had sounded. The smoke drifted around him in a little circle, for the first two shotshad been over his shoulder and the third as he whirled. Walking back, hecarefully examined the trunks of three trees. 

"I'd have only barked that fellow, if he'd been a man, " he observed, shaking his head at the second mark. 

"You frightened me, " complained Io. 

"I'm sorry. I thought you wanted to see a little gun-play. Out here itisn't how straight you can shoot at a bull's-eye, but how quick you canplant your bullets, and usually in a mark that isn't obliging enough tobe dead in line. So I practice occasionally, just in case. "

"Very interesting. But I've got luncheon to cook, " said Io. 

They returned through the desert. As he opened the door of the shack forher, Banneker, reverting to her autobiographical sketch, remarkedthoughtfully and without preliminary:

"I might have known there couldn't be any one else like you. "

CHAPTER XI

Although the vehicle of his professional activities had for some yearsbeen a small and stertorous automobile locally known as "Puffy Pete, "Mr. James Mindle always referred to his process of postal transfer fromthe station to the town as "teamin' over the mail. " He was a frail, grinny man from the prairie country, much given to romantic imaginingsand an inordinate admiration for Banneker. 

Having watched from the seat of his chariot the brief but ceremonialentry of Number Three, which, on regular schedule, roared throughManzanita at top speed, he descended, captured the mail-bag and, as thetranscontinental pulled out, accosted the station-agent. 

"What'd she stop for, Ban?"

"Special orders. "

"Didn't say nothin' about havin' a ravin' may-ni-ac aboard, did theh?"

"No. "

"Ban, was you ever in the State of Ohio?"

"A long time ago. "

"Are Ohio folks liable to be loony?"

"Not more than others, I reckon, Jimmy. "

"Pretty enthoosiastic about themselves, though, ain't theh?"

"Why, I don't know. It's a nice country there, Jimmy. "

"There was one on Number Three sure thought so. Hadn't scarcely come toa stop when off he jumps and waves his fins and gives three cheers forit. "

"For what?"

"Ohio. I'm tellin' you. He ramps across the track yippin' 'Ohio! Ohio!Ohio!' whoopity-yoop. He come right at me and I says, 'Watch yehself, Buddy. You'll git left. '"

"What did he say to that?" asked Banneker indulgently. 

"Never looked at me no more than a doodle-bug. Just yelled 'Ohio!'again. So I come back at him with 'Missourah. ' He grabs me by theshoulder and points to your shack. 'Who owns that little shed?' says he, very excited. 'My friend, Mr. Banneker, ' says I, polite as always tostrangers. 'But I own that shoulder you're leanin' on, and I'm about totake it away with me when I go, ' I says. He leaned off and says, 'Wheredid that young lady come from that was standin' in the doorway a minuteago?' 'Young lady, ' Ban. Do you get that? So I says, 'You're lucky, Bud. When I get 'em, it's usually snakes and bugs and such-like rep-tyles. Besides, ' I says, 'your train is about to forgit that you got off it, ' Isays. With that he gives another screech that don't even mean as much asOhio and tails onto the back platform just in time. "

Said Ban, after frowning consideration:

"You didn't see any lady around the shack, did you, Jimmy?"

"Not on your life, " replied the little man indignantly. "I ain't hadanything like that since I took the mail-teamin' contract. "

"How good time do you think Puffy Pete could make across-desert in caseI should want it?" inquired the agent after a pause. 

The mail-man contemplated his "team, " bubbling and panting a vaporousbreath over the platform. "Pete ain't none too fond of sand, " heconfessed. "But if you want to _git_ anywhere, him and me'll git youthere. You know that, Ban. "

Banneker nodded comradely and the post chugged away. 

Inside the shack Io had set out the luncheon-things. To Banneker's eyesshe appeared quite unruffled, despite the encounter which he hadsurmised from Jimmy's sketch. 

"Get me some flowers for the table, Ban, " she directed. "I want it tolook festive. "

"Why, in particular?"

"Because I'm afraid we won't have many more luncheons together. "

He made no comment, but went out and returned with the flowers. MeantimeIo had made up her mind. 

"I've had an unpleasant surprise, Ban. "

"I was afraid so. "

She glanced up quickly. "Did you see him?"

"No. Mindle, the mail transfer man, did. "

"Oh! Well, that was Aleck Babson. 'Babbling Babson, ' he's called at theclubs. He's the most inveterate gossip in New York. "

"It's a long way from New York, " pointed out Banneker. 

"Yes; but he has a long tongue. Besides, he'll see the Westerleys and myother friends in Paradiso, and babble to them. "

"Suppose he does?"

"I won't have people chasing here after me or pestering me withletters, " she said passionately. "Yet I don't want to go away. I want toget more rested, Ban, and forget a lot of things. "

He nodded. Comfort and comprehension were in his silence. 

"You can be as companionable as a dog, " said Io softly. "Where did youget your tact, I wonder? Well, I shan't go till I must. . . . Lemonade, Ban! I brought over the lemons myself. "

They lunched a little soberly and thoughtfully. 

"And I wanted it to be festive to-day, " said Io wistfully, speaking outher thoughts as usual. "Ban, does Miss Camilla smoke?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Because if she does, you'll think it all right. And I want a cigarettenow. "

"If you do, I'll _know_ it's all right, Butterfly, " returned hercompanion fetching a box from a shelf. 

"Hold the thought!" cried Io gayly. "There's a creed for you! 'Whateveris, is right, ' provided that it's Io who does it. Always judge me bythat standard, Ban, won't you?. . . Where in the name of Sir WalterRaleigh's ghost did you get these cigarettes? 'Mellorosa' . . . Ban, isthis a Sears-Roebuck stock?"

"No. It came from town. Don't you like it?"

"It's quite curious and interesting. Never mind, my dear; I won't teaseyou. "

For all that Io's "my dear" was the most casual utterance imaginable, itbrought a quick flush to Banneker's face. Chattering carelessly, shewashed up the few dishes, put them away in the brackets, and then, smoking another of the despised Mellorosas, wandered to thebook-shelves. 

"Read me something out of your favorite book, Ban. . . . No; this one. "

She handed him the thick mail-order catalogue. With a gravity equal toher own he took it. 

"What will you have?"

"Let the spirit of Sears-Roebuck decide. Open at random and expound. "

He thrust a finger between the leaves and began:

"Our Special, Fortified Black Fiber Trunk for Hard Travel. Made ofThree-Ply Ven--"

"Oh, to have my trunks again!" sighed the girl. "Turn to something else. I don't like that. It reminds me of travel. "

Obedient, Banneker made another essay:

"Clay County Clay Target Traps. Easily Adjusted to the Elevation--"

"Oh, dear!" she broke in again. "That reminds me that Dad wrote me tolook up his pet shot-gun before his return. I don't like that either. Try again. "

This time the explorer plunged deep into the volume. 

"How to Make Home Home-like. An Invaluable Counselor for the Woman ofthe Household--"

Io snatched the book from the reader's hand and tossed it into a corner. "Sears-Roebuck are very tactless, " she declared. "Everything they haveto offer reminds one of home. What do you think of home, Ban? Home, asan abstract proposition. Home as the what-d'you-call-'em of the nation;the palladium--no, the bulwark? Home as viewed by the homing pigeon?Home, Sweet Home, as sung by--Would you answer, Ban, if I stoppedgibbering and gave you the chance?"

"I've never had much opportunity to judge about home, you know. "

She darted out a quick little hand and touched his sleeve. The railleryhad faded from her face. "So you haven't. Not very tactful of me, wasit! Will you throw me into the corner with Mr. Sears and Mr. Roebuck, Ban? I'm sorry. "

"You needn't be. One gets used to being an air-plant without roots. "

"Yet you wouldn't have fitted out this shack, " she pointed out shrewdly, "unless you had the instincts of home. "

"That's true enough. Fortunately it's the kind of home I can take alongwhen they transfer me. "

Io went to the door and looked afar on the radiant splendor of thedesert, and, nearer, into the cool peace of the forest. 

"But you can't take all this, " she reminded him. 

"No. I can't take this. "

"Shall you miss it?"

A shadow fell upon his face. "I'd miss something--I don't know what itis--that no other place has ever given me. Why do you talk as if I weregoing away from it? I'm not. "

"Oh, yes; you are, " she laughed softly. "It is so written. I'm aseeress. " She turned from the door and threw herself into a chair. 

"What will take me?"

"Something inside you. Something unawakened. 'Something lost beyond theranges. ' You'll know, and you'll obey it. "

"Shall I ever come back, O seeress?"

At the question her eyes grew dreamy and distant. Her voice when shespoke sank to a low-pitched monotone. 

"Yes, you'll come back. Sometime. . . . So shall I . . . Not for years . . . But--" She jumped to her feet. "What kind of rubbish am I talking?" shecried with forced merriment. "Is your tobacco drugged with hasheesh, Ban?"

He shook his head. "It's the pull of the desert, " he murmured. "It'scaught you sooner than most. You're more responsive, I suppose; moresens--Why, Butterfly! You're shaking. "

"A Scotchman would say that I was 'fey. ' Ban, do you think it means thatI'm coming back here to die?" She laughed again. "If I were fated to diehere, I expect that I missed my good chance in the smash-up. FortunatelyI'm not superstitious. "

"There might be worse places, " said he slowly. "It is the place thatwould call me back if ever I got down and out. " He pointed through thewindow to the distant, glowing purity of the mountain peak. "One couldtell one's troubles to that tranquil old god. "

"Would he listen to mine, I wonder?"

"Try him before you go. You can leave them all here and I'll watch overthem for you to see that they don't get loose and bother you. "

"Absolution! If it were only as easy as that! This _is_ a hauntedplace. . . . Why should I be here at all? _Why_ didn't I go when I should?Why a thousand things?"

"Chance. "

"Is there any such thing? Why can't I sleep at night yet, as I ought?Why do I still feel hunted? What's happening to me, Ban? What's gettingready to happen?"

"Nothing. That's nerves. "

"Yes; I'll try not to think of it. But at night--Ban, suppose I shouldcome over in the middle of the night when I can't sleep, and calloutside your window?"

"I'd come down, of course. But you'd have to be careful about rattlers, "answered the practical Ban. 

"Your friend, Camilla, would intercept me, anyway. I don't think shesleeps too well, herself. Do you know what she's doing out here?"

"She came for her health. "

"That isn't what I asked you, my dear. Do you know what she's doing?"

"No. She never told me. "

"Shall I tell you?"

"No. "

"It's interesting. Aren't you curious?"

"If she wanted me to know, she'd tell me. "

"Indubitably correct, and quite praiseworthy, " mocked the girl. "Nevermind; you know how to be staunch to your friends. "

"In this country a man who doesn't is reckoned a yellow dog. "

"He is in any decent country. So take that with you when you go. "

"I'm not going, " he asserted with an obstinate set to his jaw. 

"Wait and see, " she taunted. "So you won't let me send you books?" shequestioned after a pause. 

"No. "

"No, I thank you, " she prompted. 

"No, I thank you, " he amended. "I'm an uncouth sort of person, but Imeant the 'thank you. '"

"Of course you did. And uncouthness is the last thing in the world youcould be accused of. That's the wonder of it. . . . No; I don't suppose itreally is. It's birth. "

"If it's anything, it's training. My father was a stickler for forms, inspite of being a sort of hobo. "

"Well, forms make the game, very largely. You won't find themessentially different when you go out into the--I forgot again. Thatkind of prophecy annoys you, doesn't it? There is one book I'm going tosend you, though, which you can't refuse. Nobody can refuse it. It isn'tdone. "

"What is that?"

Her answer surprised him. "The Bible. "

"Are you religious? Of course, a butterfly should be, shouldn't she?should believe in the release of the soul from its chrysalis--thebutterfly's immortality. Yet I wouldn't have suspected you of a leaningin that direction. "

"Oh, religion!" Her tone set aside the subject as insusceptible ofsufficient or satisfactory answer. "I go through the forms, " she added, a little disdainfully. "As to what I believe and do--which is what one'sown religion is--why, I assume that if the game is worth playing at all, there must be a Judge and Maker of the Rules. As far as I understandthem, I follow them. "

"You have a sort of religious feeling for success, though, haven't you?"he reminded her slyly. 

"Not at all. Just human, common sense. "

"But your creed as you've just given it, the rules of the game and that;that's precisely the Bible formula, I believe. "

"How do you know?" she caught him up. "You haven't a Bible in the place, so far as I've noticed. "

"No; I haven't. "

"You should have. "

"Probably. But I can't, somehow, adjust myself to that advice as comingfrom you. "

"Because you don't understand what I'm getting at. It isn't religiousadvice. "

"Then what is it?"

"Literary, purely. You're going to write, some day. Oh, don't lookdoubtful! That's foreordained. It doesn't take a seeress to prophesythat. And the Bible is the one book that a writer ought to read everyday. Isaiah, Psalms, Proverbs. Pretty much all the Old Testament, and alot of the New. It has grown into our intellectual life until itsphrases and catchwords are full of overtones and sub-meanings. You'vegot to have it in your business; your coming business, I mean. I knowwhat I'm talking about, Mr. Errol Banneker--_moi qui parle_. Theyoffered me an instructorship in Literature when I graduated. I eventhreatened to take it, just for a joke on Dad. _Now_, will you be goodand accept my fully explained and diagrammed Bible without fearing thatI have designs on your soul?"

"Yes. "

"And will you please go back to your work at once, and by and by take mehome and stay to supper? Miss Van Arsdale told me to ask you. "

"All right. I'll be glad to. What will you do between now and fouro'clock?"

"Prowl in your library and unearth more of your secrets. "

"You're welcome if you can find any. I don't deal in 'em. "

When Banneker, released from his duties until evening train time, rejoined her, and they were riding along the forest trail, he said:

"You've started me to theorizing about myself. "

"Do it aloud, " she invited. 

"Well; all my boyhood I led a wandering life, as you know. We were neveranywhere as much as a month at a time. In a way, I liked the change andadventure. In another way, I got dead sick of it. Don't you suppose thatmy readiness to settle down and vegetate is the reaction from that?"

"It sounds reasonable enough. You might put it more simply by sayingthat you were tired. But by now you ought to be rested. "

"Therefore I ought to be stirring myself so as to get tired again?"

"If you don't stir, you'll rust. "

"Rust is a painless death for useless mechanism. "

She shot an impatient side-glance at him. "Either you're a hundred yearsold, " she said, "or that's sheer pose. "

"Perhaps it is a sort of pose. If so, it's a self-protective one. "

"Suppose I asked you to come to New York?"

Intrepid though she was, her soul quaked a little at her own words, foreseeing those mail-order-cut clothes and the resolute butterflynessof the tie greeting her on Fifth Avenue. 

"What to do?"

"Sell tickets at the Grand Central Station, of course!" she shot back athim. "Ban, you _are_ aggravating! 'What to do?' Father would find yousome sort of place while you were fitting in. "

'No. I wouldn't take a job from you any more than I'd take anythingelse. "

"You carry principles to the length of absurdity. Come and get your ownjob, then. You're not timid, are you?"

"Not particularly. I'm just contented. "

At that provocation her femininity flared. "Ban, " she cried withexasperation and appeal enchantingly mingled, "aren't you going to missme at all when I go?"

"I've been trying not to think of that, " he said slowly. 

"Well, think of it, " she breathed. "No!" she contradicted herselfpassionately. "Don't think of it. I shouldn't have said that. . . . I don'tknow what is the matter with me to-day, Ban. Perhaps I _am_ fey. " Shesmiled to him slantwise. 

"It's the air, " he answered judicially. "There's another storm brewingsomewhere or I'm no guesser. More trouble for the schedule. "

"That's right!" she cried eagerly. "_Be_ the Atkinson and St. Philipstation-agent again. Let's talk about trains. It's--it's so reliable. "

"Far from it on this line, " he answered, adopting her light tone. "Particularly if we have more rain. You may become a permanent residentyet. "

Some rods short of the Van Arsdale cabin the trail took a sharp turnamidst the brush. Halfway on the curve Io caught at Banneker's nearrein. 

"Hark!" she exclaimed. 

The notes of a piano sounded faintly clear in the stillness. As theharmonies dissolved and merged, a voice rose above them, resonant andglorious, rose and sank and pleaded and laughed and loved, while the twoyoung listeners leaned unconsciously toward each other in their saddles. Silence fell again. The very forest life itself seemed hushed in alistening trance. 

"Heavens!" whispered Banneker. "Who is it?"

"Camilla Van Arsdale, of course. Didn't you know?"

"I knew she was musical. I didn't know she had a voice like that. "

"Ten years ago New York was wild over it. "

"But why--"

"Hush! She's beginning again. "

Once more the sweep of the chords was followed by the superb voice whilethe two wayfarers and all the world around them waited, breathless andenchained. At the end, Banneker said dreamily:

"I've never heard anything like that before. It says everything thatcan't be said in words alone, doesn't it? It makes me think ofsomething--What is it?" He groped for a moment, then repeated:

"'A passionate ballad, gallant and gay, Singing afar in the springtimeof life, Singing of youth and of love And of honor that cannot die. '"

Io drew a deep, tremulous breath. "Yes; it's like that. What a voice!And what an art to be buried out here! It's one of her own songs, Ithink. Probably an unpublished one. "

"Her own? Does she write music?"

"She is Royce Melvin, the composer. Does that mean anything to you?"

He shook his head. 

"Some day it will. They say that he--every one thinks it's a he--willtake Massenet's place as a lyrical composer. I found her out byaccidentally coming on the manuscript of a Melvin song that I knew. That's her secret that I spoke of. Do you mind my having told you?"

"Why, no. It'll never go any further. I wonder why she never told me. And why she keeps so shut off from the world here. "

"Ah; that's another secret, and one that I shan't tell you, " returned Iogravely. "There's the piano again. "

A few indeterminate chords came to their ears. There followed a janglingdisharmony. They waited, but there was nothing more. They rode on. 

At the lodge Banneker took the horses around while Io went in. Immediately her voice, with a note of alarm in it, summoned him. Hefound her bending over Miss Van Arsdale, who lay across the divan in theliving-room with eyes closed, breathing jerkily. Her lips were blue andher hands looked shockingly lifeless. 

"Carry her into her room, " directed Io. 

Banneker picked up the tall, strong-built form without effort anddeposited it on the bed in the inner room. 

"Open all the windows, " commanded the girl. "See if you can find me someammonia or camphor. Quick! She looks as if she were dying. "

One after another Banneker tried the bottles on the dresser. "Here itis. Ammonia, " he said. 

In his eagerness he knocked a silver-mounted photograph to the floor. Hethrust the drug into the girl's hand and watched her helplessly as sheworked over the limp figure on the bed. Mechanically he picked up thefallen picture to replace it. There looked out at him the face of a manof early middle age, a face of manifest intellectual power, high-boned, long-lined, and of the austere, almost ascetic beauty which theFlorentine coins have preserved for us in clear fidelity. Across thebottom was written in a peculiarly rhythmic script, the legend:

"Toujours à toi. W. "

"She's coming back, " said Io's voice. "No. Don't come nearer. You'llshut off the air. Find me a fan. "

He ran to the outer room and came back with a palm-leaf. 

"She wants something, " said Io in an agonized half-voice. "She wants itso badly. What is it? Help me, Ban! She can't speak. Look at hereyes--so imploring. Is it medicine?. . . No! Ban, can't you help?"

Banneker took the silver-framed portrait and placed it in the flaccidhand. The fingers closed over it. The filmiest wraith of a smile playedabout the blue lips. 

An hour later, Io came out to Banneker waiting fearfully in the bigroom. 

"She won't have a doctor. I've given her the strychnia and she insistsshe'll be all right. "

"Don't you think I ought to go for the doctor, anyway?"

"She wouldn't see him. She's very strong-willed. . . . That's a wonderfulwoman, Ban. " Io's voice shook a little. 

"Yes. "

"How did you know about the picture?"

"I saw it on the dresser. And when I saw her eyes, I guessed. "

"Yes; there's only one thing a woman wants like _that_, when she'sdying. You're rather a wonderful person, yourself, to have known. That'sher other secret, Ban. The one I said I couldn't tell you. "

"I've forgotten it, " replied Banneker gravely. 

CHAPTER XII

Attendance upon the sick-room occupied Io's time for several daysthereafter. Morning and afternoon Banneker rode over from the station tomake anxious inquiry. The self-appointed nurse reported progress asrapid as could be expected, but was constantly kept on the alert becauseof the patient's rebellion against enforced idleness. Seizures of thesame sort she had suffered before, it appeared, but none hitherto sosevere. Nothing could be done, she told Io, beyond the administration ofthe medicine, for which she had full directions. One day an attack wouldfinish it all; meantime, in spite of her power of self-repression, shechafed at the monotony of her imprisonment. 

In the late afternoon of the day after the collapse, while Io washeating water at the fireplace, she heard a drawer open in the sick-roomand hurried back to find Miss Van Arsdale hanging to the dresser, herface gray-splotched and her fingers convulsively crushing a letter whichshe had taken from under lock. Alarmed and angry, the amateur nurse gother back to bed only half conscious, but still cherishing her trove. When, an hour later, she dared leave her charge, she heard the rustle ofsmoothed-out paper and remained outside long enough to allow for thereading. On her return there was no sign of the letter. Miss VanArsdale, a faint and hopeful color in her cheeks, was asleep. 

For Banneker these were days of trial and tribulation. Added to theanxiety that he felt for his best friend was the uncertainty as to whathe ought to do about the developments affecting her guest. For he hadheard once more from Gardner. 

"It's on the cards, " wrote the reporter, "that I may be up to see youagain. I'm still working, on and off, on the tip that took me on thatwild-goose chase. If I come again I won't quit without some of the wildgoose's tail feathers, at least. There's a new tip locally; it leakedout from Paradise. ["The Babbling Babson, " interjected the readermentally. ] It looks as though the bird were still out your way. Thoughhow she could be, and you not know it, gets me. It's even a bigger gamethan Stella Wrightington, if my information is O. K. Have you heard orseen anything lately of a Beautiful Stranger or anything like thataround Manzanita?. . . I enclose clipping of your story. What do you thinkof yourself in print?"

Banneker thought quite highly of himself in print as he read thearticle, which he immediately did. The other matter could wait; not thatit was less important; quite the contrary; but he proposed to mull itover carefully and with a quiet mind, if he could ever get his mind backto its peaceful current again: meantime it was good for him to think ofsomething quite dissociated from the main problem. 

What writer has not felt the conscious red tingle in his cheeks at firstsight of himself in the magnified personification of type? Here issomething, once himself, now expanded far beyond individual limits, intothe proportions of publicity, for all the world to measure and estimateand criticize. Ought it to have been done in just that way? Is there nottoo much "I" in the presentation? Would not the effect have been greaterhad the method been less personal? It seemed to Banneker that he himselfstood forth in a stark nakedness of soul and thought, through thoseblatantly assertive words, shameless, challenging to public opinion, yetdelightful to his own appreciation. On the whole it was good; betterthan he would have thought he could do. 

What he had felt, in the writing of it, to be jerks and bumps weremagically smoothed out in the finished product. At one point where thecopy-reader's blue pencil had elided an adjective which the writer haddeemed specially telling, he felt a sharp pang of disappointedresentment. Without that characterization the sentence seemed lifeless. Again, in another passage he wished that he had edited himself with moreheed to the just word. Why had he designated the train as "rumbling"along the cut? Trains do not rumble between rock walls, he remembered;they move with a sustained and composite roar. And the finger-wringingmalcontent who had vowed to "soom"; the editorial pencil had alteredthat to "sue 'em, " thereby robbing it of its special flavor. Perhapsthis was in accordance with some occult rule of the trade. But itspoiled the paragraph for Banneker. Nevertheless he was thrilled andelate. . . . He wanted to show the article to Io. What would she think ofit? She had read him accurately: it _was_ in him to write. And she couldhelp him, if only by--well, if only by being at hand. . . . But Gardner'sletter! That meant that the pursuit was on again, more formidably thistime. Gardner, the gadfly, stinging this modern Io out of her refuge ofpeace and safety!

He wrote and dispatched a message to the reporter in care of theAngelica City Herald:

Glad to see you, but you are wasting your time. No such person could behere without my knowing it. Thanks for article. 

That was as near an untruth as Banneker cared to go. In his own mind hedefended it on the ground that the projected visit would, in fact, betime wasted for the journalist since he, Banneker, intended fully thatGardner should not see Io. Deep would have been his disgust andself-derision could he have observed the effect of the message upon thecynical and informed journalist who, however, did not receive it untilthe second day after its transmission, as he had been away on anotherassignment. 

"The poor fish!" was Gardner's comment. "He doesn't even say that sheisn't there. He's got to lie better than that if he goes into thenewspaper game. "

Further, the reporter had received a note from the cowman whom Ban andIo had encountered in the woods, modestly requesting five dollars inreturn for the warranted fact that a "swell young lady" had been seen inBanneker's company. Other journalistic matters were pressing, however;he concluded that the "Manzanita Mystery, " as he built it upheadline-wise in his ready mind, could wait a day or two longer. 

Banneker, through the mechanical course of his office, debated thesituation. Should he tell Io of the message? To do so would only add toher anxieties, probably to no good purpose, for he did not believe thatshe would desert Miss Van Arsdale, ill and helpless, on any selfishconsideration. Fidelity was one of the virtues with which he hadunconsciously garlanded Io. Then, too, Gardner might not come anyway. Ifhe did Banneker was innocently confident of his own ability to outwitthe trained reporter and prevent his finding the object of his quest. Aprospective and possible ally was forecast in the weather. Warning ofanother rainfall impending had come over the wire. As yet there was nosign visible from his far-horizoned home, except a filmy and changefulwreath of palest cloud with which Mount Carstairs was bedecked. Bannekerdecided for silence. 

Miss Van Arsdale was much better when he rode over in the morning, butIo looked piteously worn and tired. 

"You've had no rest, " he accused her, away from the sick woman'shearing. 

"Rest enough of its kind, but not much sleep, " said Io. 

"But you've got to have sleep, " he insisted. "Let me stay and look afterher to-night. "

"It wouldn't be of any use. "

"Why not?"

"I shouldn't sleep anyway. This house is haunted by spirits of unrest, "said the girl fretfully. "I think I'll take a blanket and go out on thedesert. "

"And wake up to find a sidewinder crawling over you, and a tarantulanestling in your ear. Don't think of it. "

"Ban, " called the voice of Camilla Van Arsdale from the inner room, clear and firm as he had ever heard it. 

He went in. She stretched out a hand to him. "It's good to see you, Ban. Have I worried you? I shall be up and about again to-morrow. "

"Now, Miss Camilla, " protested Banneker, "you mustn't--"

"I'm going to get up to-morrow, " repeated the other immutably. "Don't beabsurd about it. I'm not ill. It was only the sort of knock-down that Imust expect from time to time. Within a day or two you'll see me ridingover. . . . Ban, stand over there in that light. . . . What's that you've goton?"

"What, Miss Camilla?"

"That necktie. It isn't in your usual style. Where did you get it?"

"Sent to Angelica City for it. Don't you like it?" he returned, tryingfor the nonchalant air, but not too successfully. 

"Not as well as your spotty butterflies, " answered the woman jealously. "That's nonsense, though. Don't mind me, Ban, " she added with a wrysmile. "Plain colors are right for you. Browns, or blues, or reds, ifthey're not too bright. And you've tied it very well. Did it take youlong to do it?"

Reddening and laughing, he admitted a prolonged and painful sessionbefore his glass. Miss Van Arsdale sighed. It was such a faint, abandoning breath of regret as might come from the breast of a motherwhen she sees her little son in his first pride of trousers. 

"Go out and say good-night to Miss Welland, " she ordered, "and tell herto go to bed. I've taken a sleeping powder. "

Banneker obeyed. He rode home slowly and thoughtfully. His sleep wassound enough that night. 

Breakfast-getting processes did not appeal to him when he awoke in themorning. He walked over, through the earliest light, to the hotel, wherehe made a meal of musty eggs, chemical-looking biscuits, and coffee of arank hue and flavor, in an atmosphere of stale odors and flies, sickeningly different from the dainty ceremonials of Io's preparation. Rebuking himself for squeamishness, the station-agent returned to hisoffice, caught an O. S. From the wire, took some general instructions, and went out to look at the weather. His glance never reached thehorizon. 

In the foreground where he had swung the hammock under the alamo itchecked and was held, absorbed. A blanketed figure lay motionless in thecurve of the meshwork. One arm was thrown across the eyes, warding astrong beam which had forced its way through the lower foliage. Hetiptoed forward. 

Io's breast was rising and falling gently in the hardly perceptiblerhythm of her breathing. From the pale yellow surface of her dress, below the neck, protruded a strange, edged something, dun-colored, sharply defined and alien, which the man's surprised eyes failed toidentify. Slowly the edge parted and flattened out, broadwise, displaying the marbled brilliance of the butterfly's inner wings, illumining the pale chastity of the sleeping figure as if with aquivering and evanescent jewel. Banneker, shaken and thrilled, closedhis eyes. He felt as if a soul had opened its secret glories to him. When, commanding himself, he looked again, the living gem was gone. Thegirl slept evenly. 

Conning the position of the sun and the contour of the sheltering tree, Banneker estimated that in a half-hour or less a flood of sunlight wouldpour in upon the slumberer's face to awaken her. Cautiously withdrawing, he let himself into the shack, lighted his oil stove, put on water toboil, set out the coffee and the stand. He felt different aboutbreakfast-getting now. Having prepared the arrangements for hisprospective guest, he returned and leaned against the alamo, filling hiseyes with still delight of the sleeper. 

Youthful, untouched, fresh though the face was, in the revealingstillness of slumber, it suggested rather than embodied somethingindefinably ancient, a look as of far and dim inheritances, subtle, ironic, comprehending, and aloof; as if that delicate and strong beautyof hers derived intimately from the wellsprings of the race; as ifwomanhood, eternal triumphant, and elusive were visibly patterned there. 

Banneker, leaning against the slender tree-trunk, dreamed over her, happily and aimlessly. 

Io opened her eyes to meet his. She stirred softly and smiled at him. 

"So you discovered me, " she said. 

"How long have you been here?"

She studied the sun a moment before replying. "Several hours. "

"Did you walk over in the night?"

"No. You told me not to, you know. I waited till the dawn. Don't scoldme, Ban. I was dead for want of sleep and I couldn't get it in thelodge. It's haunted, I tell you, with unpeaceful spirits. So Iremembered this hammock. "

"I'm not going to scold you. I'm going to feed you. The coffee's on. "

"How good!" she cried, getting to her feet. "Am I a sight? I feelfrowsy. "

"There's a couple of buckets of water up in my room. Help yourself whileI set out the breakfast. "

In fifteen minutes she was down, freshened and joyous. 

"I'll just take a bite and then run back to my patient, " she said. "Youcan bring the blanket when you come. It's heavy for a three-miletramp. . . . What are you looking thoughtful and sober about, Ban? Do youdisapprove of my escapade?"

"That's a foolish question. "

"It's meant to be. And it's meant to make you smile. Why don't you? You_are_ worried. 'Fess up. What's happened?"

"I've had a letter from the reporter in Angelica City. "

"Oh! Did he send your article?"

"He did. But that isn't the point. He says he's coming up here again. "

"What for?"

"You. "

"Does he know I'm here? Did he mention my name?"

"No. But he's had some information that probably points to you. "

"What did you answer?"

Ban told her. "I think that will hold him off, " he said hopefully. 

"Then he's a very queer sort of reporter, " returned Io scornfully out ofher wider experience. "No; he'll come. And if he's any good, he'll findme. "

"You can refuse to see him. "

"Yes; but it's the mere fact of my being here that will probably givehim enough to go on and build up a loathsome article. How I hatenewspapers!. . . Ban, " she appealed wistfully, "can't you stop him fromcoming? Must I go?"

"You must be ready to go. "

"Not until Miss Camilla is well again, " she declared obstinately. "Butthat will be in a day or two. Oh, well! What does it all matter! I'venot much to pack up, anyway. How are you going to get me out?"

"That depends on whether Gardner comes, and how he comes. "

He pointed to a darkening line above the southwestern horizon. "If thatis what it looks like, we may be in for another flood, though I've neverknown two bad ones in a season. "

Io beckoned quaintly to the far clouds. "Hurry! Hurry!" she summoned. "You wrecked me once. Now save me from the Vandal. Good-bye, Ban. Andthank you for the lodging and the breakfast. "

Emergency demands held the agent at his station all that day andevening. Trainmen brought news of heavy rains beyond the mountains. Inthe morning he awoke to find his little world hushed in a murky lightand with a tingling apprehension of suspense in the atmosphere. High, gray cloud shapes hurried across the zenith to a conference of the stormpowers, gathering at the horizon. Weather-wise from long observation, Banneker guessed that the outbreak would come before evening, and that, unless the sullen threat of the sky was deceptive, Manzanita would beshut off from rail communication within twelve hours thereafter. Havingtwo hours' release at noon, he rode over to the lodge in the forest toreturn Io's blanket. He found the girl pensive, and Miss Van Arsdaleapparently recovered to the status of her own normal and vigorous self. 

"I've been telling Io, " said the older woman, "that, since the rumor isout of her being here, she will almost certainly be found by thereporter. Too many people in the village know that I have a guest. "

"How?" asked Banneker. 

"From my marketing. Probably from Pedro. "

"Very likely from the patron of the Sick Coyote that you and I met onour walk, " added the girl. 

"So the wise thing is for her to go, " concluded Miss Van Arsdale. "Unless she is willing to risk the publicity. "

"Yes, " assented Io. "The wise thing is for me to go. " She spoke in acurious tone, not looking at Banneker, not looking at anything outwardand visible; her vision seemed somberly introverted. 

"Not now, though, " said Banneker. 

"Why not?" asked both women. He answered Io. 

"You called for a storm. You're going to get it. A big one. I could sendyou out on Number Eight, but that's a way-train and there's no tellingwhere it would land you or when you'd get through. Besides, I don'tbelieve Gardner is coming. I'd have heard from him by now. Listen!"

The slow pat-pat-pat of great raindrops ticked like a started clock onthe roof. It ceased, and far overhead the great, quiet voice of the windsaid, "Hush--sh--sh--sh--sh!", bidding the world lie still and wait. 

"What if he does come?" asked Miss Van Arsdale

"I'll get word to you and get her out some way. "

The storm burst on Banneker, homebound, just as he emerged from thewoodland, in a wild, thrashing wind from the southwest and a downpourthe most fiercely, relentlessly insistent that he had ever known. Acactus desert in the rare orgy of a rainstorm is a place of wonder. Themonstrous, spiky forms trembled and writhed in ecstasy, heat-damnedsouls in their hour of respite, stretching out exultant arms to thebounteous sky. Tiny rivulets poured over the sand, which sucked themdown with a thirsting, crisping whisper. A pair of wild doves, surprisedand terrified, bolted close past the lone rider, so near that his mountshied and headed for the shelter of the trees again. A small snake, curving indecisively and with obvious bewilderment amidst the growth, paused to rattle a faint warning, half coiled in case the horse's stepmeant a new threat, then went on with a rather piteous air of notknowing where to find refuge against this cataclysm of the elements. 

Lashing in the wind, a long tentacle of the giant ocatilla drew itscimeter-set thong across Ban's horse which incontinently bolted. Therider lifted up his voice and yelled in sheer, wild, defiant joy of thetumult. A lesser ocatilla thorn gashed his ear so that the blood mingledwith the rain that poured down his face. A pod of the fishhook-barbedcholla drove its points through his trousers into the flesh of his kneeand, detaching itself from the stem, as is the detestable habit of thisvegetable blood-seeker, clung there like a live thing of prey, frombarbs which must later be removed delicately and separately with thecold steel. Blindly homing, a jack-rabbit ran almost beneath the horse'shooves, causing him to shy again, this time into a bulky vizcaya, as bigas a full-grown man, and inflicting upon Ban a new species ofscarification. It did not matter. Nothing mattered. He rode on, kneestight, lines loose, elate, shouting, singing, acclaiming the storm whichwas setting its irrefragable limits to the world wherein he and Io wouldstill live close, a few golden days longer. 

What he picked from the wire when he reached it confirmed his hopes. Thetrack was threatened in a dozen places. Repair crews were gathering. Already the trains were staggering along, far behind their schedule. They would, of course, operate as far as possible, but no reliance wasto be placed upon their movements until further notice. Through thenight traffic continued, but with the coming of the morning and thesettling down of a soft, seeping, unintermittent pour of gray rain, thesituation had clarified. Nothing came through. Complete stoppage, eastand west. Between Manzanita and Stanwood the track was out, and in theother direction Dry Bed Arroyo was threatening. Banneker reportedprogress to the lodge and got back, soaked and happy. Io was thoughtfuland content. 

Late that afternoon the station-agent had a shock which jarred him quiteout of his complacent security. Denny, the operator at Stanwood, wired, saying:

Party here anxious to get through to Manzanita quick. Could auto makeupper desert?

No (clicked Banneker in response). Describe party. 

The answer came back confirming his suspicion:

Thin, nice-spoken, wears goggles, smokes cork-tips. Arrived Five fromAngelica held here. 

Tell impossible by any route (instructed Banneker). Wire result. 

An hour later came the reply:

Won't try to-night. Probably horse to-morrow. 

Here was a problem, indeed, fit to chill the untimelyself-congratulations of Banneker. Should the reporter come in--and comehe would if it were humanly possible, by Banneker's estimate of him--itwould be by the only route which gave exit to the west. On the otherside the flooded arroyo cut off escape. To try to take Io out throughthe forest, practically trackless, in that weather, or across thechanneled desert, would be too grave a risk. To all intents and purposesthey were marooned on an island with no reasonable chance ofexit--except! To Banneker's feverishly searching mind reverted a locallegend. Taking a chance on missing some emergency call, he hurried overto the village and interviewed, through the persuasive interpretation ofsundry drinks, an aged and bearded wreck whose languid and chippedaccents spoke of a life originally far alien to the habitudes of theSick Coyote where he was fatalistically awaiting his final attack ofdelirium tremens. 

Banneker returned from that interview with a map upon which had beenscrawled a few words in shaky, scholarly writing. 

"But one doesn't say it's safe, mind you, " had warned the shell ofLionel Streatham in his husky pipe. "It's only as a sporting offer thatone would touch it. And the courses may have changed in seven years. "

Denny wired in the morning that the inquiring traveler had set out fromManzanita, unescorted, on horseback, adding the prediction that he wouldhave a hell of a trip, even if he got through at all. Late thatafternoon Gardner arrived at the station, soaked, hollow-eyed, stiff, exhausted, and cheerful. He shook hands with the agent. 

"How do you like yourself in print?" he inquired. 

"Pretty well, " answered Banneker. "It read better than I expected. "

"It always does, until you get old in the business. How would you like aNew York job on the strength of it?"

Banneker stared. "You mean that I could get on a paper just by writingthat?"

"I didn't say so. Though I've known poorer stuff land more experiencedmen. "

"More experienced; that's the point, isn't it? I've had none at all. "

"So much the better. A metropolitan paper prefers to take a man freshand train him to its own ways. There's your advantage if you can shownatural ability. And you can. "

"I see, " muttered Banneker thoughtfully. 

"Where does Miss Van Arsdale live?" asked the reporter without thesmallest change of tone. 

"What do you want to see Miss Van Arsdale for?" returned the other, hisinstantly defensive manner betraying him to the newspaper man. 

"You know as well as I do, " smiled Gardner. 

"Miss Van Arsdale has been ill. She's a good deal of a recluse. Shedoesn't like to see people. "

"Does her visitor share that eccentricity?"

Banneker made no reply. 

"See here, Banneker, " said the reporter earnestly; "I'd like to know whyyou're against me in this thing. "

"What thing?" fenced the agent. 

"My search for Io Welland. "

"Who is Io Welland, and what are you after her for?" asked Bannekersteadily. 

"Apart from being the young lady that you've been escorting around thelocal scenery, " returned the imperturbable journalist, "she's the mostbrilliant and interesting figure in the younger set of the Four Hundred. She's a newspaper beauty. She's copy. She's news. And when she gets intoa railroad wreck and disappears from the world for weeks, and hersupposed fiancé, the heir to a dukedom, makes an infernal ass of himselfover it all and practically gives himself away to the papers, she's bignews. "

"And if she hasn't done any of these things, " retorted Banneker, drawingupon some of Camilla Van Arsdale's wisdom, brought to bear on the case, "she's libel, isn't she?"

"Hardly libel. But she isn't safe news until she's identified. You see, I'm playing an open game with you. I'm here to identify her, with half adozen newspaper photos. Want to see 'em?"

"No, thank you. "

"Not interested? Are you going to take me over to Miss Van Arsdale's?"

"No. "

"Why not?"

"Why should I? It's no part of my business as an employee of the road. "

"As to that, I've got a letter from the Division Superintendent askingyou to further my inquiry in any possible way. Here it is. "

Banneker took and read the letter. While not explicit, it wassufficiently direct. 

"That's official, isn't it?" said Gardner mildly. 

"Yes. "

"Well?"

"And this is official, " added Banneker calmly. "The company can go tohell. Tell that to the D. S. With my compliments, will you?"

"Certainly not. I don't want to get you into trouble. I like you. ButI've got to land this story. If you won't take me to the place, I'llfind some one in the village that will. You can't prevent my goingthere, you know. "

"Can't I?" Banneker's voice had grown low and cold. A curious lightshone in his eyes. There was an ugly flicker of smile on his set mouth. 

The reporter rose from the chair into which he had wetly slumped. Hewalked over to face his opponent who was standing at his desk. Banneker, lithe, powerful, tense, was half again as large as the other; obviouslymore muscular, better-conditioned, more formidable in every way. Butthere is about a man, singly and selflessly intent upon his job in hand, an inner potency impossible to obstruct. Banneker recognized it;inwardly admitted, too, the unsoundness of the swift, protective ragerising within, himself. 

"I don't propose to make trouble for you or to have trouble with you, "said the reporter evenly. "But I'm going to Miss Van Arsdale's unlessI'm shot on the way there. "

"That's all right, " returned the agent, mastering himself. "I beg yourpardon for threatening you. But you'll have to find your own way. Willyou put up here for the night, again?"

"Thanks. Glad to, if it won't trouble you. See you later. "

"Perhaps not. I'm turning in early. I'll leave the shack unlocked foryou. "

Gardner opened the outer door and was blown back into the station by anexplosive gust of soaking wind. 

"On second thought, " said he, "I don't think I'll try to go out therethis evening. The young lady can't very well get away to-night, unlessshe has wings, and it's pretty damp for flying. Can I get dinner over atthe village?"

"Such as it is. I'll go over with you. "

At the entrance to the unclean little hotel they parted, Banneker goingfurther to find Mindle the "teamer, " whom he could trust and with whomhe held conference, brief and very private. They returned to the stationtogether in the gathering darkness, got a hand car onto the track, andloaded it with a strange burden, after which Mindle disappeared into thestorm with the car while Banneker wired to Stanwood an imperative callfor a relief for next day even though the substitute should have to walkthe twenty-odd miles. Thereafter he made, from the shack, a carefulselection of food with special reference to economy of bulk, fastened itdeftly beneath his poncho, saddled his horse, and set out for the VanArsdale lodge. The night was pitch-black when he entered the area of thepines, now sonorous with the rush of the upper winds. 

Io saw the gleam of his flashlight and ran to the door to meet him. 

"Are you ready?" he asked briefly. 

"I can be in fifteen minutes. " She turned away, asking no questions. 

"Dress warmly, " he said. "It's an all-night trip. By the way, can youswim?"

"For hours at a time. "

Camilla Van Arsdale entered the room. "Are you taking her away, Ban?Where?"

"To Miradero, on the Southwestern and Sierra. "

"But that's insanity, " protested the other. "Sixty miles, isn't it? Andover trailless desert. "

"All of that. But we're not going across country. We're going by water. "

"By water? Ban, you _are_ out of your mind. Where is there anywaterway?"

"Dry Bed Arroyo. It's running bank-full. My boat is waiting there. "

"But it will be dangerous. Terribly dangerous. Io, you mustn't. "

"I'll go, " said the girl quietly, "if Ban says so. "

"There's no other way out. And it isn't so dangerous if you're used to aboat. Old Streatham made it seven years ago in the big flood. Did it ina bark canoe on a hundred-dollar bet. The Arroyo takes you out to theLittle Bowleg and that empties into the Rio Solano, and there you are!I've got his map. "

"Map?" cried Miss Van Arsdale. "What use is a map when you can't seeyour hand before your face?"

"Give this wind a chance, " answered Banneker. "Within two hours theclouds will have broken and we'll have moonlight to go by. . . . TheAngelica Herald man is over at the hotel now, " he added. 

"May I take a suitcase?" asked Io. 

"Of course. I'll strap it to your pony if you'll get it ready. MissCamilla, what shall we do with the pony? Hitch him under the bridge?"

"If you're determined to take her, I'll ride over with you and bring himback. Io, think! Is it worth the risk? Let the reporter come. I can keephim away from you. "

A brooding expression was in the girl's deep eyes as she turned them, not to the speaker, but to Banneker. "No, " she said. "I've got to getaway sooner or later. I'd rather go this way. It's more--it's more of apattern with all the rest; better than stupidly waving good-bye from therear of a train. "

"But the danger. "

"_Che sará, sará_, " returned Io lightly. "I'll trust him to take care ofme. "

While Ban went out to prepare the horses with the aid of Pedro, strictlyenjoined to secrecy, the two women got Io's few things together. 

"I can't thank you, " said the girl, looking up as she snapped the lockof her case. "It simply isn't a case for thanking. You've done too muchfor me. "

The older woman disregarded it. "How much are you hurting Ban?" shesaid, with musing eyes fixed on the dim and pure outline of the girlishface. 

"I? Hurt him?"

"Of course he won't realize it until you've gone. Then I'm afraid tothink what is coming to him. "

"And I'm afraid to think what is coming to me, " replied the girl, verylow. 

"Ah, you!" retorted her hostess, dismissing that consideration withcontemptuous lightness. "You have plenty of compensations, plenty ofresources. "

"Hasn't he?"

"Perhaps. Up to now. What will he do when he wakes up to an emptyworld?"

"Write, won't he? And then the world won't be empty. "

"He'll think it so. That is why I'm sorry for him. "

"Won't you be sorry a little for me?" pleaded the girl. "Anyway, for thepart of me that I'm leaving here? Perhaps it's the very best of me. "

Miss Van Arsdale shook her head. "Oh, no! A pleasantly vivid dream ofchanged and restful things. That's all. Your waking will be only asentimental and perfumed regret--a sachet-powder sorrow. "

"You're bitter. "

"I don't want him hurt, " protested the other. "Why did you come here?What should a girl like you, feverish and sensation-loving andartificial, see in a boy like Ban to charm you?"

"Ah, don't you understand? It's just because my world has been toodressed up and painted and powdered that I feel the charm of--of--well, of ease of existence. He's as easy as an animal. There's something abouthim--you must have felt it--sort of impassioned sense of the gladness oflife; when he has those accesses he's like a young god, or a faun. Buthe doesn't know his own power. At those times he might do anything. "

She shivered a little and her lids drooped over the luster of herdreaming eyes. 

"And you want to tempt him out of this to a world where he would be awretched misfit, " accused the older woman. 

"Do I? No; I think I don't. I think I'd rather hold him in my mind as heis here: a happy eremite; no, a restrained pagan. Oh, it's foolish toseek definitions for him. He isn't definable. He's Ban. . . . "

"And when you get back into the world, what will you do, I wonder?"

"I won't send for him, if that's what you mean. "

"But what _will_ you do, I wonder?"

"I wonder, " repeated Io somberly. 

CHAPTER XIII

Silently they rode through the stir and thresh of the night, the twowomen and the man. For guidance along the woods trail they must trust tothe finer sense of their horses whose heads they could not see in theclosed-in murk. A desultory spray fell upon them as the wind wrenched atthe boughs overhead, but the rain had ceased. Infinitely high, infinitely potent sounded the imminent tumult of the invisible Powers ofthe night, on whose sufferance they moved, tiny, obscure, and unharmed. It filled all the distances. 

Debouching upon the open desert, they found their range of visionslightly expanded. They could dimly perceive each other. The horses drewcloser together. With his flash covered by his poncho, Bannekerconsulted a compass and altered their course, for he wished to give thestation, to which Gardner might have returned, a wide berth. Io moved upabreast of him as he stood, studying the needle. Had he turned the lightupward he would have seen that she was smiling. Whether he would haveinterpreted that smile, whether, indeed, she could have interpreted itherself, is doubtful. 

Presently they picked up the line of telegraph poles, well beyond thestation, just the faintest suggestion of gaunt rigor against thetroubled sky, and skirted them, moving more rapidly in the confidence ofassured direction. A very gradual, diffused alleviation of the darknessbegan to be felt. The clouds were thinning. Something ahead of themhissed in a soft, full, insistent monosonance. Banneker threw up ashadowy arm. They dismounted on the crest of a tiny desert clifflet, nowbecome the bank of a black current which nuzzled and nibbled into itsflanks. 

Io gazed intently at the flood which was to deliver her out of the handsof the Philistine. How far away the other bank of the newborn streammight be, she could only guess from the vague rush in her ears. Thearroyo's water slipped ceaselessly, objectlessly away from beneath herstrained vision, smooth, suave, even, effortless, like the process ofsome unhurried and mighty mechanism. Now and again a desert plant, uprooted from its arid home, eddied joyously past her, satiated for onceof its lifelong thirst; and farther out she thought to have a glimpse ofsome dead and whitish animal. But these were minor blemishes on a great, lustrous ribbon of silken black, unrolled and re-rolled from darknessinto darkness. 

"It's beckoning us, " said Io, leaning to Banneker, her hand on hisshoulder. 

"We must wait for more light, " he answered. 

"Will you trust yourself to _that_?" asked Camilla Van Arsdale, with agesture of fear and repulsion toward the torrent. 

"Anywhere!" returned Io. There was exaltation in her voice. 

"I can't understand it, " cried the older woman. "How do you know whatmay lie before you?"

"That is the thrill of it. "

"There may be death around the first curve. It's so unknown; so secretand lawless. "

"Ah, and I'm lawless!" cried Io. "I could defy the gods on a night likethis!"

She flung her arms aloft, in a movement of sweet, wild abandon, and, asif in response to an incantation, the sky was reft asunder and the moonrushed forth, free for the moment of the clutching clouds, fugitive, headlong, a shining Maenad of the heavens, surrounded by the rush andwhirl that had whelmed earth and its waters and was hurrying them to anunknown, mad destiny. 

"Now we can see our way, " said Banneker, the practical. 

He studied the few rods of sleek, foamless water between him and thefarther bank, and, going to the steel boat which Mindle had brought tothe place on the hand car, took brief inventory of its small cargo. Satisfied, he turned to load in Io's few belongings. He shipped theoars. 

"I'll let her go stem-first, " he explained; "so that I can see whatwe're coming to and hold her if there's trouble. "

"But can you see?" objected Miss Van Arsdale, directing a troubled lookat the breaking sky. 

"If we can't, we'll run her ashore until we can. "

He handed Io the flashlight and the map. 

"You'll want me in the bow seat if we're traveling reversed, " said she. 

He assented. "Good sailorwoman!"

"I don't like it, " protested Miss Van Arsdale. "It's a mad business. Ban, you oughtn't to take her. "

"It's too late to talk of that, " said Io. 

"Ready?" questioned Banneker. 

"Yes. "

He pushed the stern of the boat into the stream, and the current laid itneatly and powerfully flat to the sheer bank. Io kissed Camilla VanArsdale quickly and got in. 

"We'll wire you from Miradero, " she promised. "You'll find the messagein the morning. "

The woman, mastering herself with a difficult effort, held out her handto Banneker. 

"If you won't be persuaded, " she said, "then good--"

"No, " he broke in quickly. "That's bad luck. We shall be all right. "

"Good luck, then, " returned his friend, and turned away into the night. 

Banneker, with one foot in the boat, gave a little shove and caught uphis oars. An unseen hand of indeterminable might grasped the keel andmoved them quietly, evenly, outward and forward, puppets given into thecustody of the unregarding powers. Oars poised and ready, Ban sat withhis back toward his passenger, facing watchfully downstream. 

Leaning back into the curve of the bow, Io gave herself up to thepulsing sweep of the night. Far, far above her stirred a cosmic tumult. The air might have been filled with vast wings, invisible and incessantin the night of wonders. The moon plunged headlong through the clouds, now submerged, now free, like a strong swimmer amidst surf. She moved tothe music of a tremendous, trumpeting note, the voice of the unleashedSpring, male and mighty, exulting in his power, while beneath, theresponsive, desirous earth thrilled and trembled and was glad. 

The boat, a tiny speck on the surface of chaos, darted and checked andswerved lightly at the imperious bidding of unguessed forces, reachingup from the depths to pluck at it in elfish sportiveness. Only when Banthrust down the oar-blades, as he did now and again to direct theircourse or avoid some obstacle, was Io made sensible, through the jar andtremor of the whole structure, how swiftly they moved. She felt thespirit of the great motion, of which they were a minutely inconsiderablepart, enter into her soul. She was inspired of it, freed, elated, glorified. She lifted up her voice and sang. Ban, turning, gave her onequick look of comprehension, then once more was intent and watchful oftheir master and servitor, the flood. 

"Ban, " she called. 

He tossed an oar to indicate that he had heard. 

"Come back and sit by me. "

He seemed to hesitate. 

"Let the boat go where it wants to! The river will take care of us. It'sa good river, and so strong! I think it loves to have us here. "

Ban shook his head. 

"'Let the great river bear us to the sea, '" sang Io in her fresh andthrilling voice, stirring the uttermost fibers of his being withdelight. "Ban, can't you trust the river and the night and--and the madgods? I can. "

Again he shook his head. In his attitude she sensed a new concentrationupon something ahead. She became aware of a strange stir that was not ofthe air nor the water. 

"Hush--sh--sh--sh--sh!" said something unseen, with an immense effect ofrestraint and enforced quiet. 

The boat slewed sharply as Banneker checked their progress with adownthrust of oars. He edged in toward the farther bank which was quiteflat, studying it with an eye to the most favoring spot, having selectedwhich, he ran the stern up with several hard shoves, leapt out, hauledthe body of the craft free from the balked and snatching current, andheld out a hand to his passenger. 

"What is it?" she asked as she joined him. 

"I don't know. I'm trying to think where I've heard that noise before. "He pondered. "Ah, I've got it! It was when I was out on the coast in thebig rains, and a few million tons of river-bank let go all holds andsmushed down into the stream. . . . What's on your map?"

He bent over it, conning its detail by the light of the flash which sheturned on. 

"We should be about here, " he indicated, touching the paper, "I'll goahead and take a look. "

"Shan't I go with you?"

"Better stay quiet and get all the rest you can. "

He was gone some twenty minutes. "There's a big, fresh-looking split-offin the opposite bank, " he reported; "and the water looks fizzy andwhirly around there. I think we'll give her a little time to settle. Asudden shift underneath might suck us down. The water's rising everyminute, which makes it worth while waiting. Besides, it's dark justnow. "

"Do you believe in fate?" asked the girl abruptly, as he seated himselfon the sand beside her. "That's a silly, schoolgirl thing to say, isn'tit?" she added. "But I was thinking of this boat being there in themiddle of the dry desert, just when we needed it most. "

"It had been there some time, " pointed out Banneker. "And if we couldn'thave come this way, I'd have found some other. "

"I believe you would, " crowed Io softly. 

"So, I don't believe in fate; not the ready-made kind. Things aren'tthat easy. If I did--"

"If you did?" she prompted as he paused. 

"I'd get back into the boat with you and throw away the oars. "

"I dare you!" she cried recklessly. 

"We'd go whirling and spinning along, " he continued with dreams in hisvoice, "until dawn came, and then we'd go ashore and camp. "

"Where?"

"How should I know? In the Enchanted Canyon where it enters theMountains of Fulfillment. . . . They're not on this map. "

"They're not on any map. More's the pity. And then?"

"Then we'd rest. And after that we'd climb to the Plateau Beyond theClouds where the Fadeless Gardens are, and there. . . "

"And there?"

"There we'd hear the Undying Voices singing. "

"Should we sing, too?"

"Of course. 'For they who attain these heights, through pain of upwardtoil and the rigors of abstention, are as the demigods, secure aboveevil and the fear thereof. '"

"I don't know what that is, but I hate the 'upward toil' part of it, andthe 'abstention' even more. We ought to be able to become demigodswithout all that, just because we wish it. In a fairy-tale, anyway. Idon't think you're a really competent fairy-tale-monger, Ban. "

"You haven't let me go on to the 'live happy ever after' part, " hecomplained. 

"Ah, that's the serpent, the lying, poisoning little serpent, alwaysconcealed in the gardens of dreams. They don't, Ban; people don't livehappy ever after. I could believe in fairy-tales up to that point. Justthere ugly old Experience holds up her bony finger--she's a horrid hag, Ban, but we'd all be dead or mad without her--and points to thewriggling little snake. "

"In my garden, " said he, "she'd have shining wings and eyes that couldlook to the future as well as to the past, and immortal Hope for alover. It would be worth all the toil and the privation. "

"Nobody ever made up a Paradise, " said the girl fretfully, "but what thePuritan in him set the road with sharp stones and bordered it withthorns and stings. . . . Look, Ban! Here's the moon come back to us. . . . Andsee what's laughing at us and our dreams. "

On the crest of a sand-billow sprawled a huge organ-cactus, brandishingits arms in gnomish derision of their presence. 

"How can one help but believe in foul spirits with that thing to provetheir existence?" she said. "And, look! There's the good spirit in frontof that shining cloud. "

She pointed to a yucca in full, creamy flower; a creature of unearthlypurity in the glow of the moon, a dream-maiden beckoning at the gates ofdarkness to a world of hidden and ineffable beauty. 

"When I saw my first yucca in blossom, " said Banneker, "it was justbefore sunrise after I had been riding all night, and I came on itaround a dip in the hills, standing alone against a sky of pearl andsilver. It made me think of a ghost, the ghost of a girl who had diedtoo young to know womanhood, died while she was asleep and dreamingpale, soft dreams, never to be fulfilled. "

"That's the injustice of death, " she answered. "To take one before oneknows and has felt and been all that there is to know and feel and be. "

"Yet"--he turned a slow smile to her--"you were just now callingExperience bad names; a horrid hag, wasn't it?"

"At least, she's life, " retorted the girl. 

"Yes. She's life. "

"Ban, I want to go on. The whole universe is in motion. Why must westand still?"

They reëmbarked. The grip of the hurrying depths took them past crinklywater, lustrously bronze in the moonlight where the bank had given way, and presently delivered them, around the shoulder of a low, brush-crowned bluff, into the keeping of a swollen creek. Here the goingwas more tricky. There were shoals and whirls at the bends, and plungingflotsam to be avoided. Banneker handled the boat with masterly address, easing her through the swift passages, keeping her, with a touch hereand a dip there, to the deepest flow, swerving adroitly to dodge thetrees and brush which might have punctured the thin metal. Once he criedout and lunged at some object with an unshipped oar. It rolled and sank, but not before Io had caught the contour of a pasty face. She wasstartled rather than horrified at this apparition of death. It seemed anaccessory proper to the pattern of the bewitched night. 

Through a little, silvered surf of cross-waves, they were shot, after anhour of this uneasy going, into the broad, clean sweep of the LittleBowleg River. After the troubled progress of the lesser current itseemed very quiet and secure; almost placid. But the banks slipped by inan endless chain. Presently they came abreast of three horsemen ridingthe river trail, who urged their horses into a gallop, keeping up withthem for a mile or more. As they fell away, Io waved a handkerchief atthem, to which they made response by firing a salvo from their revolversinto the air. 

"We're making better than ten miles an hour, " Banneker called over hisshoulder to his passenger. 

They shot between the split halves of a little, scraggly, ramshackletown, danced in white water where the ford had been, and darted onward. Now Banneker began to hold against the current, scanning the shoresuntil, with a quick wrench, he brought the stern around and ran it up ona muddy bit of strand. 

"Grub!" he announced gayly. 

Languor had taken possession of Io, the languor of one who yields tounknown and fateful forces. Passive and at peace, she wanted nothing butto be wafted by the current to whatever far bourne might await her. Thatthere should be such things as railway trains and man-made schedules inthis world of winds and mystery and the voice of great waters, was hardto believe; hardly worth believing in any case. Better not to think ofit: better to muse on her companion, building fire as the first man hadbuilt for the first woman, to feed and comfort her in an environment ofimminent fears. 

Coffee, when her man brought it, seemed too artificial for the time andplace. She shook her head. She was not hungry. 

"You must, " insisted Ban. He pointed downstream where the murk layheavy. "We shall run into more rain. You will need the warmth andsupport of food. "

So, because there were only they two on the face of the known earth, woman and man, the woman obeyed the man. To her surprise, she found thatshe was hungry, ardently hungry. Both ate heartily. It was a silentmeal; little spoken except about the chances and developments of thejourney, until she got to her feet. Then she said:

"I shall never, as long as I live, wherever I go, whatever I do, knowanything like this again. I shall not want to. I want it to standalone. "

"It will stand alone, " he answered. 

They met the rain within half an hour, a wall-like mass of it. Itblotted out everything around them. The roar of it cut off sound, as themass of it cut off sight. Fortunately the boat was now going evenly asin an oiled groove. By feeling, Io knew that her guide was moving fromhis seat, and guessed that he was bailing. The spare poncho, put in byMiss Van Arsdale, protected her. She was jubilant with the thresh of therain in her face, the sweet, smooth motion of the boat beneath her, thewild abandon of the night, which, entering into her blood, hadtransmuted it into soft fire. 

How long she crouched, exultant and exalted, under the beat of thestorm, she could not guess. She half emerged from her possession with astrange feeling that the little craft was being irresistibly drawnforward and downward in what was now a suction rather than a current. Atthe same time she felt the spring and thrust of Banneker's muscles, straining at the oars. She dipped a hand into the water. It ridged higharound her wrists with a startling pressure. What was happening?

Through the uproar she could dimly hear Ban's voice. He seemed to beswearing insanely. Dropping to her hands and knees, for the craft wasnow swerving and rocking, she crept to him. 

"The dam! The dam! The dam!" he shouted. "I'd forgotten about it. Goback. Turn on the flash. Look for shore. "

Against rather than into that impenetrable enmeshment of rain, the glowdispersed itself ineffectually. Io sat, not frightened so much aswondering. Her body ached in sympathy with the panting, racking toil ofthe man at the oars, the labor of an indomitable pigmy, striving tothwart a giant's will. Suddenly he shouted. The boat spun. Something lowand a shade blacker than the dull murk about them, with a white, whispering ripple at its edge, loomed. The boat's prow drove into softmud as Banneker, all but knocking her overboard in his dash, plunged tothe land and with one powerful lift, brought boat and cargo to safety. 

For a moment he leaned, gasping, against a stump. When he spoke, it wasto reproach himself bitterly. 

"We must have come through the town. There's a dam below it. I'dforgotten it. My God! If we hadn't had the luck to strike shore. "

"Is it a high dam?" she asked. 

"In this flood we'd be pounded to death the moment we were over. Listen!You can hear it. "

The rain had diminished a little. Above its insistence sounded a deeper, more formidable beat and thrill. 

"We must be quite close to it, " she said. 

"A few rods, probably. Let me have the light. I want to explore beforewe start out. "

Much sooner than she had expected, he was back. He groped for and tookher hand. His own was steady, but his voice shook as he said:

"Io. "

"It's the first time you've called me that. Well, Ban?"

"Can you stand it to--to have me tell you something?"

"Yes. "

"We're not on the shore. "

"Where, then? An island?"

"There aren't any islands here. It must be a bit of the mainland cut offby the flood. "

"I'm not afraid, if that's what you mean. We can stand it until dawn. "

A wavelet lapped quietly across her foot. She withdrew it and with thatinvoluntary act came understanding. Her hand, turning in his, pressedclose, palm cleaving to palm. 

"How much longer?" she asked in a whisper. 

"Not long. It's just a tiny patch. And the river is rising everyminute. "

"How long?" she persisted. 

"Perhaps two hours. Perhaps less. My good God! If there's any specialhell for criminal fools, I ought to go to it for bringing you to this, "he burst out in agony. 

"I brought you. Whatever there is, we'll go to it together. "

"You're wonderful beyond all wonders. Aren't you afraid?"

"I don't know. It isn't so much fear, though I dread to think of thathammering-down weight of water. "

"Don't!" he cried brokenly. "I can't bear to think of you--" He liftedhis head sharply. "Isn't it lightening up? Look! Can you see shore? Wemight be quite near. "

She peered out, leaning forward. "No; there's nothing. " Her hand turnedwithin his, released itself gently. "I'm not afraid, " she said, speakingclear and swift. "It isn't that. But I'm--rebellious. I hate the idea ofit, of ending everything; the unfairness of it. To have to die withoutknowing the--the realness of life. Unfulfilled. It isn't fair, " sheaccused breathlessly. "Ban, it's what we were saying. Back there on theriver-bank where the yucca stands. I don't want to go--I can't bear togo--before I've known . . . Before. . . . "

Her arms crept to enfold him. Her lips sought his, tremulous, surrendering, demanding in surrender. With all the passion and longingthat he had held in control, refusing to acknowledge even theirexistence, as if the mere recognition of them would have blemished her, he caught her to him. He heard her, felt her sob once. The roar of thecataract was louder, more insistent in his ears . . . Or was it the rushof the blood in his veins?. . . Io cried out, a desolate and hungry cry, for he had wrenched his mouth from hers. She could feel the inner manabruptly withdrawn, concentrated elsewhere. She opened her eyes upon anappalling radiance wherein his face stood out clear, incredulous, thensuddenly eager and resolute. 

"It's a headlight!" he cried. "A train! Look, Io! The mainland. It'sonly a couple of rods away. "

He slipped from her arms, ran to the boat. 

"What are you going to do?" she called weakly. "Ban! You can never makeit. "

"I've got to. It's our only chance. "

As he spoke, he was fumbling under the seat. He brought out a coil ofrope. Throwing off poncho, coat, and waistcoat, he coiled the lengthsaround his body. 

"Let me swim with you, " she begged. 

"You're not strong enough. "

"I don't care. We'd go together . . . I--I can't face it alone, Ban. "

"You'll have to. Or give up our only chance of life. You must, Io. If Ishouldn't get across, you may try it; the chances of the current mighthelp you. But not until after you're sure I haven't made it. You mustwait. "

"Yes, " she said submissively. 

"As soon as I get to shore, I'll throw the rope across to you. Listenfor it. I'll keep throwing until it strikes where you can get it. "

"I'll give you the light. "

"That may help. Then you make fast under the forward seat of the boat. Be sure it's tight. "

"Yes, Ban. "

"Twitch three times on the rope to let me know when you're ready andshove out and upstream as strongly as you can. "

"Can you hold it against the current?"

"I must. If I do, you'll drift around against the bank. If I don't--I'llfollow you. "

"No, Ban, " she implored. "Not you, too. There's no need--"

"I'll follow you, " said he. "Now, Io. "

He kissed her gently, stepped back, took a run and flung himself upwardand outward into the ravening current. 

She saw a foaming thresh that melted into darkness. . . . 

Time seemed to have stopped for her. She waited, waited, waited in aworld wherein only Death waited with her. . . . Ban was now limp andlifeless somewhere far downstream, asprawl in the swiftness, rolling apasty face to the sky like that grisly wayfarer who had hailed themsilently in the upper reach of the river, a messenger and prophet oftheir fate. The rising waters eddied about her feet. The boat stirreduneasily. Mechanically she drew it back from the claim of the flood. Alight blow fell upon her cheek and neck. 

It was the rope. 

Instantly and intensely alive, Io tautened it and felt the jerk of Ban'ssignal. With expert hands she made it fast, shipped the oars, twitchedthe cord thrice, and, venturing as far as she dared into the deluge, pushed with all her force and threw herself over the stern. 

The rope twanged and hummed like a gigantic bass-string. Io crawled tothe oars, felt the gunwale dip and right again, and, before she couldtake a stroke, was pressed against the far bank. She clambered out andwent to Banneker, guiding herself by the light. His face, in the feebleglow, shone, twisted in agony. He was shaking from head to foot. Theother end of the rope which had brought her to safety was knotted fastaround his waist. . . . So he would have followed, as he said!

Through Io's queer, inconsequent brain flitted a grotesque conjecture:what would the newspapers make of it if she had been found, washed up onthe river-bank, and the Manzanita agent of the Atkinson and St. PhilipRailroad Company drowned and haltered by a long tether to his boat, nearby? A sensational story!. . . 

She went to Banneker, still helplessly shaking, and put her firm, slighthands on his shoulders. 

"It's all right, Ban, " she said soothingly. "We're out of it. "

CHAPTER XIV

"Arrived safe" was the laconic message delivered to Miss Camilla VanArsdale by Banneker's substitute when, after a haggard night, she rodeover in the morning for news. 

Banneker himself returned on the second noon, after much and roundaboutwayfaring. He had little to say of the night journey; nothing of theperil escaped. Miss Welland had caught a morning train for the East. Shewas none the worse for the adventurous trip. Camilla Van Arsdale, notinghis rapt expression and his absent, questing eyes, wondered whatunderlay such reticence. . . . What had been the manner of their parting?

It had, indeed, been anti-climax. Both had been a little shy, a littlefurtive. Each, perhaps feeling a mutual strain, wanted the parting over, restlessly desiring the sedative of thought and quiet memory after thatstress. The desperate peril from which they had been saved seemed alesser crisis, leading from a greater and more significant one; leadingto--what? For his part Banneker was content to "breathe and wait. " Whenthey should meet again, it would be determined. How and when theencounter might take place, he did not trouble himself to consider. Thewhole universe was moulded and set for that event. Meantime the glorywas about him; he could remember, recall, repeat, interpret. . . . 

For the hundredth time--or was it the thousandth?--he reconstructed thatlast hour of theirs together in the station at Miradero, waiting for thetrain. What had they said to each other? Commonplaces, mostly, and attimes with effort, as if they were making conversation. They two! Afterthat passionate and revealing moment between life and death on theisland. What should he have said to her? Begged her to stay? On whatbasis? How could he?. . . . As the distant roar of the train warned themthat the time of parting was close, it was she who broke through thatstrange restraint, turning upon him her old-time limpid and resoluteregard. 

"Ban; promise me something. "

"Anything. "

"There may be a time coming for us when you won't understand. "

"Understand what?"

"Me. Perhaps I shan't understand myself. "

"You'll always understand yourself, Io. "

"If that comes--when that comes--Ban, there's something in the book, _our_ book, that I've left you to read. "

"'The Voices'?"

"Yes. I've fastened the pages together so that you can't read it toosoon. "

"When, then?"

"When I tell you . . . No; not when I tell you. When--oh, when you must!You'll read it, and afterward, when you think of me, you'll think ofthat, too. Will you?"

"Yes. "

"Always?"

"Always. "

"No matter what happens?"

"No matter what happens. "

"It's like a litany. " She laughed tremulously. . . . "Here's the train. Good-bye, dear. "

He felt the tips of slender fingers on his temples, the light, swiftpressure of cold lips on his mouth. . . . While the train pulled out, shestood on the rear platform, looking, looking. She was very still. Allmotion, all expression seemed centered in the steady gaze which dwindledaway from him, became vague . . . Featureless . . . Vanished in a lurch ofthe car. 

Banneker, at home again, planted a garden of dreams, and lived in it, mechanically acceptant of the outer world, resentful of any intrusionupon that flowerful retreat. Even of Miss Van Arsdale's. 

Not for days thereafter did the Hunger come. It began as a littlegnawing doubt and disappointment. It grew to a devastating, raveningstarvation of the heart, for sign or sight or word of Io Welland. Itdrove him out of his withered seclusion, to seek Miss Van Arsdale, inthe hope of hearing Io's name spoken. But Miss Van Arsdale scarcelyreferred to Io. She watched Banneker with unconcealed anxiety. 

. . . Why had there been no letter?. . . 

Appeasement came in the form of a package addressed in her handwriting. Avidly he opened it. It was the promised Bible, mailed from New YorkCity. On the fly-leaf was written "I. O. W. To E. B. "--nothing more. Hewent through it page by page, seeking marked passages. There was none. The doubt settled down on him again. The Hunger bit into him moresavagely. 

. . . Why didn't she write? A word! Anything!

. . . Had she written Miss Van Arsdale?

At first it was intolerable that he should be driven to ask about herfrom any other person; about Io, who had clasped him in the Valley ofthe Shadow, whose lips had made the imminence of death seem a lightthing! The Hunger drove him to it. 

Yes; Miss Van Arsdale had heard. Io Welland was in New York, and well. That was all. But Banneker felt an undermining reserve. 

Long days of changeless sunlight on the desert, an intolerable glare. From the doorway of the lonely station Banneker stared out over leaguesof sand and cactus, arid, sterile, hopeless, promiseless. Life was likethat. Four weeks now since Io had left him. And still, except for theBible, no word from her. No sign. Silence. 

Why that? Anything but that! It was too unbearable to his helplessmasculine need of her. He could not understand it. He could notunderstand anything. Except the Hunger. That he understood well enoughnow. . . . 

At two o'clock of a savagely haunted night, Banneker staggered from hiscot. For weeks he had not known sleep otherwise than in fitful passages. His brain was hot and blank. Although the room was pitch-dark, hecrossed it unerringly to a shelf and look down his revolver. Slipping onovercoat and shoes, he dropped the weapon into his pocket and set out upthe railroad track. A half-mile he covered before turning into thedesert. There he wandered aimlessly for a few minutes, and after thatgroped his way, guarding with a stick against the surrounding threat ofthe cactus, for his eyes were tight closed. Still blind, he drew out thepistol, gripped it by the barrel, and threw it, whirling high and far, into the trackless waste. He passed on, feeling his uncertain waypatiently. 

It took him a quarter of an hour to find the railroad track and set asure course for home, so effectually had he lost himself. . . . No chanceof his recovering that old friend. It had been whispering to him, in theblackness of empty nights, counsels that were too persuasive. 

Back in his room over the station he lighted the lamp and stood beforethe few books which he kept with him there; among them Io's Bible and"The Undying Voices, " with the two pages still joined as her fingers hadleft them. He was summoning his courage to face what might be the finalsolution. When he must, she had said, he was to open and read. Well . . . He must. He could bear it no longer, the wordless uncertainty. He lifteddown the volume, gently parted the fastened pages and read. From out thestill, ordered lines, there rose to him the passionate cry of protestand bereavement:

". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of mydoor Of individual life I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift myhand Serenely in the sunshine as before, Without the sense of that whichI forbore--Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land Doom takes to partus, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double. What I do Andwhat I dream include thee, as the wine Must taste of its own grapes. Andwhen I sue God for myself, He hears that name of thine And sees withinmy eyes the tears of two. "

Over and over he read it with increasing bewilderment, with increasingfear, with slow-developing comprehension. If that was to be her farewell. . . But why! Io, the straightforward, the intrepid, the exponent of fairplay and the rules of the game!. . . Had it been only a game? No; at leasthe knew better than that. 

What could it all mean? Why that medium for her message? Should he writeand ask her? But what was there to ask or say, in the face of hersilence? Besides, he had not even her address. Miss Camilla coulddoubtless give him that. But would she? How much did she understand? Whyhad she turned so unhelpful?

Banneker sat with his problem half through a searing night; and theother half of the night he spent in writing. But not to Io. 

At noon Camilla Van Arsdale rode up to the station. 

"Are you ill, Ban?" was her greeting, as soon as she saw his face. 

"No, Miss Camilla. I'm going away. "

She nodded, confirming not so much what he said as a fulfilled suspicionof her own. "New York is a very big city, " she said. 

"I haven't said that I was going to New York. "

"No; there is much you haven't said. "

"I haven't felt much like talking. Even to you. "

"Don't go, Ban. "

"I've got to. I've got to get away from here. "

"And your position with the railroad?"

"I've resigned. It's all arranged. " He pointed to the pile of letters, his night's work. 

"What are you going to do?"

"How do I know! I beg your pardon, Miss Camilla. Write, I suppose. "

"Write here. "

"There's nothing to write about. "

The exile, who had spent her years weaving exquisite music from therhythm of desert winds and the overtones of the forest silence, lookedabout her, over the long, yellow-gray stretches pricked out with hintsof brightness, to the peaceful refuge of the pines, and again to thenaked and impudent meanness of the town. Across to her ears, borne onthe air heavy with rain still unshed, came the rollicking, raggingjangle of the piano at the Sick Coyote. 

"Aren't there people to write about there?" she said. "Tragedies andcomedies and the human drama? Barrie found it in a duller place. "

"Not until he had seen the world first, " he retorted quickly. "And I'mnot a Barrie. . . . I can't stay here, Miss Camilla. "

"Poor Ban! Youth is always expecting life to fulfill itself. Itdoesn't. "

"No; it doesn't--unless you make it. "

"And how will you make it?"

"I'm going to get on a newspaper. "

"It isn't so easy as all that, Ban. "

"I've been writing. "

In the joyous flush of energy, evoked under the spell of Io'senchantment, he had filled his spare hours with work, happy, exuberant, overflowing with a quaint vitality. A description of the desert inspate, thumb-nail sketches from a station-agent's window, queer littleflavorous stories of crime and adventure and petty intrigue in the town;all done with a deftness and brevity that was saved from being tooabrupt only by broad touches of color and light. And he had had aletter. He told Miss Van Arsdale of it. 

"Oh, if you've a promise, or even a fair expectation of a place. But, Ban, I wouldn't go to New York, anyway. "

"Why not?"

"It's no use. "

His strong eyebrows went up. "Use?"

"You won't find her there. "

"She's not in New York?"

"No. "

"You've heard from her, then? Where is she?"

"Gone abroad. "

Upon that he meditated. "She'll come back, though. "

"Not to you. "

He waited, silent, attentive, incredulous. 

"Ban; she's married. "

"Married!"

The telegraph instrument clicked in the tiny rhythm of an elfinbass-drum. "O. S. O. S. " Click. Click. Click-click-click. Mechanicallyresponsive to his office he answered, and for a moment was concernedwith some message about a local freight. When he raised his face again, Miss Van Arsdale read there a sick and floundering skepticism. 

"Married!" he repeated. "Io! She couldn't. "

The woman, startled by the conviction in his tone, wondered how muchthat might imply. 

"She wrote me, " said she presently. 

"That she was married?"

"That she would be by the time the letter reached me. "

("You will think me a fool, " the girl had written impetuously, "andperhaps a cruel fool. But it is the wise thing, really. Del Eyre is sosafe! He is safety itself for a girl like me. And I have discovered thatI can't wholly trust myself. . . . Be gentle with him, and make him dosomething worth while. ")

"Ah!" said Ban. "But that--"

"And I have the newspaper since with an account of the wedding. . . . Ban!Don't look like that!"

"Like what?" said he stupidly. 

"You look like Pretty Willie as I saw him when he was working himself upfor the killing. " Pretty Willie was the soft-eyed young desperado whohad cleaned out the Sick Coyote. 

"Oh, I'm not going to kill anybody, " he said with a touch of grimamusement for her fears. "Not even myself. " He rose and went to thedoor. "Do you mind, Miss Camilla?" he added appealingly. 

"You want me to leave you now?"

He nodded. "I've got to think. "

"When would you leave, Ban, if you do go?"

"I don't know. "

On the following morning he went, after a night spent in arranging, destroying, and burning. The last thing to go into the stove, 67 S 4230, was a lock of hair, once glossy, but now stiffened and stained a dullbrown, which he had cut from the wound on Io's head that first, strangenight of theirs, the stain of her blood that had beaten in her heart, and given life to the sure, sweet motion of her limbs, and flushed inher cheeks, and pulsed in the warm lips that she had pressed to his--Whycould they not have died together on their dissolving island, with thenight about them, and their last, failing sentience for each other!

The flame of the greedy stove licked up the memento, but not the memory. 

"You must not worry about me, " he wrote in the note left with hissuccessor for Miss Van Arsdale. "I shall be all right. I am going tosucceed. "

PART II

THE VISION

CHAPTER I

Mrs. Brashear's rooming-house on Grove Street wore its air ofrespectability like a garment, clean and somber, in an environment ofcareful behavior. Greenwich Village, not having fully awakened to thecommercial advantages of being a _locale_, had not yet stretched betweenitself and the rest of New York that gauzy and iridescent curtain ofsprightly impropriety and sparkling intellectual naughtiness, sincefaded to a lather tawdry pattern. An early pioneer of the Villager type, emancipated of thought and speech, chancing upon No. 11 Grove, wouldhave despised it for its lack of atmosphere and its patent conservatism. It did not go out into the highways and byways, seeking prospectivelodgers. It folded its hands and waited placidly for them to come. Whenthey came, it pondered them with care, catechized them tactfully, andeither rejected them with courteous finality or admitted them onprobation. Had it been given to self-exploitation, it could have boastedthat never had it harbored a bug or a scandal within its doors. 

Now, on this filmy-soft April day it was nonplussed. A type new to itsexperience was applying for a room, and Mrs. Brashear, who was not onlythe proprietress, but, as it were, the familiar spirit and incarnationof the institution, sat peering near-sightedly and in some perturbationof soul at the phenomenon. He was young, which was against him, and of awinning directness of manner, which was in his favor, and extremely goodto look at, which was potential of complications, and encased inclothing of an uncompromising cut and neutral pattern (to wit; No. 45 T370, "an ideal style for a young business man of affairs; neat, impressive and dignified"), which was reassuring. 

"My name is Banneker, " he had said, immediately the door was opened tohim. "Can I get a room here?"

"There is a room vacant, " admitted the spirit of the house unwillingly. 

"I'd like to see it. "

As he spoke, he was mounting the stairs; she must, perforce, follow. Onthe third floor she passed him and led the way to a small, moroselypapered front room, almost glaringly clean. 

"All right, if I can have a work-table in it and if it isn't too much, "he said, after one comprehensive glance around. 

"The price is five dollars a week. "

Had Banneker but known it, this was rather high. The Brashearrooming-house charged for its cleanliness, physical and moral. "Can Imove in at once?" he inquired. 

"I don't know you nor anything about you, Mr. Banneker, " she replied, but not until they had descended the stairs and were in the cool, dimparlor. At the moment of speaking, she raised a shade, as if to help inthe determination. 

"Is that necessary? They didn't ask me when I registered at the hotel. "

Mrs. Brashear stared, then smiled. "A hotel is different. Where are youstopping?"

"At the St. Denis. "

"A very nice place. Who directed you here?"

"No one. I strolled around until I found a street I liked, and lookedaround until I found a house I liked. The card in the window--"

"Of course. Well, Mr. Banneker, for the protection of the house I musthave references. "

"References? You mean letters from people?"

"Not necessarily. Just a name or two from whom I can make inquiries. Youhave friends, I suppose. "

"No. "

"Your family--"

"I haven't any. "

"Then the people in the place where you work. What is your business, bythe way?"

"I expect to go on a newspaper. "

"Expect?" Mrs. Brashear stiffened in defense of the institution. "Youhave no place yet?"

He answered not her question, but her doubt. "As far as that isconcerned, I'll pay in advance. "

"It isn't the financial consideration, " she began loftily--"alone, " sheadded more honestly. "But to take in a total stranger--"

Banneker leaned forward to her. "See here, Mrs. Brashear; there'snothing wrong about me. I don't get drunk. I don't smoke in bed. I'mdecent of habit and I'm clean. I've got money enough to carry me. Couldn't you take me on my say-so? Look me over. "

Though it was delivered with entire gravity, the speech provoked a tiredand struggling smile on the landlady's plain features. She looked. 

"Well?" he queried pleasantly. "What do you think? Will you take achance?"

That suppressed motherliness which, embodying the unformulated desire tolook after and care for others, turns so many widows to taking lodgers, found voice in Mrs. Brashear's reply:

"You've had a spell of sickness, haven't you?"

"No, " he said, a little sharply. "Where did you get that idea?"

"Your eyes look hot. "

"I haven't been sleeping very well. That's all. "

"Too bad. You've had a loss, maybe, " she ventured sympathetically. 

"A loss? No. . . . Yes. You might call it a loss. You'll take me, then?"

"You can move in right away, " said Mrs. Brashear recklessly. 

So the Brashear rooming-house took into its carefully guarded interiorthe young and unknown Mr. Banneker--who had not been sleeping well. Nordid he seem to be sleeping well in his new quarters, since his light wasto be seen glowing out upon the quiet street until long after midnight;yet he was usually up betimes, often even before the moving spirit ofthe house, herself. A full week had he been there before his fellowlodgers, self-constituted into a Committee on Membership, took his caseunder consideration in full session upon the front steps. None had hadspeech with him, but it was known that he kept irregular hours. 

"What's his job: that's what I'd like to know, " demanded in a tone ofchallenge, young Wickert, a man of the world who clerked in thedecorative department of a near-by emporium. 

"Newsboy, I guess, " said Lambert, the belated art-student of thirty-oddwith a grin. "He's always got his arms full of papers when he comes in. "

"And he sits at his table clipping pieces out of them and arranging themin piles, " volunteered little Mrs. Bolles, the trained nurse on the topfloor. "I've seen him as I go past. "

"Help-wanted ads, " suggested Wickert, who had suffered experience inthat will-o'-the-wisp chase. 

"Then he hasn't got a job, " deduced Mr. Hainer, a heavy man of heavyvoice and heavy manner, middle-aged, a small-salaried accountant. 

"Maybe he's got money, " suggested Lambert. 

"Or maybe he's a dead beat; he looks on the queer, " opined youngWickert. 

"He has a very fine and sensitive face. I think he has been ill. " Theopinion came from a thin, quietly dressed woman of the early worn-outperiod of life, who sat a little apart from the others. Young Wickertstarted a sniff, but suppressed it, for Miss Westlake was held locallyin some degree of respect, as being "well-connected" and havingrelatives who called on her in their own limousines, though seldom. 

"Anybody know his name?" asked Lambert. 

"Barnacle, " said young Wickert wittily. "Something like that, anyway. Bannsocker, maybe. Guess he's some sort of a Swede. "

"Well, I only hope he doesn't clear out some night with his trunk on hisback and leave poor Mrs. Brashear to whistle, " declared Mrs. Bollespiously. 

The worn face of the landlady, with its air of dispirited motherliness, appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Banneker is a _gentleman_, " she said. 

"Gentleman" from Mrs. Brashear, with that intonation, meant one who, outof or in a job, paid his room rent. The new lodger had earned the titleby paying his month in advance. Having settled that point, she withdrew, followed by the two other women. Lambert, taking a floppy hat from thewalnut rack in the hall, went his way, leaving young Wickert and Mr. Hainer to support the discussion, which they did in tones less discreetthan the darkness warranted. 

"Where would he hail from, would you think?" queried the elder. "Iowa, maybe? Or Arkansas?"

"Search me, " answered young Wickert. "But it was a small-town carpenterbuilt those honest-to-Gawd clothes. I'd say the corn-belt. "

"Dressed up for the monthly meeting of the Farmers' Alliance, all butthe oil on his hair. He forgot that, " chuckled the accountant. 

"He's got a fine chance in Nuh Yawk--of buying a gold brick cheap, "prophesied the worldly Wickert out of the depths of his metropolitanexperience. "Somebody ought to put him onto himself. "

A voice from the darkened window above said, with composure, "That willbe all right. I'll apply to you for advice. "

"Oh, Gee!" whispered young Wickert, in appeal to his companion. "Howlong's he been there?"

Acute hearing, it appeared, was an attribute of the man above, for heanswered at once:

"Just put my head out for a breath of air when I heard your kindexpressions of solicitude. Why? Did I miss something that came earlier?"

Mr. Hainer melted unostentatiously into the darkness. While youngWickert was debating whether his pride would allow him to follow thisprudent example, the subject of their over-frank discussion appeared athis elbow. Evidently he was as light of foot as he was quick of ear. Meditating briefly upon these physical qualities, young Wickert said, ina deprecatory tone:

"We didn't mean to get fresh with you. It was just talk. "

"Very interesting talk. "

Wickert produced a suspiciously jeweled case. "Have a cigarette?"

"I have some of my own, thank you. "

"Give you a light?"

The metropolitan worldling struck a match and held it up. This was onthe order of strategy. He wished to see Banneker's face. To his reliefit did not look angry or even stern. Rather, it appeared thoughtful. Banneker was considering impartially the matter of his apparel. 

"What is the matter with my clothes?" he asked. 

"Why--well, " began Wickert, unhappy and fumbling with his ideas; "Oh, _they_'re all right. "

"For a meeting of the Farmers' Alliance. " Banneker was smilinggood-naturedly. "But for the East?"

"Well, if you really want to know, " began Wickert doubtfully. "If youwon't get sore--" Banneker nodded his assurance. "Well, they're jay. Nostyle. No snap. Respectable, and that lets 'em out. "

"They don't look as if they were made in New York or for New York?"

Young Mr. Wickert apportioned his voice equitably between a laugh and asnort. "No: nor in Hoboken!" he retorted. "Listen, 'bo, " he added, aftera moment's thought. "You got to have a smooth shell in Nuh Yawk. Thehuman eye only sees the surface. Get me? And it judges by the surface. "He smoothed his hands down his dapper trunk with ineffable complacency. "Thirty-eight dollars, this. Bernholz Brothers, around on Broadway. Lookit over. That's a cut!"

"Is that how they're making them in the East?" doubtfully asked theneophyte, reflecting that the pinched-in snugness of the coat, and theflare effect of the skirts, while unquestionably more impressive thanhis own box-like garb, still lacked something of the quiet distinctionwhich he recalled in the clothes of Herbert Cressey. The thought of thatwilling messenger set him to groping for another sartorial name. Hehardly heard Wickert say proudly:

"If Bernholz's makes 'em that way, you can bet it's up to thesplit-second of date, and _maybe_ they beat the pistol by a jump. Ibluffed for a raise of five dollars, on the strength of this outfit, andgot it off the bat. There's the suit paid for in two months and a pairof shoes over. " He thrust out a leg, from below the sharp-pressedtrouser-line of which protruded a boot trimmed in a sort of bizarrefretwork. "Like me to take you around to Bernholz's?"

Banneker shook his head. The name for which he sought had come to him. "Did you ever hear of Mertoun, somewhere on Fifth Avenue?"

"Yes. And I've seen Central Park and the Statue of Liberty, " railed theother. "Thinkin' of patternizing Mertoun, was you?"

"Yes, I'd like to. "

"Like to! There's a party at the Astorbilt's to-morrow night; you'd_like_ to go to that, wouldn't you? Fat chance!" said the disdainful andseasoned cit. "D'you know what Mertoun would do to you? Set you back ahundred simoleons soon as look at you. And at that you got to have aletter of introduction like gettin' in to see the President of theUnited States or John D. Rockefeller. Come off, my boy! Bernholz's 'llfix you just as good, all but the label. Better come around to-morrow. "

"Much obliged, but I'm not buying yet. Where would you say a fellowwould have a chance to see the best-dressed men?"

Young Mr. Wickert looked at once self-conscious and a trifle miffed, forin his own set he was regarded as quite the mould of fashion. "Oh, well, if you want to pipe off the guys that _think_ they're the whole thing, walk up the Avenue and watch the doors of the clubs and the swellrestaurants. At that, they haven't got anything on some fellows thatdon't spend a quarter of the money, but know what's what and don't letgrafters like Mertoun pull their legs, " said he. "Say, you seem to knowwhat you want, all right, all right, " he added enviously. "You ain'tgoin' to let this little old town bluff you; ay?"

"No. Not for lack of a few clothes. Good-night, " replied Banneker, leaving in young Wickert's mind the impression that he was "a queergink, " but also, on the whole, "a good guy. " For the worldling was onlysmall, not mean of spirit. 

Banneker might have added that one who had once known cities and thehearts of men from the viewpoint of that modern incarnation of Ulysses, the hobo, contemptuous and predatory, was little likely to be overawedby the most teeming and headlong of human ant-heaps. Having joined theant-heap, Banneker was shrewdly concerned with the problem of conformingto the best type of termite discoverable. The gibes of the doorstepchatterers had not aroused any new ambition; they had merely given pointto a purpose deferred because of other and more immediate pressure. Already he had received from Camilla Van Arsdale a letter rich insuggestion, hint, and subtly indicated advice, with this one passage offrank counsel:

If I were writing, spinster-aunt-wise, to any one else in your position, I should be tempted to moralize and issue warnings about--well, aboutthe things of the spirit. But you are equipped, there. Like the"Master, " you will "go your own way with inevitable motion. " With theouter man--that is different. You have never given much thought to thatphase. And you have an asset in your personal appearance. I should notbe telling you this if I thought there were danger of your becomingvain. But I really think it would be a good investment for you to putyourself into the hands of a first-class tailor, and follow his advice, in moderation, of course. Get the sense of being fittingly turned out bygoing where there are well-dressed people; to the opera, perhaps, andthe theater occasionally, and, when you can afford it, to a goodrestaurant. Unless the world has changed, people will look at you. _Butyou must not know it_. Important, this is!. . . I could, of course, giveyou letters of introduction. "_Les morts vont vite_, " it is true, and Iam dead to that world, not wholly without the longings of a would-be_revenant_; but a ghost may still claim some privileges of memory, andmy friends would be hospitable to you. Only, I strongly suspect that youwould not use the letters if I gave them. You prefer to make your ownstart; isn't it so? Well; I have written to a few. Sooner or later youwill meet with them. Those things always happen even in New York. . . . Besure to write me all about the job when you get it--

Prudence dictated that he should be earning something before he investedin expensive apparel, be it never so desirable and important. However, he would outfit himself just as soon as a regular earning capacityjustified his going into his carefully husbanded but dwindling savings. He pictured himself clad as a lily of the field, unconscious ofperfection as Herbert Cressey himself, in the public haunts of fashionand ease; through which vision there rose the searing prospect of thusencountering Io Welland. What was her married name? He had not evenasked when the news was broken to him; had not wanted to ask; was donewith all that for all time. 

He was still pathetically young and inexperienced. And he had been badlyhurt. 

CHAPTER II

Dust was the conspicuous attribute of the place. It lay, flat andtoneless, upon the desk, the chairs, the floor; it streaked the walls. The semi-consumptive office "boy's" middle-aged shoulders collected it. It stirred in the wake of quiet-moving men, mostly under thirty-five, who entered the outer door, passed through the waiting-room, anddisappeared behind a partition. Banneker felt like shaking himself lesthe should be eventually buried under its impalpable sifting. Two hoursand a half had passed since he had sent in his name on a slip of paper, to Mr. Gordon, managing editor of the paper. On the way across Park Rowhe had all but been persuaded by a lightning printer on the curb to havea dozen tasty and elegant visiting-cards struck off, for a quarter; butsome vague inhibition of good taste checked him. Now he wondered if acard would have served better. 

While he waited, he checked up the actuality of a metropolitan newspaperentrance-room, as contrasted with his notion of it, derived from motionpictures. Here was none of the bustle and hurry of the screen. No briskand earnest young figures with tense eyes and protruding notebooksdarted feverishly in and out; nor, in the course of his long wait, hadhe seen so much as one specimen of that invariable concomitant of allscreen journalism, the long-haired poet with his flowing tie and neatlyribboned manuscript. Even the office "boy, " lethargic, neutrally polite, busy writing on half-sheets of paper, was profoundly untrue to thepictured type. Banneker wondered what the managing editor would be like;would almost, in the wreckage of his preconceived notions, have accepteda woman or a priest in that manifestation, when Mr. Gordon appeared andwas addressed by name by the hollow-chested Cerberus. Banneker at onceechoed the name, rising. 

The managing editor, a tall, heavy man, whose smoothly fitting cutawaycoat seemed miraculously to have escaped the plague of dust, stared athim above heavy glasses. 

"You want to see me?"

"Yes. I sent in my name. "

"Did you? When?"

"At two-forty-seven, thirty, " replied the visitor with railroadaccuracy. 

The look above the lowered glasses became slightly quizzical. "You'reexact, at least. Patient, too. Good qualities for a newspaper man. That's what you are?"

"What I'm going to be, " amended Banneker. 

"There is no opening here at present. "

"That's formula, isn't it?" asked the young man, smiling. 

The other stared. "It is. But how do you know?"

"It's the tone, I suppose. I've had to use it a good deal myself, inrailroading. "

"Observant, as well as exact and patient. Come in. I'm sorry I misplacedyour card. The name is--?"

"Banneker, E. Banneker. "

Following the editor, he passed through a large, low-ceilinged room, filled with desk-tables, each bearing a heavy crystal ink-well full of afluid of particularly virulent purple. A short figure, impassive as aMongol, sat at a corner desk, gazing out over City Hall Park with a raptgaze. Across from him a curiously trim and graceful man, with a strongtouch of the Hibernian in his elongated jaw and humorous gray eyes, clipped the early evening editions with an effect of highly judiciousselection. Only one person sat in all the long files of the work-tables, littered with copy-paper and disarranged newspapers; a dark young giantwith the discouraged and hurt look of a boy kept in after school. Allthis Banneker took in while the managing editor was disposing, usuallywith a single penciled word or number, of a sheaf of telegraphic"queries" left upon his desk. Having finished, he swiveled in his chair, to face Banneker, and, as he spoke, kept bouncing the thin point of aletter-opener from the knuckles of his left hand. His hands were fat andnervous. 

"So you want to do newspaper work?"

"Yes. "

"Why?"

"I think I can make a go of it. "

"Any experience?"

"None to speak of. I've written a few things. I thought you mightremember my name. "

"Your name? Banneker? No. Why should I?"

"You published some of my things in the Sunday edition, lately. FromManzanita, California. "

"No. I don't think so. Mr. Homans. " A graying man with the gait of amarionnette and the precise expression of a rocking-horse, who had justentered, crossed over. "Have we sent out any checks to a Mr. Bannekerrecently, in California?"

The new arrival, who was copy-reader and editorial selecter for theSunday edition, repeated the name in just such a wooden voice as was tobe expected. "No, " he said positively. 

"But I've cashed the checks, " returned Banneker, annoyed and bewildered. "And I've seen the clipping of the article in the Sunday Sphere of--"

"Just a moment. You're not in The Sphere office. Did you think you were?Some one has directed you wrong. This is The Ledger. "

"Oh!" said Banneker. "It was a policeman that pointed it out. I supposeI saw wrong. " He paused; then looked up ingenuously. "But, anyway, I'drather be on The Ledger. "

Mr. Gordon smiled broadly, the thin blade poised over a plump, reddenedknuckle. 

"Would you! Now, why?"

"I've been reading it. I like the way it does things. "

The editor laughed outright. "If you didn't look so honest, I wouldthink that somebody of experience had been tutoring you. How many otherplaces have you tried?"

"None. "

"You were going to The Sphere first? On the promise of a job?"

"No. Because they printed what I wrote. "

"The Sphere's ways are not our ways, " pronounced Mr. Gordon primly. "It's a fundamental difference in standards. "

"I can see that. "

"Oh, you can, can you?" chuckled the other. "But it's true that we haveno opening here. "

(The Ledger never did have an "opening"; but it managed to wedge in agoodly number of neophytes, from year to year, ninety per cent of whomwere automatically and courteously ejected after due trial. Mr. Gordonperformed a surpassing rataplan upon his long-suffering thumb-joint andwondered if this queer and direct being might qualify among theredeemable ten per cent. )

"I can wait. " (They often said that. ) "For a while, " added the youththoughtfully. 

"How long have you been in New York?"

"Thirty-three days. "

"And what have you been doing?"

"Reading newspapers. "

"No! Reading--That's rather surprising. All of them?"

"All that I could manage. "

"Some were so bad that you couldn't worry through them, eh?" asked theother with appreciation. 

"Not that. But I didn't know the foreign languages except French, andSpanish, and a little Italian. "

"The foreign-language press, too. Remarkable!" murmured the other. "Doyou mind telling me what your idea was?"

"It was simple enough. As I wanted to get on a newspaper, I thought Iought to find out what newspapers were made of. "

"Simple, as you say. Beautifully simple! So you've devised for yourselfthe little job of perfecting yourself in every department of journalism;politics, finances, criminal, sports, society; all of them, eh?"

"No; not all, " replied Banneker. 

"Not? What have you left out?"

"Society news" was the answer, delivered less promptly than the otherreplies. 

Bestowing a twinkle of mingled amusement and conjecture upon theapplicant's clothing, Mr. Gordon said:

"You don't approve of our social records? Or you're not interested? Orwhy is it that you neglect this popular branch?"

"Personal reasons. "

This reply, which took the managing editor somewhat aback, was accurateif not explanatory. Miss Van Arsdale's commentaries upon Gardner and hisquest had inspired Banneker with a contemptuous distaste for this typeof journalism. But chiefly he had shunned the society columns from dreadof finding there some mention of her who had been Io Welland. He wasresolved to conquer and evict that memory; he would not consciously puthimself in the way of anything that recalled it. 

"Hum! And this notion of making an intensive study of the papers; wasthat original with you?"

"Well, no, not entirely. I got it from a man who made himself a bankpresident in seven years. "

"Yes? How did he do that?"

"He started by reading everything he could find about money and coinageand stocks and bonds and other financial paper. He told me that it wasincredible the things that financial experts didn't know about their ownbusiness--the deep-down things--and that he guessed it was so with anybusiness. He got on top by really knowing the things that everybody wassupposed to know. "

"A sound theory, I dare say. Most financiers aren't so revealing. "

"He and I were padding the hoof together. We were both hoboes then. "

The managing editor looked up, alert, from his knuckle-tapping. "Frombank president to hobo. Was his bank an important one?"

"The biggest in a medium-sized city. "

"And does that suggest nothing to you, as a prospective newspaper man?"

"What? Write him up?"

"It would make a fairly sensational story. "

"I couldn't do that. He was my friend. He wouldn't like it. "

Mr. Gordon addressed his wedding-ring finger which was looking a bitscarified. "Such an article as that, properly done, would go a long waytoward getting you a chance on this paper--Sit down, Mr. Banneker. "

"You and I, " said Banneker slowly and in the manner of the West, "can'tdeal. "

"Yes, we can. " The managing editor threw his steel blade on the desk. "Sit down, I tell you. And understand this. If you come on thispaper--I'm going to turn you over to Mr. Greenough, the city editor, with a request that he give you a trial--you'll be expected tosubordinate every personal interest and advantage to the interests andadvantages of the paper, _except_ your sense of honor and fair-play. Wedon't ask you to give that up; and if you do give it up, we don't wantyou at all. What have you done besides be a hobo?"

"Railroading. Station-agent. "

"Where were you educated?"

"Nowhere. Wherever I could pick it up. "

"Which means everywhere. Ever read George Borrow?"

"Yes. "

The heavy face of Mr. Gordon lighted up. "Ree-markable! Keep on. He's agood offset to--to the daily papers. Writing still counts, on TheLedger. Come over and meet Mr. Greenough. "

The city editor unobtrusively studied Banneker out of placid, inscrutable eyes, soft as a dove's, while he chatted at large abouttheaters, politics, the news of the day. Afterward the applicant met theCeltic assistant, Mr. Mallory, who broadly outlined for him thetechnique of the office. With no further preliminaries Banneker foundhimself employed at fifteen dollars a week, with Monday for his day offand directions to report on the first of the month. 

As the day-desk staff was about departing at six o'clock, Mr. Gordonsauntered over to the city desk looking mildly apologetic. 

"I practically had to take that young desert antelope on, " said he. 

"Too ingenuous to turn down, " surmised the city editor. 

"Ingenuous! He's heir to the wisdom of the ages. And now I'm afraid I'vemade a ghastly mistake. "

"Something wrong with him?"

"I've had his stuff in the Sunday Sphere looked up. "

"Pretty weird?" put in Mallory, gliding into his beautifully fittingovercoat. 

"So damned good that I don't see how The Sphere ever came to take it. Greenough, you'll have to find some pretext for firing that youngphenomenon as soon as possible. "

Perfectly comprehending his superior's mode of indirect expression thecity editor replied:

"You think so highly of him as that?"

"Not one of our jobs will be safe from him if he once gets his footplanted, " prophesied the other with mock ruefulness. "Do you know, " headded, "I never even asked him for a reference. "

"You don't need to, " pronounced Mallory, shaking the last wrinkle out ofhimself and lighting the cigarette of departure. "He's got it in hisface, if I'm any judge. "

Highly elate, Banneker walked on springy pavements all the way to GroveStreet. Fifteen a week! He could live on that. His other income andsavings could be devoted to carrying out Miss Camilla's advice. For heneed not save any more. He would go ahead, fast, now that he had got hisstart. How easy it had been. 

Entering the Brashear door, he met plain, middle-aged little MissWestlake. A muffler was pressed to her jaw. He recalled having heard hermoving about her room, the cheapest and least desirable in the house, and groaning softly late in the night; also having heard some lodgerssay that she was a typist with very little work. Obviously she needed adentist, and presumably she had not the money to pay his fee. In theexultation of his good luck, Banneker felt a stir of helpfulness towardthis helpless person. 

"Oh!" said he. "How do you do! Could you find time to do some typing forme quite soon?"

It was said impulsively and was followed by a surge of dismay. Typing?Type what? He had absolutely nothing on hand!

Well, he must get up something. At once. It would never do to disappointthat pathetic and eager hope, as of a last-moment rescue, expressed inthe little spinster's quick flush and breathless, thankful affirmative. 

CHAPTER III

Ten days' leeway before entering upon the new work. To which of scoresof crowding purposes could Banneker best put the time? In his offhandway the instructive Mallory had suggested that he familiarize himselfwith the topography and travel-routes of the Island of Manhattan. Indefatigably he set about doing this; wandering from water-front towater-front, invading tenements, eating at queer, Englishlessrestaurants, picking up chance acquaintance with chauffeurs, peddlers, street-fakers, park-bench loiterers; all that drifting and iridescentscum of life which variegates the surface above the depths. Everywherehe was accepted without question, for his old experience on the hoof hadgiven him the uncoded password which loosens the speech of furtive menand wise. A receptivity, sensitized to a high degree by the inspirationof new adventure, absorbed these impressions. The faithful pocket-ledgerwas filling rapidly with notes and phrases, brisk and trenchant, setdown with no specific purpose; almost mechanically, in fact, butdestined to future uses. Mallory, himself no mean connoisseur of thetumultuous and flagrant city, would perhaps have found matter foreign tohis expert apprehension could he have seen and translated the pages of 3T 9901. 

Banneker would go forward in the fascinating paths of exploration; butthere were other considerations. 

The outer man, for example. The inner man, too; the conscious inner manstrengthened upon the strong milk of the philosophers, the priests, andthe prophets so strangely mingled in that library now stored withCamilla Van Arsdale; exhilarated by the honey-dew of "The UndyingVoices, " of Keats and Shelley, and of Swinburne's supernal rhythms, which he had brought with him. One visit to the Public Library had quiteappalled him; the vast, chill orderliness of it. He had gone there, hungry to chat about books! To the Public Library! Surely a Homeric jokefor grim, tomish officialdom. But tomish officialdom had not evenlaughed at him; it was too official to appreciate the quality of suchside-splitting innocence. . . . Was he likely to meet a likeirresponsiveness when he should seek clothing for the body?

Watch the clubs, young Wickert had advised. Banneker strolled up FifthAvenue, branching off here and there, into the more promising sidestreets. 

It was the hour of the First Thirst; the institutions which cater tothis and subsequent thirsts drew steadily from the main stream of humanactivity flowing past. Many gloriously clad specimens passed in and outof the portals, socially sacred as in the quiet Fifth Avenue clubs, profane as in the roaring, taxi-bordered "athletic" foundations; butthere seemed to the anxious observer no keynote, no homogeneouscharacter wherefrom to build as on a sure foundation. Lacking knowledge, his instinct could find no starting-point; he was bewildered in visionand in mind. Just off the corner of the quietest of the Forties, he meta group of four young men, walking compactly by twos. The one nearesthim in the second line was Herbert Cressey. His heavy and rather dulleye seemed to meet Banneker's as they came abreast. Banneker nodded, half checking himself in his slow walk. 

"How are you?" he said with an accent of surprise and pleasure. 

Cressey's expressionless face turned a little. There was no response inkind to Banneker's smile. 

"Oh! H'ware you!" said he vaguely, and passed on. 

Banneker advanced mechanically until he reached the corner. There hestopped. His color had heightened. The smile was still on his lips; ithad altered, taken on a quality of gameness. He did not shake his fistat the embodied spirit of metropolitanism before him, as had a famousGallic precursor of his, also a determined seeker for Success in alesser sphere; but he paraphrased Rastignac's threat in his own terms. 

"I reckon I'll have to lick this town and lick it good before it learnsto be friendly. "

A hand fell on his arm. He turned to face Cressey. 

"You're the feller that bossed the wreck out there in the desert, aren'tyou? You're--lessee--Banneker. "

"I am. " The tone was curt. 

"Awfully sorry I didn't spot you at once. " Cressey's genuineness was asufficient apology. "I'm a little stuffy to-day. Bachelor dinner lastnight. What are you doing here? Looking around?"

"No. I'm living here. "

"That so? So am I. Come into my club and let's talk. I'm glad to seeyou, Mr. Banneker. "

Even had Banneker been prone to self-consciousness, which he was not, the extreme, almost monastic plainness of the small, neutral-frontedbuilding to which the other led him would have set him at ease. It gaveno inkling of its unique exclusiveness, and equally uniqueexpensiveness. As for Cressey, that simple, direct, and confident soultook not the smallest account of Banneker's standardized clothing, whichmade him almost as conspicuous in that environment as if he had enteredclad in a wooden packing-case. Cressey's creed in such matters wascomplete; any friend of his was good enough for any environment to whichhe might introduce him, and any other friend who took exceptions mightgo farther!

"Banzai!" said the cheerful host over his cocktail. "Welcome to ourcity. Hope you like it. "

"I do, " said Banneker, lifting his glass in response. 

"Where are you living?"

"Grove Street. "

Cressey knit his brows. "Where's that? Harlem?"

"No. Over west of Sixth Avenue. "

"Queer kind of place to live, ain't it? There's a corkin' little suitevacant over at the Regalton. Cheap at the money. Oh!-er-I-er-maybe--"

"Yes; that's it, " smiled Banneker. "The treasury isn't up to bachelorsuites, yet awhile. I've only just got a job. "

"What is it?"

"Newspaper work. The Morning Ledger. "

"Reporting?" A dubious expression clouded the candid cheerfulness of theother's face. 

"Yes. What's the matter with that?"

"Oh; I dunno. It's a piffling sort of job, ain't it?"

"Piffling? How do you mean?"

"Well, I supposed you had to ask a lot of questions and pry into otherpeople's business and--and all that sorta thing. "

"If nobody asked questions, " pointed out Banneker, remembering Gardner'sresolute devotion to his professional ideals, "there wouldn't be anynews, would there?"

"Sure! That's right, " agreed the gilded youth. "The Ledger's thedecentest paper in town, too. It's a gentleman's paper. I know a felleron it; Guy Mallory; was in my class at college. Give you a letter to himif you like. "

Informed that Banneker already knew Mr. Mallory, his host expressed thehope of being useful to him in any other possible manner--"any tips Ican give you or anything of that sort, old chap?"--so heartily that thenewcomer broached the subject of clothes. 

"Nothin' easier, " was the ready response. "I'll take you right down toMertoun. Just one more and we're off. "

The one more having been disposed of: "What is it you want?" inquiredCressey, when they were settled in the taxi which was waiting at theclub door for them. 

"Well, what _do_ I want? You tell me. "

"How far do you want to go? Will five hundred be too much?"

"No. "

Cressey lost himself in mental calculations out of which he presentlydelivered himself to this effect:

"Evening clothes, of course. And a dinner-jacket suit. Two businesssuits, a light and a dark. You won't need a morning coat, I expect, fora while. Anyway, we've got to save somethin' out for shirts and boots, haven't we?"

"I haven't the money with me" remarked Banneker, his innocent mind onthe cash-with-order policy of Sears-Roebuck. 

"Now, see here, " said Cressey, good-humoredly, yet with an effect ofauthority. "This is a game that's got to be played according to therules. Why, if you put down spot cash before Mertoun's eyes he'd faintfrom surprise, and when he came to, he'd have no respect for you. And atailor's respect for you, " continued Cressey, the sage, "shows in yourtogs. "

"When do I pay, then?"

"Oh, in three or four months he sends around a bill. That's more of areminder to come in and order your fall outfit than it is anything else. But you can send him a check on account, if you feel like it. "

"A check?" repeated the neophyte blankly. "Must I have a bank account?"

"Safer than a sock, my boy. And just as simple. To-morrow will do forthat, when we call on the shirt-makers and the shoe sharps. I'll put youin my bank; they'll take you on for five hundred. "

Arrived at Mertoun's, Banneker unobtrusively but positively developed ataste of his own in the matter of hue and pattern; one, too, whichcommanded Cressey's respect. The gilded youth's judgment tended towardthe more pronounced herringbones and homespuns. 

"All right for you, who can change seven days in the week; but I've gotto live with these clothes, day in and day out, " argued Banneker. 

To which Cressey deferred, though with a sigh. "You could carry offthose sporty things as if they were woven to order for you, " hedeclared. "You've got the figure, the carriage, the--thewhatever-the-devil it is, for it. "

Prospectively poorer by something more than four hundred dollars, Banneker emerged from Mertoun's with his mentor. 

"Gotta get home and dress for a rotten dinner, " announced that gentlemancheerfully. "Duck in here with me, " he invited, indicating a sumptuousbar, near the tailor's, "and get another little kick in the stomach. No?Oh, verrawell. Where are you for?"

"The Public Library. "

"Gawd!" said his companion, honestly shocked. "That's a gloomy hole, ain't it?"

"Not so bad, when you get used to it. I've been putting in three hours aday there lately. "

"Whatever for?"

"Oh, browsing. Book-hungry, I suppose. Carnegie hasn't discoveredManzanita yet, you know; so I haven't had many library opportunities. "

"Speaking of Manzanita, " remarked Cressey, and spoke of it, reminiscently and at length, as they walked along together. "Did thelovely and mysterious I. O. W. Ever turn up and report herself?"

Banneker's breath caught painfully in his throat. 

"D'you know who she was?" pursued the other, without pause for reply tohis previous question; and still without intermission continued: "IoWelland. _That_'s who she was. Oh, but she's a hummer! I've met hersince. Married, you know. Quick work, that marriage. There was a dam'queer story whispered around about her starting to elope with some otherchap, and his going nearly batty because she didn't turn up, and all thetime she was wandering around in the desert until somebody picked her upand took care of her. You ought to know something of that. It wassupposed to be right in your back-yard. "

"I?" said Banneker, commanding himself with an effort; "Miss Wellandreported in with a slight injury. That's all. "

One glance at him told Cressey that Banneker did indeed "know something"of the mysterious disappearance which had so exercised a legion of busytongues in New York; how much that something might be, he preserved forfuture and private speculation, based on the astounding perception thatBanneker was in real pain of soul. Tact inspired Cressey to say at once:"Of course, that's all you had to consider. By the way, you haven't seenmy revered uncle since you got here, have you?"

"Mr. Vanney? No. "

"Better drop in on him. "

"He might try to give me another yellow-back, " smiled the ex-agent. 

"Don't take Uncle Van for a fool. Once is plenty for him to be hit onthe nose. "

"Has he still got a green whisker?"

"Go and see. He's asked about you two or three times in the last couplamonths. "

"But I've no errand with him. "

"How can you tell? He might start something for you. It isn't often thathe keeps a man in mind like he has you. Anyway, he's a wise old bird andmay hand you a pointer or two about what's what in New York. Shall I'phone him you're in town?"

"Yes. I'll get in to see him some time to-morrow. "

Having made an appointment, in the vital matter of shirts and shoes, forthe morning, they parted. Banneker set to his browsing in the libraryuntil hunger drove him forth. After dinner he returned to his room, cumbered with the accumulation of evening papers, for study. 

Beyond the thin partition he could hear Miss Westlake moving about andhumming happily to herself. The sound struck dismay to his soul. Theprospect of work from him was doubtless the insecure foundation of thatcheerfulness. "Soon" he had said; the implication was that the matterwas pressing. Probably she was counting on it for the morrow. Well, hemust furnish something, anything, to feed the maw of her hungrytypewriter; to fulfill that wistful hope which had sprung in her eyeswhen he spoke to her. 

Sweeping his table bare of the lore and lure of journalism as typifiedin the bulky, black-faced editions, he set out clean paper, cleansed hisfountain pen, and stared at the ceiling. What should he write about? Hismental retina teemed with impressions. But they were confused, unresolved, distorted for all that he knew, since he lacked experienceand knowledge of the environment, and therefore perspective. Groping, herecalled a saying of Gardner's as that wearied enthusiast descanted uponthe glories of past great names in metropolitan journalism. 

"They used to say of Julian Ralph that he was always discovering CityHall Park and getting excited over it; and when he got excited enough, he wrote about it so that the public just ate it up. "

Well, he, Banneker, hadn't discovered City Hall Park; not consciously. But he had gleaned wonder and delight from other and more remote spots, and now one of them began to stand forth upon the blank ceiling at whichhe stared, seeking guidance. A crowded corner of Essex Street, stewingin the hard sunshine. The teeming, shrill crowd. The stench and gleam ofa fish-stall offering bargains. The eager games of the children, snatched between onsets of imminent peril as cart or truck came whirlingthrough and scattering the players. Finally the episode of the tradefracas over the remains of a small and dubious weakfish, terminatingwhen the dissatisfied customer cast the delicacy at the head of thestall-man and missed him, the _corpus delicti_ falling into the gutterwhere it was at once appropriated and rapt away by an incredulous, delighted, and mangy cat. A crude, commonplace, malodorous little streetrow, the sort of thing that happens, in varying phases, on a dozenEast-Side corners seven days in the week. 

Banneker approached and treated the matter from the viewpoint of thecat, predatory, philosophic, ecstatic. One o'clock in the morning sawthe final revision, for he had become enthralled with the handling ofhis subject. It was only a scant five pages; less than a thousand words. But as he wrote and rewrote, other schemata rose to the surface of hisconsciousness, and he made brief notes of them on random ends of paper;half a dozen of them, one crowding upon another. Some day, perhaps, whenthere were enough of them, when he had become known, had achieved thedistinction of a signature like Gardner, there might be a realseries. . . . His vague expectancies were dimmed in weariness. 

Such was the genesis of the "Local Vagrancies" which later were to setPark Row speculating upon the signature "Eban. "

CHAPTER IV

Accessibility was one of Mr. Horace Vanney's fads. He aspired to be apublicist, while sharing fallible humanity's ignorance of just what thevague and imposing term signifies; and, as a publicist, he conceived itin character to be readily available to the public. Almost anybody couldget to see Mr. Vanney in his tasteful and dignified lower Broadwayoffices, upon almost any reasonable or plausible errand. Especially washe hospitable to the newspaper world, the agents of publicity; and, suchis the ingratitude of the fallen soul of man, every newspaper office inthe city fully comprehended his attitude, made use of him as convenient, and professionally regarded him as a bit of a joke, albeit a useful andamiable joke. Of this he had no inkling. Enough for him that he wasfrequently, even habitually quoted, upon a wide range of windy topics, often with his picture appended. 

With far less difficulty than he had found in winning the notice of Mr. Gordon, Banneker attained the sanctum of the capitalist. 

"Well, well!" was the important man's greeting as he shook hands. "Ouryoung friend from the desert! How do we find New York?"

From Banneker's reply, there grew out a pleasantly purposelessconversation, which afforded the newcomer opportunity to decide that hedid not like this Mr. Vanney, sleek, smiling, gentle, and courteous, aswell as he had the brusque old tyrant of the wreck. That green-whiskeredautocrat had been at least natural, direct, and unselfish in his grimemergency work. This manifestation seemed wary, cautious, on its guardto defend itself against some probable tax upon its good nature. Allthis unconscious, instinctive reckoning of the other man'scharacteristics gave to the young fellow an effect of poise, ofjudicious balance and quiet confidence. It was one of Banneker'selements of strength, which subsequently won for him his unique place, that he was always too much interested in estimating the man to whom hewas talking, to consider even what the other might think of him. It wasat once a form of egoism, and the total negation of egotism. It made himthe least self-conscious of human beings. And old Horace Vanney, pompous, vain, the most self-conscious of his genus, felt, though hecould not analyze, the charm of it. 

A chance word indicated that Banneker was already "placed. " At once, though almost insensibly, the attitude of Mr. Vanney eased; obviouslythere was no fear of his being "boned" for a job. At the same time heexperienced a mild misgiving lest he might be forfeiting the services ofone who could be really useful to him. Banneker's energy anddecisiveness at the wreck had made a definite impression upon him. Butthere was the matter of the rejected hundred-dollar tip. Unpliant, evidently, this young fellow. Probably it was just as well that heshould be broken in to life and new standards elsewhere than in theVanney interests. Later, if he developed, watchfulness might show it tobe worth while to. . . . 

"What is it that you have in mind, my boy?" inquired the benign Mr. Vanney. 

"I start in on The Ledger next month. "

"The Ledger! Indeed! I did not know that you had any journalisticexperience. "

"I haven't. "

"Well. Er--hum! Journalism, eh? A--er--brilliant profession!"

"You think well of it?"

"I have many friends among the journalists. Fine fellows! Very finefellows. "

The instinctive tone of patronage was not lost upon Banneker. He feltannoyed at Mr. Vanney. Unreasonably annoyed. "What's the matter withjournalism?" he asked bluntly. 

"The matter?" Mr. Vanney was blandly surprised. "Haven't I just said--"

"Yes; you have. Would you let your son go into a newspaper office?"

"My son? My son chose the profession of law. "

"But if he had wanted to be a journalist?"

"Journalism does not perhaps offer the same opportunities for personaladvancement as some other lines, " said the financier cautiously. 

"Why shouldn't it?"

"It is largely anonymous. " Mr. Vanney gave the impression of feelingcarefully for his words. "One may go far in journalism and yet becomparatively unknown to the public. Still, he might be of greatusefulness, " added the sage, brightening, "very great usefulness. Asound, conservative, self-respecting newspaper such as The Ledger, is apublic benefactor. "

"And the editor of it?"

"That's right, my boy, " approved the other. "Aim high! Aim high! Thegreat prizes in journalism are few. They are, in any line of endeavor. And the apprenticeship is hard. "

Herbert Cressey's clumsy but involuntary protest reasserted itself inBanneker's mind. "I wish you would tell me frankly, Mr. Vanney, whetherreporting is considered undignified and that sort of thing?"

"Reporters can be a nuisance, " replied Mr. Vanney fervently. "But theycan also be very useful. "

"But on the whole--"

"On the whole it is a necessary apprenticeship. Very suitable for ayoung man. Not a final career, in my judgment. "

"A reporter on The Ledger, then, is nothing but a reporter on TheLedger. "

"Isn't that enough, for a start?" smiled the other. "The station-agentat--what was the name of your station? Yes, Manzanita. The station-agentat Manzanita--"

"Was E. Banneker, " interposed the owner of that name positively. "Asmall puddle, but the inhabitant was an individual toad, at least. Tokeep one's individuality in New York isn't so easy, of course. "

"There are quite a number of people in New York, " pointed out thephilosopher, Vanney. "Mostly crowd. "

"Yes, " said Banneker. "You've told me something about the newspaperbusiness that I wanted to know. " He rose. 

The other put out an arresting hand. "Wouldn't you like to do a littlereporting for me, before you take up your regular work?"

"What kind of reporting?"

"Quite simple. A manufacturing concern in which I own a considerableinterest has a strike on its hands. Suppose you go down to Sippiac, NewJersey, where our factories are, spend three or four days, and reportback to me your impressions and any ideas you may gather as to improvingour organization for furthering our interests. "

"What makes you think that I could be useful in that line?" askedBanneker curiously. 

"My observations at the Manzanita wreck. You have, I believe, a knackfor handling a situation. "

"I can always try, " accepted Banneker. 

Supplied with letters to the officials of the International ClothCompany, and a liberal sum for expenses, the neophyte went to Sippiac. There he visited the strongly guarded mills, still making a feeblepretense of operating, talked with the harassed officials, the gang-bossof the strike-breakers, the "private guards, " who had, in fact, practically assumed dominant police authority in the place; all of whichwas faithful to the programme arranged by Mr. Vanney. Having done somuch, he undertook to obtain a view of the strike from the other side;visited the wretched tenements of the laborers, sought out the sullenand distrustful strike-leaders, heard much fiery oratory and some veiledthreats from impassioned agitators, mostly foreign and all tragicallyearnest; chatted with corner grocerymen, saloon-keepers, wardpoliticians, composing his mental picture of a strike in a minor city, absolutely controlled, industrially, politically, and socially by theindustry which had made it. The town, as he came to conceive it, was afevered and struggling gnome, bound to a wheel which ground for others;a gnome who, if he broke his bonds, would be perhaps only the worse forhis freedom. At the beginning of the sixth day, for his stay hadoutgrown its original plan, the pocket-ledger, 3 T 9901, was but littlethe richer, but the mind of its owner teemed with impressions. 

It was his purpose to take those impressions in person to Mr. HoraceVanney, by the 10 A. M. Train. Arriving at the station early, he wassurprised at being held up momentarily by a line of guards engaged inblocking off a mob of wailing, jabbering women, many of whom hadchildren in their arms, or at their skirts. He asked the ticket-agent, abig, pasty young man about them. 

"Mill workers, " said the agent, making change. 

"What are they after?"

"Wanta get to the 10. 10 train. "

"And the guards are stopping them?"

"You can use your eyes, cantcha?"

Using his eyes, Banneker considered the position. "Are those fellows onrailroad property?"

"What is it to you whether they are or ain't?"

Banneker explained his former occupation. "That's different, " said theagent. "Come inside. That's a hell of a mess, ain't it!" he addedplaintively as Banneker complied. "Some of those poor Hunkies have gottheir tickets and can't use 'em. "

"I'd see that they got their train, if this was my station, " assertedBanneker. 

"Yes, you would! With that gang of strong-arms against you. "

"Chase 'em, " advised Banneker simply. "They've got no right keeping yourpassengers off your trains. "

"Chase 'em, ay? You'd do it, I suppose. "

"I would. "

"How?"

"You've got a gun, haven't you?"

"Maybe you think those guys haven't got guns, too. "

"Well, all I can say is, that if there had been passengers held up fromtheir trains at my station and I didn't get them through, _I_'d havebeen through so far as the Atkinson and St. Philip goes. "

"This railroad's different. I'd be through if I butted in on this millrow. "

"How's that?"

"Well, for one thing, old Vanney, who's the real boss here, is adirector of the road. "

"So _that_'s it!" Banneker digested this information. "Why are the womenso anxious to get away?"

"They say"--the local agent lowered his voice--"their children arestarving here, and they can get better jobs in other places. Naturallythe mills don't want to lose a lot of their hands, particularly thewomen, because they're the cheapest. I don't know as I blame 'em forthat. But this business of hiring a bunch of ex-cons and--Hey! Where areyou goin'?"

Banneker was beyond the door before the query was completed. Looking outof the window, the agent saw a fat and fussy young mother, who hadcontrived to get through the line, waddling at her best speed across theopen toward the station, and dragging a small boy by the hand. A lankgiant from the guards' ranks was after her. Screaming, she turned thecorner out of his vision. There were sounds which suggested a row at thestation-door, but the agent, called at that moment to the wire, couldnot investigate. The train came and went, and he saw nothing more of theex-railroader from the West. 

Although Mr. Horace Vanney smiled pleasantly enough when Bannekerpresented himself at the office to make his report, the nature of thesmile suggested a background more uncertain. 

"Well, what have you found, my boy?" the financier began. 

"A good many things that ought to be changed, " answered Bannekerbluntly. 

"Quite probably. No institution is perfect. "

"The mills are pretty rotten. You pay your people too little--"

"Where do you get that idea?"

"From the way they live. "

"My dear boy; if we paid them twice as much, they'd live the same way. The surplus would go to the saloons. "

"Then why not wipe out the saloons?"

"I am not the Common Council of Sippiac, " returned Mr. Vanney dryly. 

"Aren't you?" retorted Banneker even more dryly. 

The other frowned. "What else?"

"Well; the housing. You own a good many of the tenements, don't you?"

"The company owns some. "

"They're filthy holes. "

"They are what the tenants make them. "

"The tenants didn't build them with lightless hallways, did they?"

"They needn't live there if they don't like them. Have you spent allyour time, for which I am paying, nosing about like a cheap magazinemuckraker?" It was clear that Mr. Vanney was annoyed. 

"I've been trying to find out what is wrong with Sippiac. I thought youwanted facts. "

"Precisely. Facts. Not sentimental gushings. "

"Well, there are your guards. There isn't much sentiment about them. Isaw one of them smash a woman in the face, and knock her down, while shewas trying to catch a train and get out of town. "

"And what did you do?"

"I don't know exactly how much. But I hope enough to land him in thehospital. They pulled me off too soon. "

"Do you know that you would have been killed if it hadn't been for someof the factory staff who saved you from the other guards--as youdeserved, for your foolhardiness?"

The young man's eyebrows went up a bit. "Don't bank too much on myfoolhardiness. I had a wall back of me. And there would have beenmaterial for several funerals before they got me. " He touched hiship-pocket. "By the way, you seem to be well informed. "

"I've been in 'phone communication with Sippiac since the regrettableoccurrence. It perhaps didn't occur to you to find out that the woman, who is now under arrest, bit the guard very severely. "

"Of course! Just like the rabbit bit the bulldog. You've got a lot ofthugs and strong-arm men doing your dirty work, that ought to be injail. If the newspapers here ever get onto the situation, it would makepretty rough reading for you, Mr. Vanney. "

The magnate looked at him with contemptuous amusement. "No newspaper ofdecent standing prints that kind of socialistic stuff, my young friend. "

"Why not?"

"Why not! Because of my position. Because the International ClothCompany is a powerful institution of the most reputable standing, withmany lines of influence. "

"And that is enough to keep the newspapers from printing an articleabout conditions in Sippiac?" asked Banneker, deeply interested in thisphase of the question. "Is that the fact?"

It was not the fact; The Sphere, for one, would have handled the strikeon the basis of news interest, as Mr. Vanney well knew; wherefore hehated and pretended to despise The Sphere. But for his own purposes heanswered:

"Not a paper in New York would touch it. Except, " he added negligently, "perhaps some lying, Socialist sheet. And let me warn you, Mr. Banneker, " he pursued in his suavest tone, "that you will find no placefor your peculiar ideas on The Ledger. In fact, I doubt whether you willbe doing well either by them or by yourself in going on their staff, holding such views as you do. "

"Do you? Then I'll tell them beforehand. "

Mr. Vanney privately reflected that there was no need of this: _he_intended to call up the editor-in-chief and suggest the unsuitability ofthe candidate for a place, however humble, on the staff of a highlyrespectable and suitably respectful daily. 

Which he did. The message was passed on to Mr. Gordon, and, in his largeand tolerant soul, decently interred. One thing of which the managingeditor of The Ledger was not tolerant was interference from without inhis department. 

Before allowing his man to leave, Mr. Vanney read him a long andwell-meant homily, full of warning and wisdom, and was both annoyed anddisheartened when, at the end of it, Banneker remarked:

"I'll dare you to take a car and spend twenty-four hours going aboutSippiac with me. If you stand for your system after that, I'll pay forthe car. "

To which the other replied sadly that Banneker had in some manneracquired a false and distorted view of industrial relations. 

Therein, for once in an existence guided almost exclusively byprejudice, Horace Vanney was right. At the outset of a new career towhich he was attuning his mind, Banneker had been injected into asituation typical of all that is worst in American industrial life, alocal manufacturing enterprise grown rich upon the labor of underpaidforeigners, through the practice of all the vicious, lawless, andinsidious methods of an ingrown autocracy, and had believed it to befairly representative. Had not Horace Vanney, doubtless genuine in hisbelief, told him as much?

"We're as fair and careful with our employees as any of ourcompetitors. "

As a matter of fact there were, even then, scores of manufacturingplants within easy distance of New York, representing broad and generouspolicies and conducted on a progressive and humanistic labor system. HadBanneker had his first insight into local industrial conditions throughone of these, he might readily have been prejudiced in favor of capital. As it was, swallowing Vanney's statement as true, he mistook an evilexample as a fair indication of the general status. Then and there hebecame a zealous protagonist of labor. 

It had been Mr. Horace Vanney's shrewd design to show a buddingjournalist of promise on which side his self-interest lay. The weak spotin the plan was that Banneker did not seem to care!

CHAPTER V

Banneker's induction into journalism was unimpressive. They gave him adesk, an outfit of writing materials, a mail-box with his name on it, and eventually an assignment. Mr. Mallory presented him to several ofthe other "cubs" and two or three of the older and more importantreporters. They were all quite amiable, obviously willing to be helpful, and they impressed the observant neophyte with that quiet and solid_esprit de corps_ which is based upon respect for work well performed ina common cause. He apprehended that The Ledger office was in some sortan institution. 

None of his new acquaintances volunteered information as to themechanism of his new job. Apparently he was expected to figure that outfor himself. By nature reticent, and trained in an environment whichstill retained enough of frontier etiquette to make a scrupulousincuriosity the touchstone of good manners and perhaps the essence ofself-preservation, Banneker asked no questions. He sat and waited. 

One by one the other reporters were summoned by name to the city desk, and dispatched with a few brief words upon the various items of thenews. Presently Banneker found himself alone, in the long files ofdesks. For an hour he sat there and for a second hour. It seemed acurious way in which to be earning fifteen dollars a week. He wonderedwhether he was expected to sit tight at his desk. Or had he the freedomof the office? Characteristically choosing the more active assumption, he found his way to the current newspaper files. They were like oldfriends. 

"Mr. Banneker. " An office boy was at his elbow. "Mr. Greenough wantsyou. "

Conscious of a quickened pulse, and annoyed at himself because of it, the tyro advanced to receive his maiden assignment. The epochal eventwas embodied in the form of a small clipping from an evening paper, stating that a six-year-old boy had been fatally burned at a bonfirenear the North River. Banneker, Mr. Greenough instructed him mildly, wasto make inquiries of the police, of the boy's family, of the hospital, and of such witnesses as he could find. 

Quick with interest he caught up his hat and hurried out. Death, in thesparsely populated country wherefrom he hailed, was a matter ofinclusive local importance; he assumed the same of New York. Threeintense hours he devoted to an item which any police reporter of sixmonths' standing would have rounded up in a brace of formal inquiries, and hastened back, brimful of details for Mr. Greenough. 

"Good! Good!" interpolated that blandly approving gentleman from time totime in the course of the narrative. "Write it, Mr. Banneker! write it. "

"How much shall I write?"

"Just what is necessary to tell the news. "

Behind the amiable smile which broadened without lighting up thesub-Mongol physiognomy of the city editor, Banneker suspected something. As he sat writing page after page, conscientiously setting forth everygermane fact, the recollection of that speculative, estimating smilebegan to play over the sentences with a dire and blighting beam. Threefourths of the way through, the writer rose, went to the file-board andran through a dozen newspapers. He was seeking a ratio, a perspective. He wished to determine how much, in a news sense, the death of the sonof an obscure East-Side plasterer was worth. On his return he tore upall that he had written, and substituted a curt paragraph, withoutcharacter or color, which he turned in. He had gauged the value of thetragedy accurately, in the light of his study of news files. 

Greenough showed the paragraph (which failed to appear at all in theovercrowded paper of next morning) to Mr. Gordon. 

"The new man doesn't start well, " he remarked. "Too little imaginativeinterest. "

"Isn't it knowledge rather than lack of interest?" suggested themanaging editor. 

"It may come to the same thing. If he knows too much to get reallyinterested, he'll be a dull reporter. "

"I doubt whether you'll find him dull, " smiled Mr. Gordon. "But he mayfind his job dull. In that case, of course he'd better find another. "

Indeed, that was the danger which, for weeks to follow, Bannekerskirted. Police news, petty and formal, made up his day's work. Had hesought beneath the surface of it the underlying elements, and striven toexpress these, his matter as it came to the desk, however slight thetechnical news value might have been, would have afforded the watchfulcopy-readers, trained to that special selectiveness as only The Ledgercould train its men, opportunity of judging what potentialities mightlurk beneath the crudities of the "cub. " But Banneker was not crude. Hewas careful. His sense of the relative importance of news, acquired bythose weeks of intensive analysis before applying for his job, was toojust to let him give free play to his pen. What was the use? The "story"wasn't worth the space. 

Nevertheless, 3 T 9901, which Banneker was already too cognoscent toemploy in his formal newsgathering (the notebook is anathema to themetropolitan reporter), was filling up with odd bits, which were beingtransferred, in the weary hours when the new man sat at his desk withnothing to do, to paper in the form of sketches for Miss Westlake'strustful and waiting typewriter. Nobody could say that Banneker was notindustrious. Among his fellow reporters he soon acquired the melancholyreputation of one who was forever writing "special stuff, " none of whichever "landed. " It was chiefly because of his industry and reliability, rather than any fulfillment of the earlier promise of brilliant worth asshown in the Sunday Sphere articles, that he got his first raise totwenty dollars. It surprised rather than gratified him. 

He went to Mr. Gordon about it. The managing editor was the kind of manwith whom it is easy to talk straight talk. 

"What's the matter with me?" asked Banneker. 

Mr. Gordon played a thoughtful tattoo upon his fleshy knuckles with theletter-opener. "Nothing. Aren't you satisfied?"

"No. Are you?"

"You've had your raise, and fairly early. Unless you had been worth it, you wouldn't have had it. "

"Am I doing what you expected of me?"

"Not exactly. But you're developing into a sure, reliable reporter. "

"A routine man, " commented Banneker. 

"After all, the routine man is the backbone of the office. " Mr. Gordonexecuted a fantasia on his thumb. "Would you care to try a desk job?" heasked, peering at Banneker over his glasses. 

"I'd rather run a trolley car. There's more life in it. "

"Do you _see_ life, in your work, Mr. Banneker?"

"See it? I feel it. Sometimes I think it's going to flatten me out likea steam-roller. "

"Then why not write it?"

"It isn't news: not what I see. "

"Perhaps not. Perhaps it's something else. But if it's there and we canget a gleam of it into the paper, we'll crowd news out to make a placefor it. You haven't been reading The Ledger I'm afraid. "

"Like a Bible. "

"Not to good purpose, then. What do you think of Tommy Burt's stuff?"

"It's funny; some of it. But I couldn't do it to save my job. "

"Nobody can do it but Burt, himself. Possibly you could learn somethingfrom it, though. "

"Burt doesn't like it, himself. He told me it was all formula; that youcould always get a laugh out of people about something they'd beentaught to consider funny, like a red nose or a smashed hat. He's got alist of Sign Posts on the Road to Humor. "

"The cynicism of twenty-eight, " smiled the tolerant Mr. Gordon. "Don'tlet yourself be inoculated. "

"Mr. Gordon, " said Banneker doggedly; "I'm not doing the kind of work Iexpected to do here. "

"You can hardly expect the star jobs until you've made yourself a starman. "

Banneker flushed. "I'm not complaining of the way I've been treated. I've had a square enough deal. The trouble is with me. I want to knowwhether I ought to stick or quit. "

"If you quit, what would you do?"

"I haven't a notion, " replied the other with an indifference whichtestified to a superb, instinctive self-confidence. "Something. "

"Do it here. I think you'll come along all right. "

"But what's wrong with me?" persisted Banneker. 

"Too much restraint. A rare fault. You haven't let yourself out. " For aspace he drummed and mused. Suddenly a knuckle cracked loudly. Mr. Gordon flinched and glared at it, startled as if it had offended him byinterrupting a train of thought. "Here!" said he brusquely. "There's aSewer-Cleaners' Association picnic to-morrow. They're going to put inhalf their day inspecting the Stimson Tunnel under the North River. Pretty idea; isn't it? Suppose I ask Mr. Greenough to send you out onthe story. And I'd like a look at it when you turn it in. "

Banneker worked hard on his report of the picnic; hard andself-consciously. Tommy Burt would, he knew, have made a "scream" of it, for tired business men to chuckle over on their way downtown. Pursuantto what he believed Mr. Gordon wanted, Banneker strove conscientiouslyto be funny with these human moles, who, having twelve hours of freedomfor sunshine and air, elected to spend half of it in a hole bigger, deeper, and more oppressive than any to which their noisome job calledthem. The result was five painfully mangled sheets which presently wentto the floor, torn in strips. After that Banneker reported the picnic ashe saw, felt, and smelt it. It was a somber bit of writing, not withoutits subtleties and shrewd perceptions; quite unsuitable to the columnsof The Ledger, in which it failed to appear. But Mr. Gordon read ittwice. He advised Banneker not to be discouraged. 

Banneker was deeply discouraged. He wanted to resign. 

Perhaps he would nave resigned, if old Mynderse Verschoyle had not diedat eight o'clock on the morning of the day when Banneker was theearliest man to report at the office. A picturesque character, oldMynderse, who had lived for forty-five years with his childless wife inthe ancient house on West 10th Street, and for the final fifteen yearshad not addressed so much as a word to her. She had died three monthsbefore; and now he had followed, apparently, from what Banneker learnedin an interview with the upset and therefore voluble secretary of thedead man, because, having no hatred left on which to center his life, hehad nothing else to live for. Banneker wrote the story of that hatred, rigid, ceremonious, cherished like a rare virtue until it filled twolives; and he threw about it the atmosphere of the drear and divided oldhouse. At the end, the sound of the laughter of children at play in thestreet. 

The article appeared word for word as he had written it. That noon TommyBurt, the funny man, drawing down his hundred-plus a week on space, cameover and sat on Banneker's desk, and swung his legs and looked at himmournfully and said:

"You've broken through your shell at last. "

"Did you like it?" asked Banneker. 

"Like it! My God, if I could write like that! But what's the use! Neverin the world. "

"Oh, that's nonsense, " returned Banneker, pleased. "Of course you can. But what's the rest of your 'if'?"

"I wouldn't be wasting my time here. The magazines for me. "

"Is that better?"

"Depends on what you're after. For a man who wants to write, it'sbetter, of course. "

"Why?"

"Gives him a larger audience. No newspaper story is remembered overnightexcept by newspaper men. And they don't matter. "

"Why don't they matter?" Banneker was surprised again, this time ratherdisagreeably. 

"It's a little world. There isn't much substance to it. Take thatVerschoyle stuff of yours; that's literature, that is! But you'll neverhear of it again after next week. A few people here will remember it, and it'll help you to your next raise. But after you've got that, and, after that, your lift onto space, where are you?"

The abruptly confidential approach of Tommy Burt flattered Banneker withthe sense that by that one achievement of the Verschoyle story he hadattained a new status in the office. Later there came out from the innersanctum where sat the Big Chief, distilling venom and wit in equal partsfor the editorial page, a special word of approval. But this pleased therecipient less than the praise of his peers in the city room. 

After that first talk, Burt came back to Banneker's desk from time totime, and once took him to dinner at "Katie's, " the little Germanrestaurant around the corner. Burt was given over to a restless andinoffensively egoistic pessimism. 

"Look at me. I'm twenty-eight and making a good income. When I wastwenty-three, I was making nearly as much. When I'm thirty-eight, whereshall I be?"

"Can't you keep on making it?" asked Banneker. 

"Doubtful. A fellow goes stale on the kind of stuff I do. And if I dokeep on? Five to six thousand is fine now. It won't be so much ten yearsfrom now. That's the hell of this game; there's no real chance in it. "

"What about the editing jobs?"

"Desk-work? Chain yourself by the leg, with a blue pencil in your handto butcher better men's stuff? A managing editor, now, I'll grant you. He gets his twenty or twenty-five thousand if he doesn't die ofoverstrain, first. But there's only a few managing editors. "

"There are more editorial writers. "

"Hired pens. Dishing up other fellows' policies, whether you believe in'em or not. No; I'm not of that profession, anyway. " He specified theprofession, a highly ancient and dishonorable one. Mr. Burt, in his graymoods, was neither discriminating nor quite just. 

Banneker voiced the question which, at some point in his progress, everythoughtful follower of journalism must meet and solve as best he can. "When a man goes on a newspaper I suppose he more or less accepts thatpaper's standards, doesn't he?"

"More or less? To what extent?" countered the expert. 

"I haven't figured that out, yet. "

"Don't be in a hurry about it, " advised the other with a gleam ofmalice. "The fellows that do figure it out to the end, and are honestenough about it, usually quit. "

"You haven't quit. "

"Perhaps I'm not honest enough or perhaps I'm too cowardly, " retortedthe gloomy Burt. 

Banneker smiled. Though the other was nearly two years his senior, hefelt immeasurably the elder. There is about the true reporter type aninfinitely youthful quality; attractive and touching; the eternaljuvenile, which, being once outgrown with its facile and evanescententhusiasms, leaves the expert declining into the hack. Beside thisprematurely weary example of a swift and precarious success, Bannekerwas mature of character and standard. Nevertheless, the seasonedjournalist was steeped in knowledge which the tyro craved. 

"What would you do, " Banneker asked, "if you were sent out to write astory absolutely opposed to something you believed right; political, forinstance?"

"I don't write politics. That's a specialty. "

"Who does?"

"'Parson' Gale. "

"Does he believe in everything The Ledger stands for?"

"Certainly. In office hours. For and in consideration of one hundred andtwenty-five dollars weekly, duly and regularly paid. "

"Outside of office hours, then. "

"Ah; that's different. In Harlem where he lives, the Parson is quite afigure among the reform Democrats. The Ledger, as you know, isRepublican; and anything in the way of reform is its favorite butt. SoGale spends his working day poking fun at his political friends andassociates. "

"Out West we'd call that kind of fellow a yellow pup. "

"Well, don't call the Parson that; not to me, " warned the otherindignantly. "He's as square a man as you'll find on Park Row. Why, youwere just saying, yourself, that a reporter is bound to accept hispaper's standards when he takes the job. "

"Then I suppose the answer is that a man ought to work only on anewspaper in whose policies he believes. "

"Which policies? A newspaper has a hundred different ones about ahundred different things. Here in this office we're dead against thesplit infinitive and the Honest Laboring Man. We don't believe he'shonest and we've got our grave doubts as to his laboring. Yet one of oureditorial writers is an out-and-out Socialist and makes fiery speechesadvising the proletariat to rise and grab the reins of government. Buthe'd rather split his own head than an infinitive. "

"Does he write anti-labor editorials?" asked the bewildered Banneker. 

"Not as bad as that. He confines himself to European politics andpopular scientific matters. But, of course, wherever there is necessityfor an expression of opinion, he's anti-socialist in his writing, ashe's bound to be. "

"Just a moment ago you were talking of hired pens. Now you seem to bedefending that sort of thing. I don't understand your point of view. "

"Don't you? Neither do I, I guess, " admitted the expositor with greatcandor. "I can argue it either way and convince myself, so far as theother fellow's work is concerned. But not for my own. "

"How do you figure it out for yourself, then?"

"I don't. I dodge. It's a kind of tacit arrangement between the desk andme. In minor matters I go with the paper. That's easy, because I agreewith it in most questions of taste and the way of doing things. Afterall The Ledger _has_ got certain standards of professional conduct andof decent manners; it's a gentleman's paper. The other things, thethings where my beliefs conflict with the paper's standards, politicalor ethical, don't come my way. You see, I'm a specialist; I do mostlythe fluffy stuff. "

"If that's the way to keep out of embarrassing decisions, I'd like tobecome a specialist myself. "

"You can do it, all right, " the other assured him earnestly. "That storyof yours shows it. You've got The Ledger touch--no, it's more individualthan that. But you've got something that's going to stick out even here. Just the same, there'll come a time when you'll have to face the otherissue of your job or your--well, your conscience. "

What Tommy Burt did not say in continuation, and had no need to say, since his expressive and ingenuous face said it for him, was, "And Iwonder what you'll do with _that_!"

A far more influential friend than Tommy Burt had been wondering, too, and had, not without difficulty, expressed her doubts in writing. Camilla Van Arsdale had written to Banneker:

. . . I know so little of journalism, but there are things about it that Idistrust instinctively. Do you remember what that wrangler from the _JonCal_ told Old Bill Speed when Bill wanted to hire him: "I wouldn't takeany job that I couldn't look in the eye and tell it to go to hell onfive minutes' notice. " I have a notion that you've got to take thatattitude toward a reporting job. There must be so much that a man cannotdo without loss of self-respect. Yet, I can't imagine why I should worryabout you as to that. Unless it is that, in a strange environment onegets one's values confused. . . . Have you had to do any "Society"reporting yet? I hope not. The society reporters of my day were eitherobsequious little flunkeys and parasites, or women of good connectionsbut no money who capitalized their acquaintanceship to make a poorliving, and whom one was sorry for, but would rather not see. Going toplaces where one is not asked, scavenging for bits of news from butlersand housekeepers, sniffing after scandals--perhaps that is part of thenecessary apprenticeship of newspaper work. But it's not a proper workfor a gentleman. And, in any case, Ban, you are that, by the grace ofyour ancestral gods. 

Little enough did Banneker care for his ancestral gods: but he didgreatly care for the maintenance of those standards which seemed to havegrown, indigenously within him, since he had never consciouslyformulated them. As for reporting, of whatever kind, he deemed Miss VanArsdale prejudiced. Furthermore, he had met the society reporter of TheLedger, an elderly, mild, inoffensive man, neat and industrious, anddiscerned in him no stigma of the lickspittle. Nevertheless, he hopedthat he would not be assigned to such "society news" as Remington didnot cover in his routine. It might, he conceived, lead him into falsesituations where he could be painfully snubbed. And he had never yetbeen in a position where any one could snub him without instantreprisals. In such circumstances he did not know exactly what he woulddo. However, that bridge could be crossed or refused when he came to it. 

CHAPTER VI

Such members of the Brashear household as chose to accommodatethemselves strictly to the hour could have eight o'clock breakfast inthe basement dining-room for the modest consideration of thirty cents;thirty-five with special cream-jug. At these gatherings, usuallyattended by half a dozen of the lodgers, matters of local interest wereweightily discussed; such as the progress of the subway excavations, theestablishment of a new Italian restaurant in 11th Street, or the callingaway of the fourth-floor-rear by the death of an uncle who would perhapsleave him money. To this sedate assemblage descended one crisp Decembermorning young Wickert, clad in the natty outline of a new Bernholz suit, and obviously swollen with tidings. 

"Whaddya know about the latest?" he flung forth upon the coffee-scentedair. 

"The latest" in young Wickert's compendium of speech might be thegarments adorning his trim person, the current song-hit of a vaudevilleto which he had recently contributed his critical attention, or sometidbit of purely local gossip. Hainer, the plump and elderly accountant, opined that Wickert had received an augmentation of salary, and got anaustere frown for his sally. Evidently Wickert deemed his news to be ofspecial import; he was quite bloated, conversationally. He now dalliedwith it. 

"Since when have you been taking in disguised millionaires, Mrs. Brashear?"

The presiding genius of the house, divided between professionalresentment at even so remotely slurring an implication (for was not theGrove Street house good enough for any millionaire, undisguised!) andhuman curiosity, requested an explanation. 

"I was in Sherry's restaurant last night, " said the offhand Wickert. 

"I didn't read about any fire there, " said the jocose Hainer, pointinghis sally with a wink at Lambert, the art-student. 

Wickert ignored the gibe. Such was the greatness of his tidings that hecould afford to. 

"Our firm was giving a banquet to some buyers and big folks in thetrade. Private room upstairs; music, flowers, champagne by the case. Wedo things in style when we do 'em. They sent me up after hours with animportant message to our Mr. Webler; he was in charge of arrangements. "

"Been promoted to be messenger, ay?" put in Mr. Hainer, chuckling. 

"When I came downstairs, " continued the other with only a venomousglance toward the seat of the scorner, "I thought to myself what's thematter with taking a look at the swells feeding in the big restaurant. You may not know it, people, but Sherry's is the ree-churchiest place inNuh Yawk to eat dinner. It's got 'em all beat. So I stopped at the doorand took 'em in. Swell? Oh, you dolls! I stood there trying to work upthe nerve to go in and siddown and order a plate of stew or somethingthat wouldn't stick me more'n a dollar, just to _say_ I'd been dining atSherry's, when I looked across the room, and whadda you think?" Hepaused, leaned forward, and shot out the climactic word, "Banneker!"

"Having his dinner there?" asked the incredulous but fascinated Mrs. Brashear. 

"Like he owned the place. Table to himself, against the wall. Waiterfussin' over him like he loved him. And dressed! Oh, Gee!"

"Did you speak to him?" asked Lambert. 

"He spoke to me, " answered Wickert, dealing in subtle distinctions. "Hewas just finishing his coffee when I sighted him. Gave the waiter haffadollar. I could see it on the plate. There I was at the door, and hesaid, 'Why, hello, Wickert. Come and have a liquor. ' He pronounced it aqueer, Frenchy way. So I said thanks, I'd have a highball. "

"Didn't he seem surprised to see you there?" asked Hainer. 

Wickert paid an unconscious tribute to good-breeding. "Banneker's thekind of feller that wouldn't show it if he was surprised. He couldn'thave been as surprised as I was, at that. We went to the bar and had adrink, and then I ast him what'd _he_, have on _me_, and all the time Iwas sizing him up. I'm telling you, he looked like he'd grown up inSherry's. "

The rest of the conversation, it appeared from Mr. Wickert's spiritedsketch, had consisted mainly in eager queries from himself, andgood-humored replies by the other. 

Did Banneker eat there every night?

Oh, no! He wasn't up to that much of a strain on his finances. 

But the waiters seemed to know him, as if he was one of the regulars. 

In a sense he was. Every Monday he dined there. Monday was his day off. 

Well, Mr. Wickert (awed and groping) _would_ be damned! All alone?

Banneker, smiling, admitted the solitude. He rather liked dining alone. 

Oh, Wickert couldn't see that at all! Give him a pal and a coupla livelygirls, say from the Ladies' Tailor-Made Department, good-lookers andreal dressers; that was _his_ idea of a dinner, though he'd never triedit at Sherry's. Not that he couldn't if he felt like it. How much didthey stick you for a good feed-out with a cocktail and maybe a bottle ofItalian Red?

Well, of course, that depended on which way was Wickert going? CouldBanneker set him on his way? He was taking a taxi to the Avon Theater, where there was an opening. 

Did Mr. Banneker (Wickert had by this time attained the "Mr. " stage)always follow up his dinner at Sherry's with a theater?

Usually, if there were an opening. If not he went to the opera or aconcert. 

For his part, Wickert liked a little more spice in life. Still, everyfeller to his tastes. And Mr. Banneker was sure dressed for the part. Say--if he didn't mind--who made that full-dress suit?

No; of course he didn't mind. Mertoun made it. 

After which Mr. Banneker had been deftly enshrouded in a fur-lined coat, worthy of a bank president, had crowned these glories with an impeccablesilk hat, and had set forth. Wickert had only to add that he wore in hiscoat lapel one of those fancy tuberoses, which he, Wickert, had gone tothe pains of pricing at the nearest flower shop immediately afterleaving Banneker. A dollar apiece! No, he had not accepted the offer ofa lift, being doubtful upon the point of honor as to whether he would beexpected to pay a _pro rata_ of the taxi charge. They, the assembledbreakfast company, had his permission to call him, Mr. Wickert, a goatif Mr. Banneker wasn't the swellest-looking guy he had anywhere seen onthat memorable evening. 

Nobody called Mr. Wickert a goat. But Mr. Hainer sniffed and said:

"And him a twenty-five-dollar-a-week reporter!"

"Perhaps he has private means, " suggested little Miss Westlake, who hadher own reasons for suspecting this: reasons bolstered by many andfrequent manuscripts, turned over to her for typing, recast, returnedfor retyping, and again, in many instances, re-recast and re-retyped, the result of the sweating process being advantageous to their literaryquality. Simultaneous advantage had accrued to the typist, also, in apractical way. Though the total of her bills was modest, it constitutedan important extra; and Miss Westlake no longer sought to find solacefor her woes through the prescription of the ambulant school ofphilosophic thought, and to solve her dental difficulties by walking thefloor of nights. Philosophy never yet cured a toothache. Happily thesufferer was now able to pay a dentist. Hence Banneker could work, untroubled of her painful footsteps in the adjoining room, andconsidered the outcome cheap at the price. He deemed himself an exponentof enlightened selfishness. Perhaps he was. But the dim and wornspinster would have given half a dozen of her best and painless teeth tobe of service to him. Now she came to his defense with a pretty dignity:

"I am sure that Mr. Banneker would not be out of place in any company. "

"Maybe not, " answered the cynical Lambert. "But where does he get it? Iask you!"

"Wherever he gets it, no gentleman could be more forehanded in hisobligations, " declared Mrs. Brashear. 

"But what's he want to blow it for in a shirty place like Sherry's?"marveled young Wickert. 

"Wyncha ask him?" brutally demanded Hainer. 

Wickert examined his mind hastily, and was fain to admit inwardly thathe had wanted to ask him, but somehow felt "skittish" about it. Outwardly he retorted, being displeased at his own weakness, "Ask himyourself. "

Had any one questioned the subject of the discussion at Mrs. Brashear'son this point, even if he were willing to reply to impertinentinterrogations (a high improbability of which even the hardy Wickertseems to have had some timely premonition), he would perhaps haveexplained the glorified routine of his day-off, by saying that he wentto Sherry's and the opening nights for the same reason that he prowledabout the water-front and ate in polyglot restaurants on obscurestreet-corners east of Tompkins Square; to observe men and women and themanner of their lives. It would not have been a sufficient answer;Banneker must have admitted that to himself. Too much a man of the worldin many strata not to be adjustable to any of them, nevertheless he feltmore attuned to and at one with his environment amidst the suaveformalism of Sherry's than in the more uneasy and precarious eleganciesof an East-Side Tammany Association promenade and ball. 

Some of the youngsters of The Ledger said that he was climbing. 

He was not climbing. To climb one must be conscious of an ascent to besurmounted. Banneker was serenely unaware of anything above him, in thatsense. Eminent psychiatrists were, about that time, working upon thebeginning of a theory of the soul, later to be imposed upon animpressionable and faddish world, which dealt with a profound psychicaldeficit known as a "complex of inferiority. " In Banneker they would havefound sterile soil. He had no complex of inferiority, nor, for thatmatter, of superiority; mental attitudes which, applied to socialstatus, breed respectively the toady and the snob. He had no complex atall. He had, or would have had, if the soul-analysts had invented such athing, a simplex. Relative status was a matter to which he gave littlethought. He maintained personal standards not because of what othersmight think of him, but because he chose to think well of himself. 

Sherry's and a fifth-row-center seat at opening nights meant to himsomething more than refreshment and amusement; they were an assertion ofhis right to certain things, a right of which, whether others recognizedor ignored it, he felt absolutely assured. These were the readilyattainable places where successful people resorted. Serenely determinedupon success, he felt himself in place amidst the outward and visiblesymbols of it. Let the price be high for his modest means; this was aninvestment which he could not afford to defer. He was but anticipatinghis position a little, and in such wise that nobody could take exceptionto it, because his self-promotion demanded no aid or favor from anyother living person. His interest was in the environment, not in thepeople, as such, who were hardly more than, "walking ladies andgentlemen" in a _mise-en-scène_. Indeed, where minor opportunitiesoffered by chance of making acquaintances, he coolly rejected them. Banneker did not desire to know people--yet. When he should arrive atthe point of knowing them, it must be upon his terms, not theirs. 

It was on one of his Monday evenings of splendor that a misadventure ofthe sort which he had long foreboded, befell him. Sherry's was crowded, and a few tables away Banneker caught sight of Herbert Cressey, diningwith a mixed party of a dozen. Presently Cressey came over. 

"What have you been doing with yourself?" he asked, shaking hands. "Haven't seen you for months. "

"Working, " replied Banneker. "Sit down and have a cocktail. Two, Jules, "he added to the attentive waiter. 

"I guess they can spare me for five minutes, " agreed Cressey, glancingback at his forsaken place. "This isn't what you call work, though, isit?"

"Hardly. This is my day off. "

"Oh! And how goes the job?"

"Well enough. "

"I'd think so, " commented the other, taking in the general effect ofBanneker's easy habituation to the standards of the restaurant. "Youdon't own this place, do you?" he added. 

From another member of the world which had inherited or capturedSherry's as part of the spoils of life, the question might have beenoffensive. But Banneker genuinely liked Cressey. 

"Not exactly, " he returned lightly. "Do I give that unfortunateimpression?"

"You give very much the impression of owning old Jules--or he does--andhaving a proprietary share in the new head waiter. Are you here much?"

"Monday evenings, only. "

"This is a good cocktail, " observed Cressey, savoring it expertly. "Better than they serve to me. And, say, Banneker, did Mertoun make youthat outfit?"

"Yes. "

"Then I quit him, " declared the gilded youth. 

"Why? Isn't it all right?"

"All right! Dammit, it's a better job than ever I got out of him, "returned his companion indignantly. "Some change from the catalogue suityou sported when you landed here! You know how to wear 'em; I've got tosay that for you. . . . I've got to get back. When'll you dine with me? Iwant to hear all about it. "

"Any Monday, " answered Banneker. 

Cressey returned to his waiting potage, and was immediately bombardedwith queries, mainly from the girl on his left. 

"Who's the wonderful-looking foreigner?"

"He isn't a foreigner. At least not very much. "

"He looks like a North Italian princeling I used to know, " said one ofthe women. "One of that warm-complexioned out-of-door type, thatpreserves the Roman mould. Isn't he an Italian?"

"He's an American. I ran across him out in the desert country. "

"Hence that burned-in brown. What was he doing out there?"

Cressey hesitated. Innocent of any taint of snobbery himself, he yet didnot know whether Banneker would care to have his humble position tackedonto the tails of that work of art, his new coat. "He was in therailroad business, " he returned cautiously. "His name is Banneker. "

"I've been seeing him for months, " remarked another of the company. "He's always alone and always at that table. Nobody knows him. He's amystery. "

"He's a beauty, " said Cressey's left-hand neighbor. 

Miss Esther Forbes had been quite openly staring, with her large, gray, and childlike eyes, at Banneker, eating his oysters in peacefulunconsciousness of being made a subject for discussion. Miss Forbes wasa Greuze portrait come to life and adjusted to the extremes of fashion. Behind an expression of the sweetest candor and wistfulness, as behind asafe bulwark, she preserved an effrontery which balked at no defiance ofconventions in public, though essentially she was quite sufficientlydiscreet for self-preservation. Also she had a keen little brain, areckless but good-humored heart and a memory retentive of importanttrifles. 

"In the West, Bertie?" she inquired of Cressey. "You were in that bigwreck there, weren't you?"

"Devil of a wreck, " said Cressey uneasily. You never could tell whatEsther might know or might not say. 

"Ask him over here, " directed that young lady blandly, "for coffee andliqueurs. "

"Oh, I say!" protested one of the men. "Nobody knows anything abouthim--"

"He's a friend of mine, " put in Cressey, in a tone which ended thatparticular objection. "But I don't think he'd come. "

Instantly there was a chorus of demand for him. 

"All right, I'll try, " yielded Cressey, rising. 

"Put him next to me, " directed Miss Forbes. 

The emissary visited Banneker's table, was observed to be in briefcolloquy with him, and returned, alone. 

"Wouldn't he come?" interrogated the chorus. 

"He's awfully sorry, but he says he isn't fit for decent humanassociations. "

"More and more interesting!"--"Why?"--"What awful thing has he beendoing?"

"Eating onions, " answered Cressey. "Raw. "

"I don't believe it, " cried the indignant Miss Forbes. "One doesn't eatraw onions at Sherry's. It's a subterfuge. "

"Very likely. "

"If I went over there myself, who'll bet a dozen silk stockings that Ican't--"

"Come off it, Ess, " protested her brother-in-law across the table. "That's too high a jump, even for you. "

She let herself be dissuaded, but her dovelike eyes were vagrant duringthe rest of the dinner. 

Pleasantly musing over the last glass of a good but moderate-pricedRosemont-Geneste, Banneker became aware of Cressey's dinner party filingpast him: then of Jules, the waiter, discreetly murmuring something, from across the table. A faint and provocative scent came to hisnostrils, and as he followed Jules's eyes he saw a feminine figurestanding at his elbow. He rose promptly and looked down into a facewhich might have been modeled for a type of appealing innocence. 

"You're Mr. Banneker, aren't you?"

"Yes. "

"I'm Esther Forbes, and I think I've heard a great deal about you. "

"It doesn't seem probable, " he replied gravely. 

"From a cousin of mine, " pursued the girl. "She was Io Welland. Haven'tI?"

A shock went through Banneker at the mention of the name. But hesteadied himself to say: "I don't think so. "

Herein he was speaking by the letter. Knowing Io Welland as he had, hedeemed it very improbable that she had even so much as mentioned him toany of her friends. In that measure, at least, he believed, she wouldhave respected the memory of the romance which she had so ruthlesslyblasted. This girl, with the daring and wistful eyes, was simplyfishing, so he guessed. 

His guess was correct. Mendacity was not outside of Miss Forbes's easycode when enlisted in a good cause, such as appeasing her own impishcuriosity. Never had Io so much as mentioned that quaint and livelyromance with which vague gossip had credited her, after her return fromthe West; Esther Forbes had gathered it in, gossamer thread by gossamerthread, and was now hoping to identify Banneker in its uncertainpattern. Her little plan of startling him into some betrayal had provenabortive. Not by so much as the quiver of a muscle or the minutestshifting of an eye had he given sign. Still convinced that he was themysterious knight of the desert, she was moved to admiration for hisself-command and to a sub-thrill of pleasurable fear as before anunknown and formidable species. The man who had transformedself-controlled and invincible Io Welland into the creature of moods andnerves and revulsions which she had been for the fortnight preceding hermarriage, must be something out of the ordinary. Instinct of womankindtold Miss Forbes that this and no other was the type of man to work sucha miracle. 

"But you did know Io?" she persisted, feeling, as she afterwardconfessed, that she was putting her head into the mouth of a lionconcerning whose habits her knowledge was regrettably insufficient. 

The lion did not bite her head off. He did not even roar. He merelysaid, "Yes. "

"In a railroad wreck or something of that sort?"

"Something of that sort. "

"Are you awfully bored and wishing I'd go away and let you alone?" shesaid, on a note that pleaded for forbearance. "Because if you are, don'tmake such heroic efforts to conceal it. "

At this an almost imperceptible twist at the corners of his lipsmanifested itself to the watchful eye and cheered the enterprising soulof Miss Forbes. "No, " he said equably, "I'm interested to discover howfar you'll go. "

The snub left Miss Forbes unembarrassed. 

"Oh, as far as you'll let me, " she answered. "Did you ride in from yourranch and drag Io out of the tangled wreckage at the end of your lasso?"

"My ranch? I wasn't on a ranch. "

"Please, sir, " she smiled up at him like a beseeching angel, "what didyou do that kept us all talking and speculating about you for a wholeweek, though we didn't know your name?"

"I sat right on my job as station-agent at Manzanita and made up listsof the killed and injured, " answered Banneker dryly. 

"Station-agent!" The girl was taken aback, for this was not at all inconsonance with the Io myth as it had drifted back, from sources neverdetermined, to New York. "Were you the station-agent?"

"I was. "

She bestowed a glance at once appraising and flattering, less uponhimself than upon his apparel. "And what are you now? President of theroad?"

"A reporter on The Ledger. "

"Really!" This seemed to astonish her even more than the previousinformation. "What are you reporting here?"

"I'm off duty to-night. "

"I see. Could you get off duty some afternoon and come to tea, if I'llpromise to have Io there to meet you?"

"Your party seems to be making signals of distress, Miss Forbes. "

"That's the normal attitude of my friends and family toward me. You'llcome, won't you, Mr. Banneker?"

"Thank you: but reporting keeps one rather too busy for amusement. "

"You won't come, " she murmured, aggrieved. "Then it _is_ true about youand Io. "

This time she achieved a result. Banneker flushed angrily, though hesaid, coolly enough: "I think perhaps you would make an enterprisingreporter, yourself, Miss Forbes. "

"I'm sure I should. Well, I'll apologize. And if you won't come forIo--she's still abroad, by the way and won't be back for amonth--perhaps you'll come for me. Just to show that you forgive myimpertinences. Everybody does. I'm going to tell Bertie Cressey he mustbring you. . . . All right, Bertie! I wish you wouldn't follow me uplike--like a paper-chase. Good-night, Mr. Banneker. "

To her indignant escort she declared that it couldn't have hurt them towait a jiffy; that she had had a most amusing conversation; that Mr. Banneker was as charming as he was good to look at; and that (in answerto sundry questions) she had found out little or nothing, though shehoped for better results in future. 

"But he's Io's passion-in-the-desert right enough, " said the irreverentMiss Forbes. 

Banneker sat long over his cooling coffee. Through haunted nights he hadfought maddening memories of Io's shadowed eyes, of the exhalant, irresistible femininity of her, of the pulses of her heart against hison that wild and wonderful night in the flood; and he had won to anarmed peace, in which the outposts of his spirit were ever on guardagainst the recurrent thoughts of her. 

Now, at the bitter music of her name on the lips of a gossiping andfrivolous girl, the barriers had given away. In eagerness andself-contempt he surrendered to the vision. Go to an afternoon tea tosee and speak with her again? He would, in that awakened mood, havewalked across the continent, only to be in her presence, to feel himselfonce more within the radius of that inexorable charm. 

CHAPTER VII

"Katie's" sits, sedate and serviceable, on a narrow side street so nearto Park Row that the big table in the rear rattles its dishes when thepresses begin their seismic rumblings, in the daily effort to shake theworld. Here gather the pick and choice of New York journalism, whilestill on duty, to eat and drink and discuss the inner news of thingswhich is so often much more significant than the published version;haply to win or lose a few swiftly earned dollars at pass-three hearts. It is the unofficial press club of Newspaper Row. 

Said McHale of The Sphere, who, having been stuck with the queen ofspades--that most unlucky thirteener--twice in succession, was retiringon his losses, to Mallory of The Ledger who had just come in:

"I hear you've got a sucking genius at your shop. "

"If you mean Banneker, he's weaned, " replied the assistant city editorof The Ledger. "He goes on space next week. "

"Does he, though! Quick work, eh?"

"A record for the office. He's been on the staff less than a year. "

"Is he really such a wonder?" asked Glidden of The Monitor. 

Three or four Ledger men answered at once, citing various stories whichhad stirred the interest of Park Row. 

"Oh, you Ledger fellows are always giving the college yell for eachother, " said McHale, impatiently voicing the local jealousy of TheLedger's recognized _esprit de corps_. "I've seen bigger rockets thanhim come down in the ash-heap. "

"He won't, " prophesied Tommy Burt, The Ledger's humorous specialist. "He'll go up and stay up. High! He's got the stuff. "

"They say, " observed Fowler, the star man of The Patriot, "he covers hisassignment in taxicabs. "

"He gets the news, " murmured Mallory, summing up in that phrase all theencomiums which go to the perfect praise of the natural-born reporter. 

"And he writes it, " put in Van Cleve of The Courier. "Lord, how that boycan write! Why, a Banneker two-sticks stands out as if it were printedin black-face. "

"I've never seen him around, " remarked Glidden. "What does he do withhimself besides work?"

"Nothing, I imagine, " answered Mallory. "One of the cubs reports findinghim at the Public Library, before ten o'clock in the morning, surroundedby books on journalism. He's a serious young owl. "

"It doesn't get into his copy, then, " asserted "Parson" Gale, politicalexpert for The Ledger. 

"Nor into his appearance. He certainly dresses like a flower of thefield. Even the wrinkles in his clothes have the touch of high-pricedFifth Avenue. "

"Must be rich, " surmised Fowler. "Taxis for assignments and Fifth-Avenueraiment sound like real money. "

"Nobody knows where he got it, then, " said Tommy Burt. "Used to be afreight brakeman or something out in the wild-and-woolly. When hearrived, he was dressed very proud and stiff like a Baptist elder goingto make a social call, all but the made-up bow tie and the oil on thehair. Some change and sudden!"

"Got a touch of the swelled head, though, hasn't he?" asked Van Cleve. "I hear he's beginning to pick his assignments already. Refuses to takesociety stuff and that sort of thing. "

"Oh, " said Mallory, "I suppose that comes from his being assigned to atea given by the Thatcher Forbes for some foreign celebrity, and askingto be let off because he'd already been invited there and declined. "

"Hello!" exclaimed McHale. "Where does our young bird come in to fly ashigh as the Thatcher Forbes? He may look like a million dollars, but ishe?"

"All I know, " said Tommy Burt, "is that every Monday, which is his dayoff, he dines at Sherry's, and goes in lonely glory to a first-night, ifthere is one, afterward. It must have been costing him half of hisweek's salary. "

"Swelled head, sure, " diagnosed Decker, the financial reporter of TheLedger. "Well, watch the great Chinese joss, Greenough, pull the propsfrom under him when the time comes. "

"As how?" inquired Glidden. 

"By handing him a nawsty one out of the assignment book, just to showhim where his hat fits too tight. "

"A run of four-line obits, " suggested Van Cleve, who had passed apainful apprenticeship of death-notices in which is neither profitablespace nor hopeful opportunity, "for a few days, will do it. "

"Or the job of asking an indignant millionaire papa why his pet daughterran away with the second footman and where. "

"Or interviewing old frozen-faced Willis Enderby on his politicalintentions, honorable or dishonorable. "

"If I know Banneker, " said Mallory, "he's game. He'll take what's handedhim and put it over. "

"Once, maybe, " contributed Tommy Burt. "Twice, perhaps. But I wouldn'twant to crowd too much on him. "

"Greenough won't. He's wise in the ways of marvelous and unlicked cubs, "said Decker. 

"Why? What do you think Banneker would do?" asked Mallory curiously, addressing Burt. 

"If he got an assignment too rich for his stomach? Well, speakingunofficially and without special knowledge, I'd guess that he'd handleit to a finish, and then take his very smart and up-to-date hat andperform a polite adieu to Mr. Greenough and all the works of The Ledgercity room. "

A thin, gray, somnolent elder at the end of the table, whose nobly cutface was seared with lines of physical pain endured and outlived, withdrew a very small pipe from his mouth and grunted. 

"The Venerable Russell Edmonds has the floor, " said Tommy Burt in avoice whose open raillery subtly suggested an underlying affection andrespect. "He snorts, and in that snort is sublimated the wisdom andexperience of a ripe ninety years on Park Row. Speak, O Compendium ofall the--"

"Shut up, Tommy, " interrupted Edmonds. He resumed his pipe, gave it twoanxious puffs, and, satisfied of its continued vitality, said:

"Banneker, uh? Resign, uh? You think he would?"

"I think so. "

"Does _he_ think so?"

"That's my belief. "

"He won't, " pronounced the veteran with finality. "They never do. Theychafe. They strain. They curse out the job and themselves. They say itisn't fit for any white man. So it isn't, the worst of it. But theystick. If they're marked for it, they stick. "

"Marked for it?" murmured Glidden. 

"The ink-spot. The mark of the beast. I've got it. You've got it, Glidden, and you, McHale. Mallory's smudged with it. Tommy thinks it'sall over him, but it isn't. He'll end between covers. Fiction, like asnot, " he added with a mildly contemptuous smile. "But this youngBanneker; it's eaten into him like acid. "

"Do you know him, Pop?" inquired McHale. 

"Never saw him. Don't have to. I've read his stuff. "

"And you see it there?"

"Plain as Brooklyn Bridge. He'll eat mud like the rest of us. "

"Come off, Pop! Where do you come in to eat mud? You've got thecreamiest job on Park Row. You never have to do anything that a railroadpresident need shy at. "

This was nearly true. Edmonds, who in his thirty years of service hadfilled almost every conceivable position from police headquartersreporter to managing editor, had now reverted to the phase for which theink-spot had marked him, and was again a reporter; a sort ofsuper-reporter, spending much of his time out around the country onimportant projects either of news, or of that special informationnecessary to a great daily, which does not always appear as news, butwhich may define, determine, or alter news and editorial policies. 

Of him it was said on Park Row, and not without reason, that he wasbigger than his paper, which screened him behind a traditional principleof anonymity, for The Courier was of the second rank in metropolitanjournalism and wavered between an indigenous Bourbonism and a desire tobe thought progressive. The veteran's own creed was frankly socialistic;but in the Fabian phase. His was a patient philosophy, content with slowprogress; but upon one point he was a passionate enthusiast. He believedin the widest possible scope of education, and in the fundamental dutyof the press to stimulate it. 

"We'll get the Social Revolution just as soon as we're educated up toit, " he was wont to declare. "If we get it before then, it'll be a worsehash than capitalism. So let's go slow and learn. "

For such a mind to be contributing to an organ of The Courier type mightseem anomalous. Often Edmonds accused himself of shameful compromise;the kind of compromise constantly necessary to hold his place. Yet itwas not any consideration of self-interest that bound him. He could havecommanded higher pay in half a dozen open positions. Or, he could haveafforded to retire, and write as he chose, for he had been a shrewdinvestor with wide opportunities. What really held him was his abilityto forward almost imperceptibly through the kind of news political andindustrial, which he, above all other journalists of his day, was ableto determine and analyze, the radical projects dear to his heart. Nothing could have had a more titillating appeal to his sardonic humorthan the furious editorial refutations in The Courier, of facts andtendencies plainly enunciated by him in the news columns. 

Nevertheless, his impotency to speak out openly and individually thefaith that was in him, left always a bitter residue in his mind. It nowinformed his answer to Van Cleve's characterization of his job. 

"If I can sneak a tenth of the truth past the copy-desk, " he said, "I'mdoing well. And what sort of man am I when I go up against thesebig-bugs of industry at their conventions, and conferences, appearing asrepresentative of The Courier which represents their interests? A damnedhypocrite, I'd say! If they had brains enough to read between the linesof my stuff, they'd see it. "

"Why don't you tell 'em?" asked Mallory lazily. 

"I did, once. I told the President of the United Manufacturers'Association what I really thought of their attitude toward labor. "

"With what result?"

"He ordered The Courier to fire me. "

"You're still there. "

"Yes. But he isn't. I went after him on his record. "

"All of which doesn't sound much like mud-eating, Pop. "

"I've done my bit of that in my time, too. I've had jobs to do that aself-respecting swill-hustler wouldn't touch. I've sworn I wouldn't do'em. And I've done 'em, rather than lose my job. Just as young Bannekerwill, when the test comes. "

"I'll bet he won't, " said Tommy Burt. 

Mallory, who had been called away, returned in time to hear this. "Youmight ask him to settle the bet, " he suggested. "I've just had him onthe 'phone. He's coming around. "

"I will, " said Edmonds. 

On his arrival Banneker was introduced to those of the men whom he didnot know, and seated next to Edmonds. 

"We've been talking about you, young fellow, " said the veteran. 

From most men Banneker would have found the form of address patronizing. But the thin, knotty face of Edmonds was turned upon him with so kindlya regard in the hollow eyes that he felt an innate stir of knowledgethat here was a man who might be a friend. He made no answer, however, merely glancing at the speaker. To learn that the denizens of Park Rowwere discussing him, caused him neither surprise nor elation. While heknew that he had made hit after hit with his work, he was not inclinedto over-value the easily won reputation. Edmonds's next remark did notplease him. 

"We were discussing how much dirt you'd eat to hold your job on TheLedger. "

"The Ledger doesn't ask its men to eat dirt, Edmonds, " put in Mallorysharply. 

"Chop, fried potatoes, coffee, and a stein of Nicklas-brau, " Bannekerspecified across the table to the waiter. He studied the mimeographedbill-of-fare with selective attention. "And a slice of apple pie, " hedecided. Without change of tone, he looked up over the top of the menuat Edmonds slowly puffing his insignificant pipe and said: "I don't likeyour assumption, Mr. Edmonds. "

"It's ugly, " admitted the other, "but you have to answer it. Oh, not tome!" he added, smiling. "To yourself. "

"It hasn't come my way yet. "

"It will. Ask any of these fellows. We've all had to meet it. Yes; you, too, Mallory. We've all had to eat our peck of dirt in the sacred nameof news. Some are too squeamish. They quit. "

"If they're too squeamish, they'd never make real newspaper men, "pronounced McHale. "You can't be too good for your business. "

"Just so, " said Tommy Burt acidly, "but your business can be too bad foryou. "

"There's got to be news. And if there's got to be news there have got tobe men willing to do hard, unpleasant work, to get it, " argued Mallory. 

"Hard? All right, " retorted Edmonds. "Unpleasant? Who cares! I'm talkingabout the dirty work. Wait a minute, Mallory. Didn't you ever have anassignment that was an outrage on some decent man's privacy? Or, maybewoman's? Something that made you sick at your stomach to have to do? Didyou ever have to take a couple of drinks to give you nerve to ask somequestion that ought to have got you kicked downstairs for asking?"

Mallory, flushing angrily, was silent. But McHale spoke up. "Hell! Everybusiness has its stinks, I guess. What about being a lawyer and servingpapers? Or a manufacturer and having to bootlick the buyers? I tell you, if the public wants a certain kind of news, it's the newspaper'sbusiness to serve it to 'em; and it's the newspaper man's business toget it for his paper. I say it's up to the public. "

"The public, " murmured Edmonds. "Swill-eaters. "

"All right! Then give 'em the kind of swill they want, " cried McHale. 

Edmonds so manipulated his little pipe that it pointed directly atBanneker. "Would you?" he asked. 

"Would I what?"

"Give 'em the kind of swill they want? You seem to like to keep yourhands clean. "

"Aren't you asking me your original question in another form?" smiledthe young man. 

"You objected to it before. "

"I'll answer it now. A friend of mine wrote to me when I went on TheLedger, advising me always to be ready on a moment's notice to look myjob between the eyes and tell it to go to hell. "

"Yes; I've known that done, too, " interpolated Mallory. "But in thosecases it isn't the job that goes. " He pushed back his chair. "Don't letPop Edmonds corrupt you with his pessimism, Banneker, " he warned. "Hedoesn't mean half of it. "

"Under the seal of the profession, " said the veteran. "If there wereoutsiders present, it would be different. I'd have to admit that ours isthe greatest, noblest, most high-minded and inspired business in theworld. Free and enlightened press. Fearless defender of the right. Incorruptible agent of the people's will. Did I say 'people's will' or'people's swill'? Don't ask me!"

The others paid their accounts and followed Mallory out, leavingBanneker alone at the table with the saturnine elder. Edmonds put athumbful of tobacco in his pipe, and puffed silently. 

"What will it get a man?" asked Banneker, setting down his coffee-cup. 

"This game?" queried the other. 

"Yes. "

"'What shall it profit a man, '" quoted the veteran ruminatively. "Youknow the rest. "

"No, " returned Banneker decidedly. "That won't do. These fellows herehaven't sold their souls. "

"Or lost 'em. Maybe not, " admitted the elder. "Though I wouldn't gamblestrong on some of 'em. But they've lost something. "

"Well, what is it? That's what I'm trying to get at. "

"Independence. They're merged in the paper they write for. "

"Every man's got to subordinate himself to his business, if he's to dojustice to it and himself, hasn't he?"

"Yes. If you're buying or selling stocks or socks, it doesn't matter. The principles you live by aren't involved. In the newspaper game theyare. "

"Not in reporting, though. "

"If reporting were just gathering facts and presenting them, it wouldn'tbe so. But you're deep enough in by now to see that reporting of a lotof things is a matter of coloring your version to the general policy ofyour paper. Politics, for instance, or the liquor question, or labortroubles. The best reporters get to doing it unconsciously. Chameleons. "

"And you think it affects them?"

"How can it help? There's a slow poison in writing one way when youbelieve another. "

"And that's part of the dirt-eating?"

"Well, yes. Not so obvious as some of the other kinds. Those hurt yourpride, mostly. This kind hurts your self-respect. "

"But where does it get you, all this business?" asked Banneker revertingto his first query. 

"I'm fifty-two years old, " replied Edmonds quietly. 

Banneker stared. "Oh, I see!" he said presently. "And you're considereda success. Of course you _are_ a success. "

"On Park Row. Would you like to be me? At fifty-two?"

"No, I wouldn't, " said Banneker with a frankness which brought a faintsmile to the other man's tired face. "Yet you've got where you startedfor, haven't you?"

"Perhaps I could answer that if I knew where I started for or where I'vegot to. "

"Put it that you've got what you were after, then. "

"No's the answer. Upper-case No. I want to get certain things over tothe public intelligence. Maybe I've got one per cent of them over. Notmore. "

"That's something. To have a public that will follow you even partway--"

"Follow me? Bless you; they don't know me except as a lot of print thatthey occasionally read. I'm as anonymous as an editorial writer. Andthat's the most anonymous thing there is. "

"That doesn't suit me at all, " declared Banneker. "If I have gotanything in me--and I think I have--I don't want it to make a noise likea part of a big machine. I'd rather make a small noise of my own. "

"Buy a paper, then. Or write fluffy criticisms about art or theaters. Orget into the magazine field. You can write; O Lord! yes, you can write. But unless you've got the devotion of a fanatic like McHale, or a bornservant of the machine like 'Parson' Gale, or an old fool like me, willing to sink your identity in your work, you'll never be content as areporter. "

"Tell me something. Why do none of the men, talking among themselves, ever refer to themselves as reporters. It's always 'newspaper men. '"

Edmonds shot a swift glance at him. "What do you think?"

"I think, " he decided slowly, "it's because there is a sort of stigmaattached to reporting. "

"Damn you, you're right!" snapped the veteran. "Though it's the rankestheresy to admit it. There's a taint about it. There's a touch of thepariah. We try to fool ourselves into thinking there isn't. But it'sthere, and we admit it when we use a clumsy, misfit term like 'newspaperman. '"

"Whose fault is it?"

"The public's. The public is a snob. It likes to look down on brains. Particularly the business man. That's why I'm a Socialist. I'm ag'in thebourgeoisie. "

"Aren't the newspapers to blame, in the kind of stuff they print?"

"And why do they print it?" demanded the other fiercely. "Because thepublic wants all the filth and scandal and invasion of privacy that itcan get and still feel respectable. "

"The Ledger doesn't go in for that sort of thing. "

"Not as much as some of the others. But a little more each year. Itfollows the trend. " He got up, quenched his pipe, and reached for hishat. "Drop in here about seven-thirty when you feel like hearing the oldman maunder, " he said with his slight, friendly smile. 

Rising, Banneker leaned over to him. "Who's the man at the next table?"he asked in a low voice, indicating a tall, broad, glossily dresseddiner who was sipping his third _demi-tasse_, in apparent detachmentfrom the outside world. 

"His name is Marrineal, " replied the veteran. "He dines hereoccasionally alone. Don't know what he does. "

"He's been listening in. "

"Curious thing; he often does. "

As they parted at the door, Edmonds said paternally:

"Remember, young fellow, a Park Row reputation is written on glass witha wet finger. It doesn't last during the writing. "

"And only dims the glass, " said Banneker reflectively. 

CHAPTER VIII

Heat, sudden, savage, and oppressive, bore down upon the city early thatspring, smiting men in their offices, women in their homes, the horsesbetween the shafts of their toil, so that the city was in danger ofbecoming disorganized. The visitation developed into the big story ofsuccessive days. It was the sort of generalized, picturesque"fluff-stuff" matter which Banneker could handle better than hiscompeers by sheer imaginative grasp and deftness of presentation. Beingnow a writer on space, paid at the rate of eight dollars a column offrom thirteen to nineteen hundred words, he found the assignmentprofitable and the test of skill quite to his taste. Soft job though itwas in a way, however, the unrelenting pressure of the heat and the taskof finding, day after day, new phases and fresh phrases in which to dealwith it, made inroads upon his nerves. 

He took to sleeping ill again. Io Welland had come back in all theglamorous panoply of waking dreams to command and torment his lonelinessof spirit. At night he dreaded the return to the draughtless room onGrove Street. In the morning, rising sticky-eyed and unrested, he shrankfrom the thought of the humid, dusty, unkempt hurly-burly of the office. Yet his work was never more brilliant and individual. 

Having finished his writing, one reeking midnight, he sat, spent, at hisdesk, hating the thought of the shut-in place that he called home. Better to spend the night on a bench in some square, as he had doneoften enough in the earlier days. He rose, took his hat, and had reachedthe first landing when the steps wavered and faded in front of him andhe found himself clutching for the rail. A pair of hands gripped hisshoulders and held him up. 

"What's the matter, Mr. Banneker?" asked a voice. 

"God!" muttered Banneker. "I wish I were back on the desert. "

"You want a drink, " prescribed his volunteer prop. 

As his vision and control reestablished themselves, Banneker foundhimself being led downstairs and to the nearest bar by young FentrissSmith, who ordered two soda cocktails. 

Of Smith he knew little except that the office called him "the permanenttwenty-five-dollar man. " He was one of those earnest, faithful, totallyuninspired reporters, who can be relied upon implicitly for routinenews, but are constitutionally impotent to impart color and life to anysubject whatsoever. Patiently he had seen younger and newer men overtakeand pass him; but he worked on inexorably, asking for nothing, wearingthe air of a scholar with some distant and abstruse determination inview. Like Banneker he had no intimates in the office. 

"The desert, " echoed Smith in his quiet, well-bred voice. "Isn't itpretty hot, there, too?"

"It's open, " said Banneker. "I'm smothering here. "

"You look frazzled out, if you don't mind my saying so. "

"I feel frazzled out; that's what I mind. "

"Suppose you come out with me to-night as soon as I report to the desk, "suggested the other. 

Banneker, refreshed by the tingling drink, looked down at him insurprise. "Where?" he asked. 

"I've got a little boat out here in the East River. "

"A boat? Lord, that sounds good!" sighed Banneker. 

"Does it? Then see here! Why couldn't you put in a few days with me, andcool off? I've often wanted to talk to you about the newspaper business, and get your ideas. "

"But I'm newer at it than you are. "

"For a fact! Just the same you've got the trick of it and I haven't. I'll go around to your place while you pack a suitcase, and we're off. "

"That's very good of you. " Accustomed though he was to the swift andready comradeship of a newspaper office, Banneker was puzzled by thisadvance from the shy and remote Smith. "All right: if you'll let meshare expenses, " he said presently. 

Smith seemed taken aback at this. "Just as you like, " he assented. "Though I don't quite know--We'll talk of that later. "

While Banneker was packing in his room, Smith, seated on thewindow-sill, remarked:

"I ought to tell you that we have to go through a bad district to getthere. "

"The Tunnel Gang?" asked Banneker, wise in the plague spots of the city. 

"Just this side of their stamping ground. It's a gang of wharf rats. There have been a number of hold-ups, and last week a dead woman wasfound under the pier. "

Banneker made an unobtrusive addition to his packing. "They'll have tomove fast to catch me, " he observed. 

"Two of us together won't be molested. But if you're alone, be careful. The police in that precinct are no good. They're either afraid or theystand in with the gang. "

On Fifth Avenue the pair got a late-cruising taxicab whose driver, however, declined to take them nearer than one block short of the pier. "The night air in that place ain't good fer weak constitutions, " heexplained. "One o' my pals got a headache last week down on the pierfrom bein' beaned with a sandbag. "

No one interfered with the two reporters, however. A whistle from theend of the pier evolved from the watery dimness a dinghy, which, in ahundred yards of rowing, delivered them into a small but perfectlyappointed yacht. Banneker, looking about the luxurious cabin, laughed alittle. 

"That was a bad guess of mine about half expenses, " he saidgood-humoredly. "I'd have to mortgage my future for a year. Do you ownthis craft?"

"My father does. He's been called back West. "

Bells rang, the wheel began to churn, and Banneker, falling asleep inhis berth with a vivifying breeze blowing across him, awoke in broaddaylight to a view of sparkling little waves which danced across hisvision to smack impudently the flanks of the speeding craft. 

"We'll be in by noon, " was Smith's greeting as they met on thecompanionway for a swim. 

"What do you do it for?" asked Banneker, seated at the breakfast table, with an appetite such as he had not known for weeks. 

"Do what?"

"Two men's work at twenty-five per for The Ledger?"

"Training. "

"Are you going to stick to the business?"

"The family, " explained Smith, "own a newspaper in Toledo. It fell tothem by accident. Our real business is manufacturing farm machinery, andnone of us has ever tried or thought of manufacturing newspapers. Sothey wished on me the job of learning how. "

"Do you like it?"

"Not particularly. But I'm going through with it. "

Banneker felt a new and surprised respect for his host. He couldforecast the kind of small city newspaper that Smith would make;careful, conscientious, regular in politics, loyal to what it deemed thebest interests of the community, single-minded in its devotion to theSmith family and its properties; colorless, characterless, and withoutvision or leadership in all that a newspaper should, according toBanneker's opinion, stand for. So he talked with the fervor of anenthusiast, a missionary, a devotee, who saw in that daily chronicle ofthe news an agency to stir men's minds and spur their thoughts, if needbe, to action; at the same time the mechanism and instrument of power, of achievement, of success. Fentriss Smith listened and was troubled inspirit by these unknown fires. He had supposed respectability to be thefinal aim and end of a sound newspaper tradition. 

The apparent intimacy which had sprung up between twenty-five-dollarSmith and the reserved, almost hermit-like Banneker was the subject ofcurious and amused commentary in The Ledger office. Mallory hazarded ahumorous guess that Banneker was tutoring Smith in the finer arts ofjournalism, which was not so far amiss as its proponent might havesupposed. 

The Great Heat broke several evenings later in a drench of rain andwind. This, being in itself important news, kept Banneker late at hiswriting, and he had told his host not to wait, that he would join him onthe yacht sometime about midnight. So Smith had gone on alone. 

The next morning Tommy Burt, lounging into the office from an earlyassignment, approached the City Desk with a twinkle far back in hislively eyes. 

"Hear anything of a shoot-fest up in the Bad Lands last night?" heasked. 

"Not yet, " replied Mr. Greenough. "They're getting to be everydayoccurrences up there. Is it on the police slips, Mr. Mallory?"

"No. Nothing in that line, " answered the assistant, looking over hisassortment. 

"Police are probably suppressing it, " opined Burt. 

"Have you got the story?" queried Mr. Greenough. 

"In outline. It isn't really my story. "

"Whose is it, then?"

"That's part of it. " Tommy Burt leaned against Mallory's desk andappeared to be revolving some delectable thought in his mind. 

"Tommy, " said Mallory, "they didn't open that committee meeting you'vebeen attending with a corkscrew, did they?"

"I'm intoxicated with the chaste beauties of my story, which isn'tmine, " returned the dreamily smiling Mr. Burt. "Here it is, boiled down. Guest on an anchored yacht returning late, sober, through the mist. Wharf-gang shooting craps in a pier-shed. They size him up and go to it;six of 'em. Knives and one gun: maybe more. The old game: one asks forthe time. Another sneaks up behind and gives the victim theelbow-garrote. The rest rush him. Well, they got as far as the garrote. Everything lovely and easy. Then Mr. Victim introduces a fewspecialties. Picks a gun from somewhere around his shirt-front, shootsthe garroter over his shoulder; kills the man in front, who is at himwith a stiletto, ducks a couple of shots from the gang, and lays out twomore of 'em. The rest take to the briny. Tally: two dead, one dying, onewounded, Mr. Guest walks to the shore end, meets two patrolmen, andturns in his gun. 'I've done a job for you, ' says he. So they pinch him. He's in the police station, _incomunicado_. "

Throughout the narrative, Mr. Greenough had thrown in little, purringinterjections of "Good! Good!"--"Yes. "--"Ah! good!" At the conclusionMallory exclaimed!

"Moses! That is a story! You say it isn't yours? Why not?"

"Because it's Banneker's. "

"Why?"

"He's the guest with the gun. "

Mallory jumped in his chair. "Banneker!" he exclaimed. "Oh, hell!" headded disconsolately. 

"Takes the shine out of the story, doesn't it?" observed Burt with amalicious smile. 

One of the anomalous superstitions of newspaperdom is that nothing whichhappens to a reporter in the line of his work is or can be "big news. "The mere fact that he is a reporter is enough to blight the story. 

"What was Banneker doing down there?" queried Mr. Greenough. 

"Visiting on a yacht. "

"Is that so?" There was a ray of hope in the other's face. The glamourof yachting association might be made to cast a radiance about theevent, in which the damnatory fact that the principal figure was a merereporter could be thrown into low relief. Such is the view whichjournalistic snobbery takes of the general public's snobbery. "Whoseyacht?"

Again the spiteful little smile appealed on Burt's lips as he dashed therising hope. "Fentriss Smith's. "

And again the expletive of disillusion burst from between Mallory'steeth as he saw the front-page double-column spread, a type-specialty ofthe usually conservative Ledger upon which it prided itself, dwindle toa carefully handled inside-page three-quarter of a column. 

"You say that Mr. Banneker is in the police station?" asked the cityeditor. 

"Or at headquarters. They're probably working the third degree on him. "

"That won't do, " declared the city desk incumbent, with conviction. Hecaught up the telephone, got the paper's City Hall reporter, and waspresently engaged in some polite but pointed suggestions to His Honorthe Mayor. Shortly after, Police Headquarters called; the Chief himselfwas on the wire. 

"The Ledger is behind Mr. Banneker, Chief, " said Mr. Greenough crisply. "Carrying concealed weapons? If your men in that precinct were fit to beon the force, there would be no need for private citizens to go armed. You get the point, I see. Good-bye. "

"Unless I am a bad guesser we'll have Banneker back here by evening. Andthere'll be no manhandling in his case, " Mallory said to Burt. 

Counsel was taken of Mr. Gordon, as soon as that astute managing editorarrived, as to the handling of the difficult situation. The Ledger, always cynically intolerant of any effort to better the city government, as savoring of "goo-gooism, " which was its special _bête noire_, couldnot well make the shooting a basis for a general attack upon policelaxity, though it was in this that lay the special news possibility ofthe event. On the other hand, the thing was far too sensational to beignored or too much slurred. 

Andreas, the assistant managing editor, in charge of the paper'smake-up, a true news-hound with an untainted delight in the unusual andstriking, no matter what its setting might be, who had been called intothe conference, advocated "smearing it all over the front page, withBanneker's first-hand statement for the lead--pictures too. "

Him, Mr. Greenough, impassive joss of the city desk, regarded with achill eye. "One reporter visiting another gets into a muss and shoots upsome riverside toughs, " he remarked contemptuously. "You can hardlyexpect our public to get greatly excited over that. Are we going intothe business of exploiting our own cubs?"

Thereupon there was sharp discussion to which Mr. Gordon put an end byremarking that the evening papers would doubtless give them a lead;meantime they could get Banneker's version. 

First to come in was The Evening New Yorker, the most vapid of all thelocal prints, catering chiefly to the uptown and shopping element. Itsheading half-crossed the page proclaiming "Guest of Yachtsman ShootsDown Thugs. " Nowhere in the article did it appear that Banneker had anyconnection with the newspaper world. He was made to appear as a youngWesterner on a visit to the yacht of a millionaire business man, havingcome on from his ranch in the desert, and presumptively--to add thetouch of godhead--a millionaire himself. 

"The stinking liars!" said Andreas. 

"That settles it, " declared Mr. Gordon. "We'll give the facts plainlyand without sensationalism; but all the facts. "

"Including Mr. Banneker's connection here?" inquired Mr. Greenough. 

"Certainly. "

The other evening papers, more honest than The Evening New Yorker, admitted, though, as it were, regretfully and in an inconspicuous finaleto their accounts that the central figure of the sensation was only areporter. But the fact of his being guest on a yacht was magnified andglorified. 

At five o'clock Banneker arrived, having been bailed out after somedifficulty, for the police were frightened and ugly, foreseeing thatthis swift vengeance upon the notorious gang, meted out by a privatehand, would throw a vivid light upon their own inefficiency andcomplaisance. Happily the District Attorney's office was engaged in oneof its periodical feuds with the Police Department over some matter ofgraft gone astray, and was more inclined to make a cat's-paw than avictim out of Banneker. 

Though inwardly strung to a high pitch, for the police officials hadkept him sleepless through the night by their habitual inquisition, Banneker held himself well in hand as he went to the City Desk to reportgravely that he had been unable to come earlier. 

"So we understand, Mr. Banneker, " said Mr. Greenough, his placidfeatures for once enlivened. "That was a good job you did. Icongratulate you. "

"Thank you, Mr. Greenough, " returned Banneker. "I had to do it or getdone. And, at that, it wasn't much of a trick. They were a yellow lot. "

"Very likely: very likely. You've handled a gun before. "

"Only in practice. "

"Ever shot anybody before?"

"No, sir. "

"How does it feel?" inquired the city editor, turning his pale eyes onthe other and fussing nervously with his fingers. 

"At first you want to go on killing, " answered Banneker. "Then, whenit's over, there's a big let-down. It doesn't seem as if it were you. "He paused and added boyishly: "The evening papers are making an awfulfuss over it. "

"What do you expect? It isn't every day that a Wild West Show with realbullets and blood is staged in this effete town. "

"Of course I knew there'd be a kick-up about it, " admitted Banneker. "But, some way--well, in the West, if a gang gets shot up, there's quitea bit of talk for a while, and the boys want to buy the drinks for thefellow that does it, but it doesn't spread all over the front pages. Isuppose I still have something of the Western view. . . . How much did youwant of this, Mr. Greenough?" he concluded in a business-like tone. 

"You are not doing the story, Mr. Banneker. Tommy Burt is. "

"I'm not writing it? Not any of it?"

"Certainly not. You're the hero"--there was a hint of elongation of thefirst syllable which might have a sardonic connotation from those paleand placid lips--"not the historian. Burt will interview you. "

"A Patriot reporter has already. I gave him a statement. "

Mr. Greenough frowned. "It would have been as well to have waited. However. "

"Oh, Banneker, " put in Mallory, "Judge Enderby wants you to call at hisoffice. "

"Who's Judge Enderby?"

"Chief Googler of the Goo-Goos; the Law Enforcement Society lot. Theycall him the ablest honest lawyer in New York. He's an old crab. Hatesthe newspapers, particularly us. "

"Why?"

"He cherishes some theory, " said Mr. Greenough in his most tonelessvoice, "that a newspaper ought to be conducted solely in the interestsof people like himself. "

"Is there any reason why I should go chasing around to see him?"

"That's as you choose. He doesn't see reporters often. Perhaps it wouldbe as well. "

"His outfit are after the police, " explained Mallory. "That's what hewants you for. It's part of their political game. Always politics. "

"Well, he can wait until to-morrow, I suppose, " remarked Bannekerindifferently. 

Greenough examined him with impenetrable gaze. This was a very cavalierattitude toward Judge Willis Enderby. For Enderby was a man of realpower. He might easily have been the most munificently paid corporationattorney in the country but for the various kinds of business which hewould not, in his own homely phrase, "poke at with a burnt stick. "Notwithstanding his prejudices, he was confidential legal adviser, inpersonal and family affairs, to a considerable percentage of theimportant men and women of New York. He was supposed to be the only manwho could handle that bull-elephant of finance, ruler of Wall Street, and, when he chose to give it his contemptuous attention, dictator, through his son and daughters, of the club and social world of New York, old Poultney Masters, in the apoplectic rages into which the slightestthwart to his will plunged him. To Enderby's adroitness the financier(one of whose pet vanities was a profound and wholly baseless faith inhimself as a connoisseur of art) owed it that he had not become alaughing-stock through his purchase of a pair of particularly flagrantMurillos, planted for his special behoof by a gang of clever Italianswindlers. Rumor had it that when Enderby had privately summed up hisclient's case for his client's benefit before his client as referee, inthese words: "And, Mr. Masters, if you act again in these matterswithout consulting me, you must find another lawyer; I cannot affordfools for clients"--they had to call in a physician and resort to theancient expedient of bleeding, to save the great man's cerebral arteriesfrom bursting. 

Toward the public press, Enderby's attitude was the exact reverse ofHorace Vanney's. For himself, he unaffectedly disliked and despisedpublicity; for the interests which he represented, he delegated it toothers. He would rarely be interviewed; his attitude toward thenewspapers was consistently repellent. Consequently his infrequentutterances were treasured as pearls, and given a prominence far abovethose of the too eager and over-friendly Mr. Vanney, who, incidentally, was his associate on the directorate of the Law Enforcement Society. Thenewspapers did not like Willis Enderby any more than he liked them. Butthey cherished for him an unrequited respect. 

That a reporter, a nobody of yesterday whose association with The Ledgerconstituted his only claim to any status whatever, should professindifference to a summons from a man of Enderby's position, suggestedaffectation to Mr. Greenough's suspicions. Young Mr. Banneker's head wasalready swelling, was it? Very well; in the course of time and hisduties, Mr. Greenough would apply suitable remedies. 

If Banneker were, indeed, taking a good conceit of himself from theconspicuous position achieved so unexpectedly, the morning papers didnothing to allay it. Most of them slurred over, as lightly as possible, the fact of his journalistic connection; as in the evening editions, theyacht feature was kept to the fore. There were two exceptions. TheLedger itself, in a colorless and straightforward article, franklyidentified the hero of the episode, in the introductory sentence, as amember of its city staff, and his host of the yacht as anotherjournalist. But there was one notable omission about which Bannekerdetermined to ask Tommy Burt as soon as he could see him. The Patriot, most sensational of the morning issues, splurged wildly under thecaption, "Yacht Guest Cleans Out Gang Which Cowed Police. " The Sphere, in an editorial, demanded a sweeping and honest investigation of theconditions which made life unsafe in the greatest of cities. The Spherewas always demanding sweeping and honest investigations, and notinfrequently getting them. In Greenough's opinion this undesirableresult was likely to be achieved now. To Mr. Gordon he said:

"We ought to shut down all we can on the Banneker follow-up. Aninvestigation with our man as prosecuting witness would put us in theposition of trying to reform the police, and would play into the handsof the Enderby crowd. "

The managing editor shook a wise and grizzled head. "If The Patriotkeeps up its whooping and The Sphere its demanding, the administrationwill have to do something. After all, Mr. Greenough, things have becomepretty unendurable in the Murder Precinct. "

"That's true. But the signed statement of Banneker's in ThePatriot--it's really an interview faked up as a statement--is a savageattack on the whole administration. "

"I understand, " remarked Mr. Gordon, "that they were going to beat himup scientifically in the station house when Smith came in and scaredthem out of it. "

"Yes. Banneker is pretty angry over it. You can't blame him. But that'sno reason why we should alienate the city administration. . . . Then youthink, Mr. Gordon, that we'll have to keep the story running?"

"I think, Mr. Greenough, that we'll have to give the news, " answered themanaging editor austerely. "Where is Banneker now?"

"With Judge Enderby, I believe. In case of an investigation he won't bemuch use to us until it's over. "

"Can't be helped, " returned Mr. Gordon serenely. "We'll stand by ourman. "

Banneker had gone to the old-fashioned offices of Enderby and Enderby, in a somewhat inimical frame of mind. Expectant of an invitation to aidthe Law Enforcement Society in cleaning up a pest-hole of crime, he washalf determined to have as little to do with it as possible. Overnightconsideration had developed in him the theory that the function of anewspaper is informative, not reformative; that when a newspaper man hascorrectly adduced and frankly presented the facts, his social as well ashis professional duty is done. Others might hew out the trail thusblazed; the reporter, bearing his searchlight, should pass on to otherdark spots. All his theories evaporated as soon as he confronted JudgeEnderby, forgotten in the interest inspired by the man. 

A portrait painter once said of Willis Enderby that his face was that ofa saint, illumined, not by inspiration, but by shrewdness. With hissensitiveness to beauty of whatever kind, Banneker felt theextraordinary quality of the face, beneath its grim outline, interpreting it from the still depth of the quiet eyes rather than fromthe stern mouth and rather tyrannous nose. He was prepared for an abruptand cold manner, and was surprised when the lawyer rose to shake hands, giving him a greeting of courtly congratulation upon his courage andreadiness. If the purpose of this was to get Banneker to expand, as hesuspected, it failed. The visitor sensed the cold reserve behind thesmile. 

"Would you be good enough to run through this document?" requested thelawyer, motioning Banneker to a seat opposite himself, and handing him abrief synopsis of what the Law Enforcement Society hoped to proveregarding police laxity. 

Exercising that double faculty of mind which later became a part of theBanneker legend in New York journalism, the reader, whilst absorbing themain and quite simple points of the report, recalled an instance inwhich an Atkinson and St. Philip ticket agent had been maneuvered into aposture facing a dazzling sunset, and had adjusted his vision to find itfocused upon the barrel of a 45. Without suspecting the Judge of hold-updesigns, he nevertheless developed a parallel. Leaving his chair hewalked over and sat by the window. Halfway through the document, hequietly laid it aside and returned the lawyer's studious regard. 

"Have you finished?" asked Judge Enderby. 

"No. "

"You do not find it interesting?"

"Less interesting than your idea in giving it to me. "

"What do you conceive that to have been?"

By way of reply, Banneker cited the case of Tim Lake, the robbed agent. "I think, " he added with a half smile, "that you and I will do better inthe open. "

"I think so, too. Mr. Banneker, are you honest?"

"Where I came from, that would be regarded as a trouble-hunter'squestion. "

"I ask you to regard it as important and take it without offense. "

"I don't know about that, " returned Banneker gravely. "We'll see. Honest, you say. Are you?"

"Yes. "

"Then why do you begin by doubting the honesty of a stranger againstwhom you know nothing?"

"Legal habit, I dare say. Fortified, in this case, by your associationwith The Ledger. "

"You haven't a high opinion of my paper?"

"The very highest, of its adroitness and expertness. It can make thebetter cause appear the worse with more skill than any other journal inAmerica. "

"I thought that was the specialty of lawyers. "

Judge Enderby accepted the touch with a smile. 

"A lawyer is an avowed special pleader. He represents one side. Anewspaper is supposed to be without bias and to present the facts forthe information of its one client, the public. You will readilyappreciate the difference. "

"I do. Then you don't consider The Ledger honest. "

Judge Enderby's composed glance settled upon the morning's issue, spreadupon his desk. "I have, I assume, the same opinion of The Ledger'shonesty that you have. "

"Do you mind explaining that to me quite simply, so that I shall be sureto understand it?" invited Banneker. 

"You have read the article about your exploit?"

"Yes. "

"Is that honest?"

"It is as accurate a job as I've ever known done. "

"Granted. Is it honest?"

"I don't know, " answered the other after a pause. "I intend to findout. "

"You intend to find out why it is so reticent on every point that mightimpugn the police, I take it. I could tell you; but yours is the betterway. You gave the same interview to your own paper that you gave to ThePatriot, I assume. By the way, what a commentary on journalism that themost scurrilous sheet in New York should have given the fullest andfrankest treatment to the subject; a paper written by the dregs of ParkRow for the reading of race-track touts and ignorant servant girls!"

"Yes; I gave them the same interview. It may have been crowded out--"

"For lack of space, " supplied Enderby in a tone which the other heartilydisliked. "Mr. Banneker, I thought that this was to be in the open. "

"I'm wrong, " confessed the other. "I'll know by this evening why thepolice part was handled that way, and if it was policy--" He stopped, considering. 

"Well?" prompted the other. 

"I'll go through to the finish with your committee. "

"You're as good as pledged, " retorted the lawyer. "I shall expect tohear from you. "

As soon as he could find Tommy Burt, Banneker put to him the directquestion. "What is the matter with the story as I gave it to you?"

Burt assumed an air of touching innocence. "The story had to be handledwith great care, " he explained blandly. 

"Come off, Tommy. Didn't you write the police part?"

Tommy Burl's eyes denoted the extreme of candor. "It was suggested to methat your views upon the police, while interesting and even important, might be misunderstood. "

"Is _that_ so? And who made the suggestion?"

"An all-wise city desk. "

"Thank you. Tommy. "

"The Morning Ledger, " volunteered Tommy Burt, "has a high andwell-merited reputation for its fidelity to the principles of truth andfairness and to the best interests of the reading public. It never givesthe public any news to play with that it thinks the dear little thingought not to have. Did you say anything? No? Well; you meant it. You'rewrong. The Ledger is the highest-class newspaper in New York. We are theElect!"

In his first revulsion of anger, Banneker was for going to Mr. Greenoughand having it out with him. If it meant his resignation, very good. Hewas ready to look his job in the eye and tell it to go to hell. Turningthe matter over in his mind, however, he decided upon another course. Sofar as the sensational episode of which he was the central figure went, he would regard himself consistently as a private citizen with noresponsibility whatsoever to The Ledger. Let the paper print or suppresswhat it chose; his attitude toward it would be identical with hisattitude toward the other papers. Probably the office powers wouldheartily disapprove of his having any dealings with Enderby and his LawEnforcement Society. Let them! He telephoned a brief but final messageto Enderby and Enderby. When, late that night, Mr. Gordon called him overand suggested that it was highly desirable to let the whole affair dropout of public notice as soon as the startling facts would permit, hereplied that Judge Enderby had already arranged to push aninvestigation. 

"Doubtless, " observed the managing editor. "It is his specialty. Butwithout your evidence they can't go far. "

"They can have my evidence. "

Mr. Gordon, who had been delicately balancing his letter-opener, nowdelivered a whack of such unthinking ferocity upon his fat knuckle as toproduce a sharp pang. He gazed in surprise and reproach upon the achingthumb and something of those emotions informed the regard which heturned slowly upon Banneker. 

Mr. Gordon's frame of mind was unenviable. The Inside Room, moved byesoteric considerations, political and, more remotely, financial, hadissued to him a managerial ukase; no police investigation if it could beavoided. Now, news was the guise in which Mr. Gordon sincerely worshipedTruth, the God. But Mammon, in the Inside Room, held the purse-stringsMr. Gordon had arrived at his honorable and well-paid position, not bywisdom alone, but also by compromise. Here was a situation where newsmust give way to the more essential interests of the paper. 

"Mr. Banneker, " he said, "that investigation will take a great deal ofyour time; more, I fear, than the paper can afford to give you. "

"They will arrange to put me on the stand in the mornings. "

"Further, any connection between a Ledger man and the Enderby Committeeis undesirable and injudicious. "

"I'm sorry, " answered Banneker simply. "I've said I'd go through withit. "

Mr. Gordon selected a fresh knuckle for his modified drumming. "Have youconsidered your duty to the paper, Mr. Banneker? If not, I advise you todo so. " The careful manner, more than the words, implied threat. 

Banneker leaned forward as if for a confidential communication, as helapsed into a gross Westernism:

"Mr. Gordon, _I_ am paying for this round of drinks. "

Somehow the managing editor received the impression that this remark, delivered in just that tone of voice and in its own proper environment, was usually accompanied by a smooth motion of the hand toward the pistolholster. 

Banneker, after asking whether there was anything more, and receiving adispleased shake of the head, went away. 

"Now, " said he to the waiting Tommy Burt, "they'll probably fire me. "

"Let 'em! You can get plenty of other jobs. But I don't think they will. Old Gordon is really with you. It makes him sick to have to doctornews. "

Sleepless until almost morning, Banneker reviewed in smallest detail hisdecision and the situation to which it had led. He thought that he hadtaken the right course. He felt that Miss Camilla would approve. JudgeEnderby's personality, he recognized, had exerted some influence uponhis decision. He had conceived for the lawyer an instinctive respect andliking. There was about him a power of attraction, not readilydefinable, but seeming mysteriously to assert some hidden claim from thepast. 

Where had he seen that fine and still face before?

CHAPTER IX

Sequels of a surprising and diverse character followed Banneker's suddenfame. The first to manifest itself was disconcerting. On the Wednesdayfollowing the fight on the pier, Mrs. Brashear intercepted him in thehallway. 

"I'm sure we all admire what you did, Mr. Banneker, " she began, inevident trepidation. 

The subject of this eulogy murmured something deprecatory. 

"It was very brave of you. Most praiseworthy. We appreciate it, all ofus. Yes, indeed. It's very painful, Mr. Banneker. I never expectedto--to--indeed, I couldn't have believed--" Mrs. Brashear's plump littlehands made gestures so fluttery and helpless that her lodger was movedto come to her aid. 

"What's the matter, Mrs. Brashear? What's troubling you?"

"If you could make it convenient, " said she tremulously, "when yourmonth is up. I shouldn't think of asking you before. "

"Are you giving me notice?" he inquired in amazement. 

"If you don't mind, please. The notoriety, the--the--your beingarrested. You were arrested, weren't you?"

"Oh, yes. But the coroner's jury cleared--"

"Such a thing never happened to any of my guests before. To have myhouse in the police records, " wept Mrs. Brashear. "Really, Mr. Banneker, really! You can't know how it hurts one's pride. "

"I'll go next week, " said the evicted one, divided between amusement andannoyance, and retired to escape another outburst of grief. 

Now that the matter was presented to him, he was rather glad to beleaving. Quarters somewhere in mid-town, more in consonance with hisaugmented income, suggested themselves as highly desirable. Since theaffray he had been the object of irksome attentions from his fellowlodgers. It is difficult to say whether he found the more unendurableyoung Wickert's curiosity regarding details, Hainer's pompous adulation, or Lambert's admiring but jocular attitude. The others deemed it theirduty never to refrain from some reference to the subject wherever andwhenever they encountered him. The one exception was Miss Westlake. Shecongratulated him once, quietly but with warm sincerity; and when nextshe came to his door, dealt with another topic. 

"Mrs. Brashear tells me that you are leaving, Mr. Banneker. "

"Did she tell you why? That she has fired me out?"

"No. She didn't. "

Banneker, a little surprised and touched at the landlady's reticence, explained. 

"Ah, well, " commented Miss Westlake, "you would soon have outgrown us inany case. "

"I'm not so sure. Where one lives doesn't so much matter. And I'm acreature of habit. "

"I think that you are going to be a very big man, Mr. Banneker. "

"Do you?" He smiled down at her. "Now, why?"

She did not answer his smile. "You've got power, " she replied. "And youhave mastered your medium--or gone far toward it. "

"I'm grateful for your good opinion, " he began courteously; but shebroke in on him, shaking her head. 

"If it were mine alone, it wouldn't matter. It's the opinion of thosewho know. Mr. Banneker, I've been taking a liberty. "

"You're the last person in the world to do that, I should think, " hereplied smilingly. 

"But I have. You may remember my asking you once when those littlesketches that I retyped so often were to be published. "

"Yes. I never did anything with them. "

"I did. I showed them to Violet Thornborough. She is an old friend. "

Ignorant of the publication world outside of Park Row, Banneker did notrecognize a name, unknown to the public, which in the inner literaryworld connoted all that was finest, most perceptive, most discriminatingand helpful in selective criticism. Miss Thornborough had been the firstto see and foster half of the glimmering and feeble radiances which hadlater grown to be the manifest lights of the magazine and book world, thanks largely to her aid and encouragement. The next name mentioned byMiss Westlake was well enough known to Banneker, however. The critic, itappears, had, with her own hands, borne the anonymous, typed copies tothe editorial sanctum of the foremost of monthlies, and, claiming aprerogative, refused to move aside from the pathway of orderly businessuntil the Great Gaines himself, editor and autocrat of the publication, had read at least one of them. So the Great Gaines indulged MissThornborough by reading one. He then indulged himself by reading threemore. 

"Your goose, " he pronounced, "is not fledged; but there may be a fringeof swan feathers. Bring him to see me. "

"I haven't the faintest idea of who, what, or where he is, " answered theinsistent critic. 

"Then hire a detective at our expense, " smiled the editor. "And, please, as you go, can't you lure away with you Mr. Harvey Wheelwright, our mostpopular novelist, now in the reception-room wishing us to publish hislatest enormity? Us!" concluded the Great Gaines sufficiently. 

Having related the episode to its subject, Miss Westlake saiddiffidently: "Do you think it was inexcusably impertinent of me?"

"No. I think it was very kind. "

"Then you'll go to see Mr. Gaines?"

"One of these days. When I get out of this present scrape. And I hopeyou'll keep on copying my Sunday stuff after I leave. Nobody else wouldbe so patient with my dreadful handwriting. "

She gave him a glance and a little flush of thankfulness. Matters hadbegun to improve with Miss Westlake. But it was due to Banneker that shehad won through her time of desperation. Now, through his suggestion, she was writing successfully, quarter and half column "general interest"articles for the Woman's Page of the Sunday Ledger. If she could in turnhelp Banneker to recognition, part of her debt would be paid. As forhim, he was interested in, but not greatly expectant of, the Gainesinvitation. Still, if he were cast adrift from The Ledger because ofactivity in the coming police inquiry, there was a possible port in themagazine world. 

Meantime there pressed the question of a home. Cressey ought to affordhelp on that. He called the gilded youth on the telephone. 

"Hello, old fire-eater!" cried Cressey. "Some little hero, aren't you!Bully work, my boy. I'm proud to know you. . . . What; quarters? Easiestthing you know. I've got the very thing--just like a real-estate agent. Let's see; this is your Monday at Sherry's, isn't it? All right. I'llmeet you there. "

Providentially, as it might appear, a friend of Cressey's, havingsecured a diplomatic appointment, was giving up his bachelor apartmentin the select and central Regalton. 

"Cheap as dirt, " said the enthusiastic Cressey, beaming at Banneker overhis cocktail that evening. "Two rooms and bath; fully furnished, and youcan get it for eighteen hundred a year. "

"Quite a raise from the five dollars a week I've been paying, " smiledBanneker. 

"Pshaw! You've got to live up to your new reputation. You're somebody, now, Banneker. All New York is talking about you. Why, I'm afraid to sayI know you for fear they'll think I'm bragging. "

"All of which doesn't increase my income, " pointed out the other. 

"It will. Just wait. One way or another you'll capitalize thatreputation. That's the way New York is. "

"That isn't the way _I_ am, however. I'll capitalize my brains andability, if I've got 'em; not my gun-play. "

"Your gun-play will advertise your brains and ability, then, " retortedCressey. "Nobody expects you to make a princely income shooting uptoughs on the water-front. But your having done it will put you in thelime-light where people will notice you. And being noticed is thebeginning of success in this-man's-town. I'm not sure it isn't the end, too. Just see how the head waiter fell all over himself when you camein. I expect he's telling that bunch at the long table yonder who youare now. "

"Let him, " returned Banneker comfortably, his long-bred habit ofun-self-consciousness standing him in good stead. "They'll all forget itsoon enough. "

As he glanced over at the group around the table, the man who wasapparently acting as host caught his eye and nodded in friendly fashion. 

"Oh, you know Marrineal, do you?" asked Cressey in surprise. 

"I've seen him, but I've never spoken to him. He dines sometimes in aqueer little restaurant way downtown, just off the Swamp. Who is he, anyway?"

"Puzzle. Nobody in the clubs knows him. He's a spender. Bit of arounder, too, I expect. Plays the Street, and beats it, too. "

"Who's the little beauty next him?"

"You a rising light of Park Row, and not know Betty Raleigh? She killed'em dead in London in romantic comedy and now she's come back here torepeat. "

"Oh, yes. Opening to-night, isn't she? I've got a seat. " He looked overat Marrineal, who was apparently protesting against his neighbor'sreversed wine-glass. "So that's Mr. Marrineal's little style of game, isit?" He spoke crudely, for the apparition of the girl was quite touchingin its youth, and delight, and candor of expression, whereas he had readinto Marrineal's long, handsome, and blandly mature face a touch of thesatyr. He resented the association. 

"No; it isn't, " replied Cressey promptly. "If it is, he's in the wrongpew. Miss Raleigh is straight as they make 'em, from all I hear. "

"She looks it, " admitted Banneker. 

"At that, she's in a rather sporty lot. Do you know that chap threeseats to her left?"

Banneker considered the diner, a round-faced, high-colored, youthful manof perhaps thirty-five, with a roving and merry eye. "No, " he answered. "I never saw him before. "

"That's Del Eyre, " remarked Cressey casually, and appearing not to lookat Banneker. 

"A friend of yours?" The indifference of the tone indicated to hiscompanion either that Banneker did not identify Delavan Eyre by hismarriage, or that he maintained extraordinary control over himself, orthat the queer, romantic stories of Io Welland's "passion in the desert"were gross exaggerations. Cressey inclined to the latter belief. 

"Not specially, " he answered the question. "He belongs to a couple of myclubs. Everybody likes Del; even Mrs. Del. But his pace is too swift forme. Just at present he is furnishing transportation, sixty horse-power, for Tarantina, the dancer who is featured in Betty Raleigh's show. "

"Is she over there with them?"

"Oh, no. She wouldn't be. It isn't as sporty as all that. " He rose toshake hands with a short, angular young man, dressed to a perfection asaccurate as Banneker's own, and excelling him in one distinctive touch, a coat-flower of gold-and-white such as no other in New York could wear, since only in one conservatory was that special orchid successfullygrown. By it Banneker recognized Poultney Masters, Jr. , the son and heirof the tyrannous old financier who had for years bullied and browbeatenNew York to his wayward old heart's content. In his son there wasnothing of the bully, but through the amiability of manner Bannekercould feel a quiet force. Cressey introduced them. 

"We're just having coffee, " said Banneker. "Will you join us?"

"Thank you; I must go back to my party. I came over to express mypersonal obligation to you for cleaning out that gang of wharf-rats. Myboat anchors off there. I hope to see you aboard her sometime. "

"You owe me no thanks, " returned Banneker good-humoredly. "What I did wasto save my own precious skin. "

"The effect was the same. After this the rats will suspect every man ofbeing a Banneker in disguise, and we shall have no more trouble. "

"You see!" remarked Cressey triumphantly as Masters went away. "I toldyou you'd arrived. "

"Do you count a word of ordinary courtesy as so much?" inquiredBanneker, surprised and amused. 

"From Junior? I certainly do. No Masters ever does anything withouthaving figured out its exact meaning in advance. "

"And what does this mean?" asked the other, still unimpressed. 

"For one thing, that the Masters influence will be back of you, if thepolice try to put anything over. For another, that you've got thebroadest door to society open to you, if Junior follows up his hintabout the yacht. "

"I haven't the time, " returned Banneker with honest indifference. Hesipped his coffee thoughtfully. "Cressey, " he said, "if I had anewspaper of my own in New York, do you know what I'd do with it?"

"Make money. "

"I hope so. But whether I did or not, I'd set out to puncture thatbubble of the Masters power and supremacy. It isn't right for any man tohave that power just through money. It isn't American. "

"The old man would smash your paper in six months. "

"Maybe. Maybe not. Nobody has ever taken a shot at him yet. He may bemore vulnerable than he looks. . . . Speaking of money, I suppose I'dbetter take that apartment. God knows how I'll pay for it, especially ifI lose my job. "

"If you lose your job I'll get you a better one on Wall Streetto-morrow. "

"On the strength of Poultney Masters, Jr. , shaking hands with me, Isuppose. "

"Practically. It may not get into your newspapers, but the Street willknow all about it to-morrow. "

"It's a queer city. And it's a queer way to get on in it, by being quickon the trigger. Well, I'm off for the theater. "

Between acts, Banneker, walking out to get air, was conscious of beingthe object of comment and demonstration. He heard his name spoken inhalf whispers; saw nods and jerks of the head; was an involuntaryeavesdropper upon a heated discussion; "That's the man. "--"No; it ain't. The paper says he's a big feller. "--"This guy ain't a reporter. Pipe hisclothes. "--"Well, he's big if you size him right. Look at hisshoulders. "--"I'll betcha ten he ain't the man. " And an apologetic youngfellow ran after him to ask if he was not, in truth, Mr. Banneker of TheLedger. Being no more than human, he experienced a feeling of mildexcitation over all this. But no sooner had the curtain risen on thesecond act than he quite forgot himself and his notoriety in the freshcharm of the comedy, and the delicious simplicity of Betty Raleigh asthe heroine. That the piece was destined to success was plain, even soearly. As the curtain fell again, and the star appeared, dragging afterher a long, gaunt, exhausted, alarmed man in horn-rimmed spectacles, whohad been lurking in a corner suffering from incipient nervous breakdownand illusions of catastrophe, he being the author, the body of the houserose and shouted. A hand fell on Banneker's shoulder. 

"Come behind at the finish?" said a voice. 

Turning, Banneker met the cynical and near-sighted eyes of Gurney, TheLedger's dramatic critic, with whom he had merely a noddingacquaintance, as Gurney seldom visited the office except at off-hours. 

"Yes; I'd like to, " he answered. 

"Little Betty spotted you and has been demanding that the managementbring you back for inspection. "

"The play is a big success, isn't it?"

"I give it a year's run, " returned the critic authoritatively. "Laurencehas written it to fit Raleigh like a glove. She's all they said of herin London. And when she left here a year ago, she was just a fairly good_ingénue_. However, she's got brains, which is the next best thing inthe theatrical game to marriage with the manager--or near-marriage. "

Banneker, considering Gurney's crow-footed and tired leer, decided thathe did not like the critic much. 

Back-of-curtain after a successful opening provides a hectic andscrambled scene to the unaccustomed eye. Hastily presented to a fewpeople, Banneker drifted to one side and, seating himself on a wirechair, contentedly assumed the role of onlooker. The air was full oflaughter and greetings and kisses; light-hearted, offhand, gratulatorykisses which appeared to be the natural currency of felicitation. BettyRaleigh, lovely, flushed, and athrill with nervous exaltation, flung hima smile as she passed, one hand hooked in the arm of her leading man. 

"You're coming to supper with us later, " she called. 

"Am I?" said Banneker. 

"Of course. I've got something to ask you. " She spoke as one expectantof unquestioning obedience: this was her night of glory and power. 

Whether he had been previously bidden in through Gurney, or whether thischance word constituted his invitation, he did not know. Seekingenlightenment upon the point, he discovered that the critic haddisappeared, to furnish his half-column for the morning issue. LaTarantina, hearing his inquiry, gave him the news in her broken English. The dancer, lithe, powerful, with the hideous feet and knotty legstypical of her profession, turned her somber, questioning eyes on thestranger:

"You air Monsieur Ban-kerr, who shoot, n'est-ce-pas?" she inquired. 

"My name is Banneker, " he replied. 

"Weel you be ver' good an' shoot sahmbody for me?"

"With pleasure, " he said, laughing; "if you'll plead for me with thejury. "

"Zen here he iss. " She stretched a long and, as it seemed, blatantlynaked arm into a group near by and drew forth the roundish man whomCressey had pointed out at Marrineal's dinner party. "He would beunfaithful to me, ziss one. "

"I? Never!" denied the accused. He set a kiss in the hollow of thedancer's wrist. "How d'ye do, Mr. Banneker, " he added, holding out hishand. "My name is Eyre. "

"But yess!" cried the dancer. "He--what you say it?--he r-r-r-rave overMiss R-r-raleigh. He make me jealous. He shall be shoot at sunrice an' Iweel console me wiz his shooter. "

"Charming programme!" commented the doomed man. It struck Banneker thathe had probably been drinking a good deal, also that he was a verylikeable person, indeed. "If you don't mind my asking, where the devildid you learn to shoot like that?"

"Oh, out West where I came from. I used to practice on the pine trees ata little water-tank station called Manzanita". 

"Manzanita!" repeated the other. "By God!" He swore softly, and staredat the other. 

Banneker was annoyed. Evidently the gossip of which Io's girl friend hadhinted that other night at Sherry's had obtained wide currency. Beforethe conversation could go any further, even had it been likely to afterthat surprising check, one of the actors came over. He played the partof an ex-cowboy, who, in the bar-room scene, shot his way out of dangerthrough a circle of gang-men, and he was now seeking from Bannekerostensibly pointers, actually praise. 

"Say, old man, " he began without introduction. "Gimme a tip or two. Howdo you get your hand over for your gun without giving yourself away?"

"Just dive for it, as you do in the play. You do it plenty quick enough. You'd get the drop on me ten times out of ten, " returned Bannekerpleasantly, leaving the gratified actor with the conviction that he hadbeen talking with the coming dramatic critic of the age. 

For upwards of an hour there was carnival on the dismantling stage, mingled with the hurried toil of scene-shifters and the clean-up gang. Then the impromptu party began to disperse, Eyre going away with thedancer, after coming to bid Banneker good-night, with a look of veiledcuriosity and interest which its object could not interpret. Bannekerwas gathered into the _corps intime_ of Miss Raleigh's supper party, including the author of the play, an elderly first-nighter, two or threedramatic critics, Marrineal, who had drifted in, late, and half a dozenof the company. The men outnumbered the women, as is usual in suchaffairs, and Banneker found himself seated between the playwright and ahandsome, silent girl who played with distinction the part of an elderlywoman. There was wine in profusion, but he noticed that the player-folkdrank sparingly. Condition, he correctly surmised, was part of theirstock in trade. As it should be part of his also. 

Late in the supper's course, there was a shifting of seats, and he waslanded next to the star. 

"I suppose you're bored stiff with talking about the shooting, " shesaid, at once. 

"I am, rather. Wouldn't you be?"

"I? Publicity is the breath of life to us, " she laughed. "You deal init, so you don't care for it. "

"That's rather shrewd in you. I'm not sure that the logic is sound. "

"Anyway, I'm not going to bore you with your fame. But I want you to dosomething for me. "

"It is done, " he said solemnly. 

"How prettily you pay compliments! There is to be a policeinvestigation, isn't there?"

"Probably. "

"Could you get me in?"

"Yes, indeed!"

"Then I want to come when you're on the stand. "

"Great goodness! Why?"

"Why, if you want a reason, " she answered mischievously, "say that Iwant to bring good luck to your _première_, as you brought it to mine. "

"I'll probably make a sorry showing. Perhaps you would give me sometraining. "

She answered in kind, and the acquaintanceship was progressing mostfavorably when a messenger of the theater manager's office staffappeared with early editions of the morning papers. Instantly everyother interest was submerged. 

"Give me The Ledger, " demanded Betty. "I want to see what Gurney says. "

"Something pleasant surely, " said Banneker. "He told me that the playwas an assured success. "

As she read, Betty's vivacious face sparkled. Presently her expressionchanged. She uttered a little cry of disgust and rage. 

"What's the matter?" inquired the author. 

"Gurney is up to his smartnesses again, " she replied. "Listen. Isn'tthis enraging!" She read:

"As for the play itself, it is formed, fashioned, and finished in thecleverest style of tailor-made, to Miss Raleigh's charming personality. One must hail Mr. Laurence as chief of our sartorial playwrights. Noactress ever boasted a neater fit. Can you not picture him, all nicelittle enthusiasms and dainty devices, bustling about his fairpatroness, tape in hand, mouth bristling with pins, smoothing out awrinkle here, adjusting a line there, achieving his little _chefd'oeuvre_ of perfect tailoring? We have had playwrights who wereblacksmiths, playwrights who were costumers, playwrights who weremusical-boxes, playwrights who were, if I may be pardoned, garbageincinerators. It remained, for Mr. Laurence to show us what can be donewith scissors, needle, and a nice taste in frills. 

"I think it's mean and shameful!" proclaimed the reader in generousrage. 

"But he gives you a splendid send-off, Miss Raleigh, " said her leadingman, who, reading over her shoulder, had discovered that he, too, washandsomely treated. 

"I don't care if he does!" cried Betty. "He's a pig!"

Her manager, possessed of a second copy of The Ledger, now made aweighty contribution to the discussion. "Just the same, this'll helpsell out the house. It's full of stuff we can lift to paper the townwith. "

He indicated several lines heartily praising Miss Raleigh and the cast, and one which, wrenched from its satirical context, was made to give anequally favorable opinion of the play. Something of Banneker'sastonishment at this cavalier procedure must have been reflected in hisface, for Marrineal, opposite, turned to him with a look of amusement. 

"What's your view of that, Mr. Banneker?"

"Mine?" said Banneker promptly. "I think it's crooked. What's yours?"

"Still quick on the trigger, " murmured the other, but did not answer thereturn query. 

Replies in profusion came from the rest, however. "It isn't anycrookeder than the review. "--"D'you call that fair criticism!"--"Gurney!He hasn't an honest hair in his head. "--"Every other critic is strongfor it; this is the only knock. "--"What did Laurence ever do to Gurney?"

Out of the welter of angry voices came Betty Raleigh's clear speech, addressed to Banneker. 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Banneker; I'd forgotten that The Ledger is your paper. "

"Oh, The Ledger ain't any worse than the rest of 'em, take it day in andday out, " the manager remarked, busily penciling apposite texts foradvertising, on the margin of Gurney's critique. 

"It isn't fair, " continued the star. "A man spends a year working over aplay--it was more than a year on this, wasn't it, Denny?" she broke offto ask the author. 

Laurence nodded. He looked tired and a little bored, Banneker thought. 

"And a critic has a happy thought and five minutes to think it over, andwrites something mean and cruel and facetious, and perhaps undoes awhole year's work. Is that right?"

"They ought to bar him from the theater, " declared one of the women inthe cast. 

"And what do you think of _that_?" inquired Marrineal, still addressingBanneker. 

Banneker laughed. "Admit only those who wear the bright and burnishedbadge of the Booster, " he said. "Is that the idea?"

"Nobody objects to honest criticism, " began Betty Raleigh heatedly, andwas interrupted by a mild but sardonic "Hear! Hear!" from one of themagazine reviewers. 

"Honest players don't object to honest criticism, then, " she amended. "It's the unfairness that hurts. "

"All of which appears to be based on the assumption that it isimpossible for Mr. Gurney honestly to have disliked Mr. Laurence'splay, " pointed out Banneker. "Now, delightful as it seemed to me, I canconceive that to other minds--"

"Of course he could honestly dislike it, " put in the playwright hastily. "It isn't that. "

"It's the mean, slurring way he treated it, " said the star "Mr. Banneker, just what did he say to you about it?"

Swiftly there leapt to his recollection the critic's words, at the closeof the second act. "It's a relief to listen for once to comedy that issincere and direct. " . . . Then why, why--"He said that you were all thatthe play required and the play was all that you required, " he answered, which was also true, but another part of the truth. He was not minded tobetray his associate. 

"He's rotten, " murmured the manager, now busy on the margin of anotherpaper. "But I dunno as he's any rottener than the rest. "

"On behalf of the profession of journalism, we thank you, Bezdek, " saidone of the critics. 

"Don't mind old Bez, " put in the elderly first-nighter. "He always sayswhat he thinks he means, but he usually doesn't mean it. "

"That is perhaps just as well, " said Banneker quite quietly, "if hemeans that The Ledger is not straight. "

"I didn't say The Ledger. I said Gurney. He's crooked as a corkscrew'shole. "

There was a murmur of protest and apprehension, for this was goingrather too far, which Banneker's voice stilled. "Just a minute. By thatyou mean that he takes bribes?"

"Naw!" snorted Bezdek. 

"That he's influenced by favoritism, then?"

"I didn't say so, did I?"

"You've said either too little or too much. "

"I can clear this up, I think, " proffered the elderly first-nighter, inhis courteous voice. "Mr. Gurney is perhaps more the writer than thecritic. He is carried away by the felicitous phrase. "

"He'd rather be funny than fair, " said Miss Raleigh bluntly. 

"The curse of dramatic criticism, " murmured a magazine representative. 

"Rotten, " said Bezdek doggedly. "Crooked. Tryin' to be funny at otherfolks' expense. _I_'ll give his tail a twist!" By which he meant Mr. Gurney's printed words. 

"Apropos of the high cult of honesty, " remarked Banneker. 

"The curse of all journalism, " put in Laurence. "The temptation to beeffective at the expense of honesty. "

"And what do you think of _that_?" inquired the cheerful Marrineal, still directing his query to Banneker. 

"I think it's rather a large order. Why do you keep asking my opinion?"

"Because I suspect that you still bring a fresh mind to bear on thesematters. "

Banneker rose, and bade Betty Raleigh good-night. She retained his handin hers, looking up at him with a glint of anxiety in her weary, childlike eyes. "Don't mind what we've said, " she appealed to him. "We're all a little above ourselves. It's always so after an opening. "

"I don't mind at all, " he returned gravely: "unless it's true. "

"Ah, it's true right enough, " she answered dispiritedly. "Don't forgetabout the investigation. And don't let them dare to put you on on amatinée day. "

Betty Raleigh was a conspicuous figure, at not one but half a dozensessions of the investigation, which wound through an accelerating andsensational course, with Banneker as the chief figure. He was anextraordinary witness, ready, self-possessed, good-humored under theheckling of the politician lawyer who had claimed and received the rightto appear, on the ground that his police clients might be summoned lateron a criminal charge. 

Before the proceedings were over, a complete overturn in the citygovernment was foreshadowed, and it became evident that Judge Enderbymight either head the movement as its candidate, or control it as itsleader. Nobody, however, knew what he wished or intended politically. Every now and again in the progress of the hearings, Banneker wouldsurprise on the lawyer's face an expression which sent his memoryquesting fruitlessly for determination of that elusive likeness, flickering dimly in the past. 

Banneker's own role in the investigation kept him in the headlines; attimes put him on the front page. Even The Ledger could only minimize, not suppress, his dominating and picturesque part. 

But there was another and less pleasant sequel to the shooting, in itseffect upon the office status. Though he was a "space-man" now, dependentfor his earnings upon the number of columns weekly which he had in thepaper, and ostensibly equipped to handle matter of importance, a longsuccession of the pettiest kind of assignments was doled out to him bythe city desk: obituary notices of insignificant people, small policeitems, tipsters' yarns, routine jobs such as ship news, policeheadquarters substitution, even the minor courts usually relegated tothe fifteen or twenty-dollar-a-week men. Or, worst and most grindingordeal of a reporter's life, he was kept idle at his desk, like amisbehaving boy after school, when all the other men had been sent out. One week his total space came to but twenty-eight dollars odd. What thismeant was plain enough; he was being disciplined for his part in theinvestigation. 

Out of the open West which, under the rigor of the game, keeps itstemper and its poise, Banneker had brought the knack of setting histeeth and smiling so serenely that one never even perceived the teeth tobe set behind the smile. This ability stood him in good stead now. Inhis time of enforced leisure he bethought himself of the sketches whichMiss Westlake had typed. With his just and keen perception, he judgedthem not to be magazine matter. But they might do as "Sunday stuff. " Heturned in half a dozen of them to Mr. Homans. When next he saw them theywere lying, in uncorrected proof, on the managing editor's desk whileMr. Gordon gently rapped his knuckles over them. 

"Where did you get the idea for these, Mr. Banneker?" he asked. 

"I don't know. It came to me. "

"Would you care to sign them?"

"Sign them?" repeated the reporter in surprise, for this was adistinction afforded to only a choice few on the conservative Ledger. 

"Yes. I'm going to run them on the editorial page. Do us some more andkeep them within the three-quarters. What's your full name?"

"I'd like to sign them 'Eban, '" answered the other, after some thought. "And thank you. "

Assignments or no assignments, thereafter Banneker was able to fill hisidle time. Made adventurous by the success of the "Vagrancies, " he nexttried his hand at editorials on light or picturesque topics, and withsatisfying though not equal results, for here he occasionally stumbledupon the hard-rooted prejudices of the Inside Office, and beheld hisefforts vanish into the irreclaimable limbo of the scrap-basket. Nevertheless, at ten dollars per column for this kind of writing, hecontinued to make a decent space bill, and clear himself of the doldrumswhere the waning of the city desk's favor had left him. All that hecould now make he needed, for his change of domicile had brought about acorresponding change of habit and expenditure into which he slippedimperceptibly. To live on fifteen dollars a week, plus his own smallincome, which all went for "extras, " had been simple, at Mrs. Brashear's. To live on fifty at the Regalton was much more of a problem. Banneker discovered that he was a natural spender. The discovery causedhim neither displeasure nor uneasiness. He confidently purposed to havemoney to spend; plenty of it, as a mere, necessary concomitant to otherthings that he was after. Good reporters on space, working moderately, made from sixty to seventy-five dollars a week. Banneker set himself amark of a hundred dollars. He intended to work very hard . . . If Mr. Greenough would give him a chance. 

Mr. Greenough's distribution of the day's news continued to bedistinctly unfavorable to the new space-man. The better men on the staffbegan to comment on the city desk's discrimination. Banneker had, for atime, shone in heroic light: his feat had been honorable, not only toThe Ledger office, but to the entire craft of reporting. In theinvestigation he had borne himself with unexceptionable modesty andequanimity. That he should be "picked on" offended that generous _espritde corps_ which was natural to the office. Tommy Burt was all forreferring the matter to Mr. Gordon. 

"You mind your own business, Tommy, " said Banneker placidly. "Our friendthe Joss will stick his foot into a gopher hole yet. "

The assignment that afforded Banneker his chance was of the mostunpromising. An old builder, something of a local character over in theCorlears Hook vicinity, had died. The Ledger, Mr. Greenough informedBanneker, in his dry, polite manner, wanted "a sufficient obit" of thedeceased. Banneker went to the queer, decrepit frame cottage at theaddress given, and there found a group of old Sam Corpenshire'scongeners, in solemn conclave over the dead. They welcomed the reporter, and gave him a ceremonial drink of whiskey, highly superior whiskey. They were glad that he had come to write of their dead friend. If ever aman deserved a good write-up, it was Sam Corpenshire. From one mouth toanother they passed the word of his shrewd dealings, of his good-will tohis neighbors, of his ripe judgment, of his friendliness to all soundthings and sound men, of his shy, sly charities, of the thwartedromance, which, many years before, had left him lonely but unembittered;and out of it Banneker, with pen too slow for his eager will, wove not atwo-stick obit, but a rounded column shot through with lights thatplayed upon the little group of characters, the living around the dead, like sunshine upon an ancient garden. 

Even Mr. Greenough congratulated Banneker, the next morning. In theafternoon mail came a note from Mr. Gaines of The New Era monthly. Thatperspicuous editor had instantly identified the style of the articlewith that of the "Eban" series, part of which he had read in typograph. He wrote briefly but warmly of the work: and would the writer not calland see him soon?

Perhaps the reporter might have accepted the significant invitationpromptly, as he at first intended. But on the following morning he foundin his box an envelope under French stamp, inscribed with writing which, though he had seen but two specimens of it, drove everything else out ofhis tumultuous thoughts. He took it, not to his desk, but to a side roomof the art department, unoccupied at that hour, and opened it withchilled and fumbling hands. 

Within was a newspaper clipping, from a Paris edition of an Americandaily. It gave a brief outline of the battle on the pier. In pencil onthe margin were these words:

"Do you remember practicing, that day, among the pines? I'm so proud!Io. "

He read it again. The last sentence affected him with a sensation ofdizziness. Proud! Of his deed! It gave him the feeling that she hadreclaimed, reappropriated him. No! That she had never for a momentreleased him. In a great surge, sweeping through his veins, he felt thepressure of her breast against his, the strong enfoldment of her arms, her breath upon his lips. He tore envelope and clipping into fragments. 

By one of those strange associations of linked memory, such as "clangsand flashes for a drowning man, " he sharply recalled where he had seenWillis Enderby before. His was the face in the photograph to whichCamilla Van Arsdale had turned when death stretched out a hand towardher. 

CHAPTER X

While the police inquiry was afoot, Banneker was, perforce, often latein reporting for duty, the regular hour being twelve-thirty. Thus theidleness which the city desk had imposed upon him was, in a measure, justified. On a Thursday, when he had been held in conference with JudgeEnderby, he did not reach The Ledger office until after two. Mr. Greenough was still out for luncheon. No sooner had Banneker entered theswinging gate than Mallory called to him. On the assistant city editor'sface was a peculiar expression, half humorous, half dubious, as he said:

"Mr. Greenough has left an assignment for you. "

"All right, " said Banneker, stretching out his hand for the clipping orslip. None was forthcoming. 

"It's a tip, " explained Mallory. "It's from a pretty convincing source. The gist of it is that the Delavan Eyres have separated and a divorce isimpending. You know, of course, who the Eyres are. "

"I've met Eyre. "

"That so? Ever met his wife?"

"No, " replied Banneker, in good faith. 

"No; you wouldn't have, probably. They travel different paths. Besides, she's been practically living abroad. She's a stunner. It's big societystuff, of course. The best chance of landing the story is from ArchieDensmore, her half-brother. The international polo-player, you know. You'll find him at The Retreat, down on the Jersey coast. "

The Retreat Banneker had heard of as being a bachelor country club whosedistinguishing marks were a rather Spartan athleticism, and a morestiffly hedged exclusiveness than any other social institution known tothe _élite_ of New York and Philadelphia, between which it stood midway. 

"Then I'm to go and ask him, " said Banneker slowly, "whether his sisteris suing for divorce?"

"Yes, " confirmed Mallory, a trifle nervously. "Find out who's to benamed, of course. I suppose it's that new dancer, though there have beenothers. And there was a quaint story about some previous attachment ofMrs. Eyre's: that might have some bearing. "

"I'm to ask her brother about that, too?"

"We want the story, " answered Mallory, almost petulantly. 

On the trip down into Jersey the reporter had plenty of time to considerhis unsavory task. Some one had to do this kind of thing, so long as thepublic snooped and peeped and eavesdropped through the keyhole of printat the pageant of the socially great: this he appreciated and accepted. But he felt that it ought to be some one other than himself--and, at thesame time, was sufficiently just to smile at himself for his illogicalattitude. 

A surprisingly good auto was found in the town of his destination, tospeed him to the stone gateway of The Retreat. The guardian, always onduty there, passed him with a civil word, and a sober-liveried flunkeyat the clubhouse door, after a swift, unobtrusive consideration of hisclothes and bearing, took him readily for granted, and said that Mr. Densmore would be just about going on the polo field for practice. Didthe gentleman know his way to the field? Seeing the flag on the stable, Banneker nodded, and walked over. A groom pointed out a spare, powerfullooking young man with a pink face, startlingly defined by a straightblack mustache and straighter black eyebrows, mounting a light-builtroan, a few rods away. Banneker accosted him. 

"Yes, my name is Densmore, " he answered the visitor's accost. 

"I'm a reporter from The Ledger, " explained Banneker. 

"A reporter?" Mr. Densmore frowned. "Reporters aren't allowed here, except on match days. How did you get in?"

"Nobody stopped me, " answered the visitor in an expressionless tone. 

"It doesn't matter, " said the other, "since you're here. What is it; theinternational challenge?"

"A rumor has come to us--There's a tip come in at the office--Weunderstood that there is--" Banneker pulled himself together and put thedirect question. "Is Mrs. Delavan Eyre bringing a divorce suit againsther husband?"

For a time there was a measured silence. Mr. Densmore's heavy browsseemed to jut outward and downward toward the questioner. 

"You came out here from New York to ask me that?" he said presently. 

"Yes. "

"Anything else?"

"Yes. Who is named as co-respondent? And will there be a defense, or acounter-suit?"

"A counter-suit, " repeated the man in the saddle quietly. "I wonder ifyou realize what you're asking?"

"I'm trying to get the news, " said Banneker doggedly striving to hold toan ideal which momentarily grew more sordid and tawdry. 

"And I wonder if you realize how you ought to be answered. "

Yes; Banneker realized, with a sick realization. But he was not going toadmit it. He kept silence. 

"If this polo mallet were a whip, now, " observed Mr. Densmoremeditatively. "A dog-whip, for preference. "

Under the shameful threat Banneker's eyes lightened. Here at least wassomething he could face like a man. His undermining nausea mitigated. 

"What then?" he inquired in tones as level as those of his opponent. 

"Why, then I'd put a mark on you. A reporter's mark. "

"I think not. "

"Oh; you think not?" The horseman studied him negligently. Trained tothe fineness of steel in the school of gymnasium, field, and tenniscourt, he failed to recognize in the man before him a type asformidable, in its rugged power, as his own. "Or perhaps I'd have thegrooms do it for me, before they threw you over the fence. "

"It would be safer, " allowed the other, with a smile that surprised theathlete. 

"Safer?" he repeated. "I wasn't thinking of safety. "

"Think of it, " advised the visitor; "for if you set your grooms on me, they could perhaps throw me out. But as sure as they did I'd kill youthe next time we met. "

Densmore smiled. "You!" he said contemptuously. "Kill, eh? Did you everkill any one?"

"Yes. "

Under their jet brows Densmore's eyes took on a peculiar look ofintensity. "A Ledger reporter, " he murmured. "See here! Is your nameBanneker, by any chance?"

"Yes. "

"You're the man who cleared out the wharf-gang. "

"Yes. "

Densmore had been born and brought up in a cult to which courage is thebasic, inclusive virtue for mankind, as chastity is for womankind. Tohis inground prejudice a man who was simply and unaffectedly brave mustby that very fact be fine and admirable. And this man had not only shownan iron nerve, but afterward, in the investigation, which Densmore hadfollowed, he had borne himself with the modesty, discretion, and goodtaste of the instinctive gentleman. The poloist was almost patheticallyat a loss. When he spoke again his whole tone and manner had undergone avital transformation. 

"But, good God!" he cried in real distress and bewilderment, "a fellowwho could do what you did, stand up to those gun-men in the dark andalone, to be garbaging around asking rotten, prying questions about aman's sister! No! I don't get it. "

Banneker felt the blood run up into his face, under the sting of theother's puzzled protest, as it would never have done under open contemptor threat. A miserable, dull hopelessness possessed him. "It's part ofthe business, " he muttered. 

"Then it's a rotten business, " retorted the horseman. "Do you _have_ todo this?"

"Somebody has to get the news. "

"News! Scavenger's filth. See here, Banneker, I'm sorry I roughed youabout the whip. But, to ask a man questions about the women of his ownfamily--No: I'm _damned_ if I get it. " He lost himself in thought, andwhen he spoke again it was as much to himself as to the man on theground. "Suppose I did make a frank statement: you can never trust thepapers to get it straight, even if they mean to, which is doubtful. Andthere's Io's name smeared all over--Hel-lo! What's the matter, now?" Forhis horse had shied away from an involuntary jerk of Banneker's muscles, responsive to electrified nerves, so sharply as to disturb the rider'sbalance. 

"What name did you say?" muttered Banneker, involuntarily. 

"Io. My foster-sister's nickname. Irene Welland, she was. You're a queersort of society reporter if you don't know that. "

"I'm not a society reporter. "

"But you know Mrs. Eyre?"

"Yes; in a way, " returned Banneker, gaining command of himself. "Officially, you might say. She was in a railroad wreck that Istage-managed out West. I was the local agent. "

"Then I've heard about you, " replied Densmore with interest, though hehad heard only what little Io had deemed it advisable that he shouldknow. "You helped my sister when she was hurt. We owe you something forthat. "

"Official duty. "

"That's all right. But it was more than that. I recall your name now. "Densmore's bearing had become that of a man to his equal. "I'll tellyou, let's go up to the clubhouse and have a drink, shan't we? D' youmind just waiting here while I give this nag a little run to supple himup?"

He was off, leaving Banneker with brain awhirl. To steady himselfagainst this sudden flood of memory and circumstance, Banneker strove tofocus his attention upon the technique of the horse and his rider. Whenthey returned he said at once:

"Are you going to play that pony?"

The horseman looked mildly surprised. "After he's learned a bit more. Shapes up well, don't you think?"

"Speed him up to me and give him a sharp twist to the right, will you?"

Accepting the suggestion without comment, Densmore cantered away andbrought the roan down at speed. To the rider, his mount seemed to makethe sudden turn perfectly. But Banneker stepped out and examined the offforefoot with a dubious face. 

"Breaks a little there, " he stated seriously. 

The horseman tried the turn again, throwing his weight over. This timehe did feel a slightly perceptible "give. " "What's the remedy?" heasked. 

"Build up the outer flange of the shoe. That may do it. But I shouldn'ttrust him without a thorough test. A good pony'll always overplay hissafety a little in a close match. "

The implication of this expert view aroused Densmore's curiosity. "You've played, " he said. 

"No: I've never played. I've knocked the ball about a little. "

"Where?"

"Out in Santa Barbara. With the stable-boys. "

So simply was it said that Densmore returned, quite as simply: "Were youa stable-boy?"

"No such luck, then. Just a kid, out of a job. "

Densmore dismounted, handed reins and mallet to the visitor and said, "Try a shot or two. "

Slipping his coat and waistcoat, Banneker mounted and urged the ponyafter the ball which the other sent spinning out across the field. Hemade a fairly creditable cut away to the left, following down andplaying back moderately. While his mallet work was, naturally, uncertain, he played with a full, easy swing and in good form. But itwas his horsemanship which specially commended itself to the criticaleye of the connoisseur. 

"Ridden range, haven't you?" inquired the poloist when the other camein. 

"Quite a bit of it, in my time. "

"Now, I'll tell you, " said Densmore, employing his favorite formula. "There'll be practice later. It's an off day and we probably won't havetwo full teams. Let me rig you out, and you try it. "

Banneker shook his head. "I'm here on business. I'm a reporter with astory to get. "

"All right; it's up to a reporter to stick until he gets his news, "agreed the other. "You dismiss your taxi, and stay out here and dine, and I'll run you back to town myself. And at nine o'clock I'll answeryour question and answer it straight. "

Banneker, gazing longingly at the bright turf of the field, accepted. 

Polo is to The Retreat what golf is to the average country club. Thenews that Archie Densmore had a new player down for a try-out brought tothe side-lines a number of the old-time followers of the game, includingPoultney Masters, the autocrat of Wall Street and even more of TheRetreat, whose stables he, in large measure, supported. In the thirdperiod, the stranger went in at Number Three on the pink team. He playedrather poorly, but there was that in his style which encouraged theenthusiasts. 

"He's material, " grunted old Masters, blinking his pendulous eyelids, asBanneker, accepting the challenge of Jim Maitland, captain of theopposing team and roughest of players, for a ride-off, carried his ownhorse through by sheer adroitness and daring, and left the other rollingon the turf. "Anybody know who he is?"

"Heard Archie call him Banker, I think, " answered one of the great man'shangers-on. 

Later, Banneker having changed, sat in an angled window of theclubhouse, waiting for his host, who had returned from the stables. Agroup of members entering the room, and concealed from him by an L, approached the fireplace talking briskly. 

"Dick says the feller's a reporter, " declared one of them, a middle-agedman named Kirke. "Says he saw him tryin' to interview somebody on theStreet, one day. "

"Well, I don't believe it, " announced an elderly member. "This chap ofDensmore's looks like a gentleman and dresses like one. I don't believehe's a reporter. And he rides like a devil. "

"_I_ say there's ridin' and ridin', " proclaimed Kirke. "Some fellersride like jockeys; some fellers ride like cowboys; some fellers ridelike gentlemen. I say this reporter feller don't ride like a gentleman. "

"Oh, slush!" said another discourteously. "What is riding like agentleman?"

Kirke reverted to the set argument of his type. "I'll betcha a hundredhe don't!"

"Who's to settle such a bet?"

"Leave it to Maitland, " said somebody. 

"I'll leave it to Archie Densmore if you like, " offered the bettorbelligerently. 

"Leave it to Mr. Masters, " suggested Kirke. 

"Why not leave it to the horse?"

The suggestion, coming in a level and unconcerned tone from the depthsof the chair in which Banneker was seated, produced an electricaleffect. Banneker spoke only because the elderly member had walked overto the window, and he saw that he must be discovered in another moment. Out of the astonished silence came the elderly member's voice, gentleand firm. 

"Are you the visitor we have been so frankly discussing?"

"I assume so. "

"Isn't it rather unfortunate that you did not make your presence knownsooner?"

"I hoped that I might have a chance to slip out unseen and save youembarrassment. "

The other came forward at once with hand outstretched. "My name isForster, " he said. "You're Mr. Banker, aren't you?"

"Yes, " said Banneker, shaking hands. For various reasons it did not seemworth while to correct the slight error. 

"Look out! Here's the old man, " said some one. 

Poultney Masters plodded in, his broad paunch shaking with chuckles. "'Leave it to the horse, '" he mumbled appreciatively. "'Leave it to thehorse. ' It's good. It's damned good. The right answer. Who but the horseshould know whether a man rides like a gentleman! Where's youngBanneker?"

Forster introduced the two. "You've got the makings of a polo-man inyou, " decreed the great man. "Where are you playing?"

"I've never really played. Just practiced. "

"Then you ought to be with us. Where's Densmore? We'll put you up andhave you in by the next meeting. "

"A reporter in The Retreat!" protested Kirke who had proffered the bet. 

"Why not?" snapped old Poultney Masters. "Got any objections?"

Since the making or marring of his fortunes, like those of hundreds ofother men, lay in the pudgy hollow of the financier's hand, poor Kirkehad no objections which he could not and did not at once swallow. Thesubject of the flattering offer had, however. 

"I'm much obliged, " said he. "But I couldn't join this club. Can'tafford it. "

"You can't afford not to. It's a chance not many young fellows fromnowhere get. "

"Perhaps you don't know what a reporter's earnings are, Mr. Masters. "

The rest of the group had drifted away, in obedience, Bannekersuspected, to some indication given by Masters which he had notperceived. 

"You won't be a reporter long. Opportunities will open out for a youngfellow of your kind. "

"What sort of opportunities?" inquired Banneker curiously. 

"Wall Street, for example. "

"I don't think I'd like the game. Writing is my line. I'm going to stickto it. "

"You're a fool, " barked Masters. 

"That is a word I don't take from anybody, " stated Banneker. 

"_You_ don't take? Who the--" The raucous snarl broke into laughter, asthe other leaned abruptly forward. "Banneker, " he said, "have you got_me_ covered?"

Banneker laughed, too. Despite his brutal assumption of autocracy, itwas impossible not to like this man. "No, " he answered. "I didn't expectto be held up here. So I left my gun. "

"You did a job on that pier, " affirmed the other. "But you're a fooljust the same--if you'll take it with a smile. "

"I'll think it over, " answered Banneker, as Densmore entered. 

"Come and see me at the office, " invited Masters as he shambled pursilyaway. 

Across the dining-table Densmore said to his guest: "So the Old Boywants to put you up here. "

"Yes. "

"That means a sure election. "

"But even if I could afford it, I'd get very little use of the club. Yousee, I have only one day off a week. "

"It is a rotten business, for sure!" said Densmore sympathetically. "Couldn't you get on night work, so you could play afternoons?"

"Play polo?" Banneker laughed. "My means would hardly support one pony. "

"That'll be all right, " returned the other nonchalantly. "There arealways fellows glad to lend a mount to a good player. And you're goingto be that. "

The high lust of the game took and shook Banneker for a dim moment. Thenhe recovered himself. "No. I couldn't do that. "

"Let's leave it this way, then. Whether you join now or not, come downonce in a while as my guest, and fill in for the scratch matches. Lateryou may be able to pick up a few nags, cheap. "

"I'll think it over, " said Banneker, as he had said to old PoultneyMasters. 

Not until after the dinner did Banneker remind his host of theirunderstanding. "You haven't forgotten that I'm here on business?"

"No; I haven't. I'm going to answer your question for publication. Mrs. Eyre has not the slightest intention of suing for divorce. "

"About the separation?"

"No. No separation, either. Io is traveling with friends and will beback in a few months. "

"That is authoritative?"

"You can quote me, if you like, though I'd rather nothing werepublished, of course. And I give you my personal word that it's true. "

"That's quite enough. "

"So much for publication. What follows is private: just between you andme. "

Banneker nodded. After a ruminative pause Densmore asked an abruptquestion. 

"You found my sister after the wreck, didn't you?"

"Well; she found me. "

"Was she hurt?"

"Yes. "

"Badly?"

"I think not. There was some concussion of the brain, I suppose. She wasquite dazed. "

"Did you call a doctor?"

"No. She wouldn't have one. "

"You know Miss Van Arsdale, don't you?"

"She's the best friend I've got in the world, " returned Banneker, soimpulsively that his interrogator looked at him curiously beforecontinuing:

"Did you see Io at her house?"

"Yes; frequently, " replied Banneker, wondering to what this all tended, but resolved to be as frank as was compatible with discretion. 

"How did she seem?"

"She was as well off there as she could be anywhere. "

"Yes. But how did she seem? Mentally, I mean. "

"Oh, that! The dazed condition cleared up at once. "

"I wish I were sure that it had ever cleared up, " muttered Densmore. 

"Why shouldn't you be sure?"

"I'm going to be frank with you because I think you may be able to helpme with a clue. Since she came back from the West, Io has been unlikeherself. The family has never understood her marriage with Del Eyre. Shedidn't really care for Del. [To his dismay, Banneker here beheld theglowing tip of his cigar perform sundry involuntary dips and curves. Hehoped that his face was under better control. ] The marriage was afizzle. I don't believe it lasted a month, really. Eyre had always beena chaser, though he did straighten out when he married Io. He really wascrazy about her; but when she chucked him, he went back to his oldhunting grounds. One can understand that. But Io; that's different. She's always played the game before. With Del, I don't think she quitedid. She quit: that's the plain fact of it. Just tired of him. No othercause that I can find. Won't get a divorce. Doesn't want it. So there'sno one else in the case. It's queer. It's mighty queer. And I can't helpthinking that the old jar to her brain--"

"Have you suggested that to her?" asked Banneker as the other broke offto ruminate mournfully. 

"Yes. She only laughed. Then she said that poor old Del wasn't at faultexcept for marrying her in the face of a warning. I don't know what shemeant by it; hanged if I do. But, you see, it's quite true: there'll beno divorce or separation. . . . You're sure she was quite normal when youlast saw her at Miss Van Arsdale's?"

"Absolutely. If you want confirmation, why not write Miss Van Arsdaleyourself?"

"No; I hardly think I'll do that. . . . Now as to that gray you rode, I'vegot a chance to trade him. " And the talk became all of horse, which isexclusive and rejective of other interests, even of women. 

Going back in the train, Banneker reviewed the crowding events of theday. At the bottom of his thoughts lay a residue, acid and stinging, theshame of the errand which had taken him to The Retreat, and which thememory of what was no less than a personal triumph could not submerge. That he, Errol Banneker, whose dealings with all men had been on thestraight and level status of self-respect, should have taken upon himthe ignoble task of prying into intimate affairs, of meekly solicitingthe most private information in order that he might make his living outof it--not different in kind from the mendicancy which, even as a hobo, he had scorned--and that, at the end, he should have discerned IoWelland as the object of his scandal-chase; that fermented within himlike something turned to foulness. 

At the office he reported "no story. " Before going home he wrote a noteto the city desk. 

CHAPTER XI

Impenetrability of expression is doubtless a valuable attribute to ajoss. Otherwise so many josses would not display it. Upon the stony andplacid visage of Mr. Greenough, never more joss-like than when, on themorning after Banneker went to The Retreat, he received the resultantnote, the perusal thereof produced no effect. Nor was there anythingwhich might justly be called an expression, discernible between Mr. Greenough's cloven chin-tip and Mr. Greenough's pale fringe of hair, when, as Banneker entered the office at noon, he called the reporter tohim. Banneker's face, on the contrary, displayed a quite differentimpression; that of amiability. 

"Nothing in the Eyre story, Mr. Banneker!"

"Not a thing. "

"You saw Mr. Densmore?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Would he talk?"

"Yes; he made a statement. "

"It didn't appear in the paper. "

"There was nothing to it but unqualified denial. "

"I see; I see. That's all, Mr. Banneker. . . . Oh, by the way. "

Banneker, who had set out for his desk, turned back. 

"I had a note from you this morning. "

As this statement required no confirmation, Banneker gave it none. 

"Containing your resignation. "

"Conditional upon my being assigned to pry into society or privatescandals or rumors of them. "

"The Ledger does not recognize conditional resignation. "

"Very well. " Banneker's smile was as sunny and untroubled as a baby's. 

"I suppose you appreciate that some one must cover this kind of news. "

"Yes. It will have to be some one else. "

The faintest, fleeting suspicion of a frown troubled the Brahminicalcalm of Mr. Greenough's brow, only to pass into unwrinkled blandness. 

"Further, you will recognize that, for the protection of the paper, Imust have at call reporters ready to perform any emergency duty. "

"Perfectly, " agreed Banneker. 

"Mr. Banneker, " queried Mr. Greenough in a semi-purr, "are you too goodfor your job?"

"Certainly. "

For once the personification of city-deskness, secure though he was inthe justice of his position, was discomfited. "Too good for The Ledger?"he demanded in protest and rebuke. 

"Let me put it this way; I'm too good for any job that won't let me looka man square between the eyes when I meet him on it. "

"A dull lot of newspapers we'd have if all reporters took that view, "muttered Mr. Greenough. 

"It strikes me that what you've just said is the severest kind of anindictment of the whole business, then, " retorted Banneker. 

"A business that is good enough for a good many first-class men, eventhough you may not consider it so for you. Possibly being for thetime--for a brief time--a sort of public figure, yourself, has--"

"Nothing at all to do with it, " interrupted the urbane reporter. "I'vealways been this way. It was born in me. "

"I shall consult with Mr. Gordon about this, " said Mr. Greenough, becoming joss-like again. "I hardly think--" But what it was that hehardly thought, the subject of his animadversions did not then orsubsequently ascertain, for he was dismissed in the middle of thesentence with a slow, complacent nod. 

Loss of his place, had it promptly followed, would not have dismayed therebel. It did not follow. Nothing followed. Nothing, that is, out of theordinary run. Mr. Gordon said no word. Mr. Greenough made no referenceto the resignation. Tommy Burt, to whom Banneker had confided hisaction, was of opinion that the city desk was merely waiting "to handyou something so raw that you'll have to buck it; something that noteven Joe Bullen would take. " Joe Bullen, an undertaker's assistant whohad drifted into journalism through being a tipster, was The Ledger's"keyhole reporter" (unofficial). 

"The joss is just tricky enough for that, " said Tommy. "He'll want toput you in the wrong with Gordon. You're a pet of the boss's. "

"Don't blame Greenough, " said Banneker. "If you were on the desk youwouldn't want reporters that wouldn't take orders. "

Van Cleve, oldest in standing of any of the staff, approached Bannekerwith a grave face and solemn warnings. To leave The Ledger was to departforever from the odor of journalistic sanctity. No other office in townwas endurable for a gentleman. Other editors treated their men likemuckers. The worst assignment given out from The Ledger desk was aperfumed cinch in comparison with what the average city room dealt out. And he gave a formidable sketch of the careers (invariably downhill) ofreckless souls who had forsaken the true light of The Ledger for thefalse lures which led into outer and unfathomable darkness. By thissystem of subtly threatened excommunication had The Ledger saved toitself many a good man who might otherwise have gone farther and notnecessarily fared worse. Banneker was not frightened. But he did givemore than a thought to the considerate standards and generouscomradeship of the office. Only--was it worth the price in occasionalhumiliation?

Sitting, idle at his desk in one of the subsequent periods of penance, he bethought him of the note on the stationery of The New Era Magazine, signed, "Yours very truly, Richard W. Gaines. " Perhaps this wasopportunity beckoning. He would go to see the Great Gaines. 

The Great Gaines received him with quiet courtesy. He was a stubby, thick, bearded man who produced an instant effect of entire candor. Sopeculiar and exotic was this quality that it seemed to set him apartfrom the genus of humankind in an aura of alien and daunting honesty. Banneker recalled hearing of outrageous franknesses from his lips, directed upon small and great, and, most amazingly, accepted withoutoffense, because of the translucent purity of the medium through which, as it were, the inner prophet had spoken. Besides, he was usually right. 

His first words to Banneker, after his greeting, were: "You areexceedingly well tailored. "

"Does it matter?" asked Banneker, smiling. 

"I'm disappointed. I had read into your writing midnight toil andrespectable, if seedy, self-support. "

"After the best Grub Street tradition? Park Row has outlived that. "

"I know your tailor, but what's your college?" inquired this surprisingman. 

Banneker shook his head. 

"At least I was right in that. I surmised individual education. Whotaught you to think for yourself?"

"My father. "

"It's an uncommon name. You're not a son of Christian Banneker, perhaps?"

"Yes. Did you know him?"

"A mistaken man. Whoring after strange gods. Strange, sterile, anddisappointing. But a brave soul, nevertheless. Yes; I knew him well. What did he teach you?"

"He tried to teach me to stand on my own feet and see with my own eyesand think for myself. "

"Ah, yes! With one's own eyes. So much depends upon whither one turnsthem. What have you seen in daily journalism?"

"A chance. Possibly a great chance. "

"To think for yourself?"

Banneker started, at this ready application of his words to the problemwhich was already outlining itself by small, daily limnings in his mind. 

"To write for others what you think for yourself?" pursued the editor, giving sharpness and definition to the outline. 

"Or, " concluded Mr. Gaines, as his hearer preserved silence, "eventuallyto write for others what they think for themselves?" He smiledluminously. "It's a problem in stress: _x_ = the breaking-point ofhonesty. Your father was an absurdly honest man. Those of us who knewhim best honored him. "

"Are you doubting my honesty?" inquired Banneker, without resentment orchallenge. 

"Why, yes. Anybody's. But hopefully, you understand. "

"Or the honesty of the newspaper business?"

A sigh ruffled the closer tendrils of Mr. Gaines's beard. "I have neverbeen a journalist in the Park Row sense, " he said regretfully. "Therefore I am conscious of solutions of continuity in my views. ParkRow amazes me. It also appalls me. The daily stench that arises from theprinting-presses. Two clouds; morning and evening. . . . Perhaps it is onlythe odor of the fertilizing agent, stimulating the growth of ideas. Oris it sheer corruption?"

"Two stages of the same process, aren't they?" suggested Banneker. 

"Encouraging to think so. Yet labor in a fertilizing plant, thoughperhaps essential, is hardly conducive to higher thinking. You like it?"

"I don't accept your definition at all, " replied Banneker. "Thenewspapers are only a medium. If there is a stench, they do notoriginate it. They simply report the events of the day. "

"Exactly. They simply disseminate it. "

Banneker was annoyed at himself for flushing. "They disseminate news. We've got to have news, to carry on the world. Only a small fraction ofit is--well, malodorous. Would you destroy the whole system because ofone flaw? You're not fair. "

"Fair? Of course I'm not. How should I be? No; I would not destroy thesystem. Merely deodorize it a bit. But I suppose the public likes theodors. It sniffs 'em up like--like Cyrano in the bake-shop. A marvelousinstitution, the public which you and I serve. Have you ever thought ofmagazine work, Mr. Banneker?"

"A little. "

"There might be a considerable future there for you. I say 'might. 'Nothing is more uncertain. But you have certain--er--stigmata of thewriter--That article, now, about the funereal eulogies over the oldbuilder; did you report that talk as it was?"

"Approximately. "

"How approximately?"

"Well; the basic idea was there. The old fellows gave me that, and Ifitted it up with talk. Surely there's nothing dishonest in that, "protested Banneker. 

"Surely not, " agreed the other. "You gave the essence of the thing. Thatis a higher veracity than any literal reporting which would be dull andunreadable. I thought I recognized the fictional quality in thedialogue. "

"But it wasn't fiction, " denied Banneker eagerly. 

The Great Gaines gave forth one of his oracles. "But it was. Gooddialogue is talk as it should be talked, just as good fiction is life asit should be lived--logically and consecutively. Why don't you trysomething for The New Era?"

"I have. "

"When?"

"Before I got your note. "

"It never reached me. "

"It never reached anybody. It's in my desk, ripening. "

"Send it along, green, won't you? It may give more indications that way. And first work is likely to be valuable chiefly as indication. "

"I'll mail it to you. Before I go, would you mind telling me moredefinitely why you advise me against the newspaper business?"

"I advise? I never advise as to questions of morals or ethics. I havetoo much concern with keeping my own straight. "

"Then it _is_ a question of morals?"

"Or ethics. I think so. For example, have you tried your hand ateditorials?"

"Yes. "

"Successfully?"

"As far as I've gone. "

"Then you are in accord with the editorial policy of The Ledger?"

"Not in everything. "

"In its underlying, unexpressed, and immanent theory that this countrycan best be managed by an aristocracy, a chosen few, working under theguise of democracy?"

"No; I don't believe that, of course. "

"I do, as it happens. But I fail to see how Christian Banneker's son and_élève_ could. Yet you write editorials for The Ledger. "

"Not on those topics. "

"Have you never had your editorials altered or cut or amended, in suchmanner as to give a side-slant toward the paper's editorial fetiches?"

Again and most uncomfortably Banneker felt his color change. "Yes; Ihave, " he admitted. 

"What did you do?"

"What could I do? The Chief controls the editorial page. "

"You might have stopped writing for it. "

"I needed the money. No; that isn't true. More than the money, I wantedthe practice and the knowledge that I could write editorials if I wishedto. "

"Are you thinking of going on the editorial side?"

"God forbid!" cried Banneker. 

"Unwilling to deal in other men's ideas, eh? Well, Mr. Banneker, youhave plenty of troubles before you. Interesting ones, however. "

"How much could I make by magazine writing?" asked Banneker abruptly. 

"Heaven alone knows. Less than you need, I should say, at first. Howmuch do you need?"

"My space bill last week was one hundred and twenty-one dollars. Ifilled 'em up on Sunday specials. "

"And you need that?"

"It's all gone, " grinned Banneker boyishly. 

"As between a safe one hundred dollars-plus, and a highly speculativenothing-and-upwards, how could any prudent person waver?" queried Mr. Gaines as he shook hands in farewell. 

For the first time in the whole unusual interview, Banneker foundhimself misliking the other's tone, particularly in the light emphasisplaced upon the word prudent. Banneker did not conceive kindly ofhimself as a prudent person. 

Back at the office, Banneker got out the story of which he had spoken toMr. Gaines, and read it over. It seemed to him good, and quite in thetradition of The New Era. It was polite, polished, discreet, and, if notprecisely subtle, it dealt with interests and motives lying below theobvious surfaces of life. It had amused Banneker to write it; which isnot to say that he spared laborious and conscientious effort. The NewEra itself amused him, with its air of well-bred aloofness from theflatulent romanticism which filled the more popular magazines of the daywith duke-like drummers or drummer-like dukes, amiable criminals andbrisk young business geniuses, possessed of rather less moral sense thanthe criminals, for its heroes, and for its heroines a welter ofadjectives exhaling an essence of sex. Banneker could imagine one ofthese females straying into Mr. Gaines's editorial ken, and thatgentleman's bland greeting as to his own sprightly second maid arrayedand perfumed, unexpectedly encountered at a charity bazar. Too rarefiedfor Banneker's healthy and virile young tastes, the atmosphere in whichThe New Era lived and moved and had its consistently successfuleditorial being! He preferred a freer air to the mild scents of lavenderand rose-ash, even though it might blow roughly at times. Nevertheless, that which was fine and fastidious in his mind recognized and admiredthe restraint, the dignity, the high and honorably maintained standardsof the monthly. It had distinction. It stood apart from and consciouslyabove the reading mob. In some respects it was the antithesis of thatsuccess for which Park Row strove and sweated. 

Banneker felt that he, too, could claim a place on those heights. Yes;he liked his story. He thought that Mr. Gaines would like it. Havingmailed it, he went to Katie's to dinner. There he found Russell Edmondsdiscussing his absurdly insufficient pipe with his customary air ofcareworn watchfulness lest it go out and leave him forlorn and unsolacedin a harsh world. The veteran turned upon the newcomer a grim twinkle. 

"Don't you do it, " he advised positively. 

"Do what?"

"Quit. "

"Who told you I was considering it?"

"Nobody. I knew it was about time for you to reach that point. We alldo--at certain times. "

"Why?"

"Disenchantment. Disillusionment. Besides, I hear the city desk has beenhorsing you. "

"Then some one _has_ been blabbing. "

"Oh, those things ooze out. Can't keep 'em in. Besides, all city desksdo that to cubs who come up too fast. It's part of the discipline. Likehazing. "

"There are some things a man can't do, " said Banneker with a sort ofappeal in his voice. 

"Nothing, " returned Edmonds positively. "Nothing he can't do to get thenews. "

"Did you ever peep through a keyhole?"

"Figuratively speaking?"

"If you like. Either way. "

"Yes. "

"Would you do it to-day?"

"No. "

"Then it's a phase a reporter has to go through?"

"Or quit. "

"You haven't quit?"

"I did. For a time. In a way. I went to jail. "

"Jail? You?" Banneker had a flash of intuition. "I'll bet it was forsomething you were proud of. "

"I wasn't ashamed of the jail sentence, at any rate. Youngster, I'mgoing to tell you about this. " Edmonds's fine eyes seemed to havereceded into their hollows as he sat thinking with his pipe neglected onthe table. "D'you know who Marna Corcoran was?"

"An actress, wasn't she?"

"Leading lady at the old Coliseum Theater. A good actress and a goodwoman. I was a cub then on The Sphere under Red McGraw, the worstgutter-pup that ever sat at a city desk, and a damned good newspaperman. In those days The Sphere specialized on scandals; the rottener, thebetter; stuff that it wouldn't touch to-day. Well, a hell-cat of asociety woman sued her husband for divorce and named Miss Corcoran. Pureviciousness, it was. There wasn't a shadow of proof, or even suspicion. "

"I remember something about that case. The woman withdrew the charge, didn't she?"

"When it was too late. Red McGraw had an early tip and sent me tointerview Marna Corcoran. He let me know pretty plainly that my jobdepended on my landing the story. That was his style; a bully. Well, Igot the interview; never mind how. When I left her home Miss Corcoranwas in a nervous collapse. I reported to McGraw. 'Keno!' says he. 'Giveus a column and a half of it. Spice it. ' I spiced it--I guess. They tellme it was a good job. I got lost in the excitement of writing and forgotwhat I was dealing with, a woman. We had a beat on that interview. Theyraised my salary, I remember. A week later Red called me to the desk. 'Got another story for you, Edmonds. A hummer. Marna Corcoran is in aprivate sanitarium up in Connecticut; hopelessly insane. I wouldn'twonder if our story did it. ' He grinned like an ape. 'Go up there andget it. Buy your way in, if necessary. You can always get to some of theattendants with a ten-spot. Find out what she raves about; whether it'sabout Allison. Perhaps she's given herself away. Give us another red-hotone on it. Here's the address. '

"I wadded up the paper and stuffed it in his mouth. His lips felt pulpy. He hit me with a lead paper-weight and cut my head open. I don't knowthat I even hit him; I didn't specially want to hit him. I wanted tomark him. There was an extra-size open ink-well on his desk. I pouredthat over him and rubbed it into his face. Some of it got into his eyes. How he yelled! Of course he had me arrested. I didn't make any defense;I couldn't without bringing in Marna Corcoran's name. The Judge thought_I_ was crazy. I was, pretty near. Three months, he gave me. When I cameout Marna Corcoran was dead. I went to find Red McGraw and kill him. Hewas gone. I think he suspected what I would do. I've never set eyes onhim since. Two local newspapers sent for me as soon as my term was upand offered me jobs. I thought it was because of what I had done toMcGraw. It wasn't. It was on the strength of the Marna Corcoraninterview. "

"Good God!"

"I needed a job, too. But I didn't take either of those. Later I got abetter one with a decent newspaper. The managing editor said when hetook me on: 'Mr. Edmonds, we don't approve of assaults on the city desk. But if you ever receive in this office an assignment of the kind thatcaused your outbreak, you may take it out on me. ' There are pretty finepeople in the newspaper business, too. "

Edmonds retrieved his pipe, discovering with a look of reproach anddismay that it was out. He wiped away some tiny drops of sweat which hadcome out upon the grayish skin beneath his eyes, while he was recountinghis tragedy. 

"That makes my troubles seem petty, " said Banneker, under his breath. "Iwonder--"

"You wonder why I told you all this, " supplemented the veteran. "Since Ihave, I'll tell you the rest; how I made atonement in a way. Ten yearsago I was on a city desk myself. Not very long; but long enough to findI didn't like it. A story came to me through peculiar channels. It was ascandal story; one of those things that New York society whispers aboutall over the place, yet it's almost impossible to get anything to go on. When I tell you that even The Searchlight, which lives on scandal, keptoff it, you can judge how dangerous it was. Well; I had it pat. It wasreally big stuff of its kind. The woman was brilliant, a daughter of oneof the oldest and most noted New York families; and noted in her ownright. She had never married: preferred to follow her career. The manwas eminent in his line: not a society figure, except by marriage--hiswife was active in the Four Hundred--because he had no tastes in thatdirection. He was nearly twenty years senior to the girl. The affair wasdesperate from the first. How far it went is doubtful; my informant gaveit the worst complexion. Certainly there must have been compromisingcircumstances, for the wife left him, holding over him the threat ofexposure. He cared nothing for himself; and the girl would have given upeverything for him. But he was then engaged on a public work ofimportance; exposure meant the ruin of that. The wife made conditions;that the man should neither speak to, see, nor communicate with thegirl. He refused. The girl went into exile and forced him to make theagreement. My informant had a copy of the letter of agreement; you cansee how close she was to the family. She said that, if we printed it, the man would instantly break barriers, seek out the girl, and theywould go away together. A front-page story, and exclusive. "

"So it was a woman who held the key!" exclaimed Banneker. 

Edmonds turned on him. "What does that mean? Do you know anything of thestory?"

"Not all that you've told me. I know the people. "

"Then why did you let me go on?"

"Because they--one of them--is my friend. There is no harm to her in myknowing. It might even be helpful. "

"Nevertheless, I think you should have told me at once, " grumbled theveteran. "Well, I didn't take the story. The informer said that shewould place it elsewhere. I told her that if she did I would publish thewhole circumstances of her visit and offer, and make New York too hot tohold her. She retired, bulging with venom like a mad snake. But shedares not tell. "

"The man's wife, was it not?"

"Some one representing her, I suspect. A bad woman, that wife. But Isaved the girl in memory of Marna Corcoran. Think what the story wouldbe worth, now that the man is coming forward politically!" Edmondssmiled wanly. "It was worth a lot even then, and I threw my paper downon it. Of course I resigned from the city desk at once. "

"It's a fascinating game, being on the inside of the big things, "ruminated Banneker. "But when it comes to a man's enslaving himself tohis paper, I--don't--know. "

"No: you won't quit, " prophesied the other. 

"I have. That is, I've resigned. "

"Of course. They all do, of your type. It was the peck of dirt, wasn'tit?"

Banneker nodded. 

"Gordon won't let you go. And you won't have any more dirt thrown atyou--probably. If you do, it'll be time enough then. "

"There's more than that. "

"Is there? What?"

"We're a pariah caste, Edmonds, we reporters. People look down on us. "

"Oh, that be damned! You can't afford to be swayed by the ignorance orsnobbery of outsiders. Play the game straight, and let the rest go. "

"But we are, aren't we?" persisted Banneker. 

"What! Pariahs?" The look which the old-timer bent upon the rising starof the business had in it a quality of brooding and affection. "Son, you're too young to have come properly to that frame of mind. That comeslater. With the dregs of disillusion after the sparkle has died out. "

"But it's true. You admit it. "

"If an outsider said that we were pariahs I'd call him a liar. But, what's the use, with you? It isn't reporting alone. It's the wholebusiness of news-getting and news-presenting; of journalism. We're undersuspicion. They're afraid of us. And at the same time they'recontemptuous of us. "

"Why?"

"Because people are mostly fools and fools are afraid or contemptuous ofwhat they don't understand. "

Banneker thought it over. "No. That won't do, " he decided. "Men thataren't fools and aren't afraid distrust us and despise the business. Edmonds, there's nothing wrong, essentially, in furnishing news for thepublic. It's part of the spread of truth. It's the handing on of thelight. It's--it's as big a thing as religion, isn't it?"

"Bigger. Religion, seven days a week. "

"Well, then--"

"I know, son, " said Edmonds gently. "You're thirsting for the clear andrestoring doctrine of journalism. And I'm going to give you hell's ownheresy. You'll come to it anyway, in time. " His fierce little pipeglowed upward upon his knotted brows. "You talk about truth, news: newsand truth as one and the same thing. So they are. But newspapers aren'tafter news: not primarily. Can't you see that?"

"No. What are they after?"

"Sensation. "

Banneker turned the word over in his mind, evoking confirmation in theremembered headlines even of the reputable Ledger. 

"Sensation, " repeated the other. "We've got the speed-up motto inindustry. Our newspaper version of it is 'spice-up. ' A conference thatmay change the map of Europe will be crowded off any front page any dayby young Mrs. Poultney Masters making a speech in favor of giving girlsnight-keys, or of some empty-headed society dame being caught in aroadhouse with another lady's hubby. Spice: that's what we're lookingfor. Something to tickle their jaded palates. And they despise us whenwe break our necks or our hearts to get it for 'em. "

"But if it's what they want, the fault lies with the public, not withus, " argued Banneker. 

"I used to know a white-stuff man--a cocaine-seller--who had the sameargument down pat, " retorted Edmonds quietly. 

Banneker digested that for a time before continuing. 

"Besides, you imply that because news is sensational, it must beunworthy. That isn't fair. Big news is always sensational. And of coursethe public wants sensation. After all, sensation of one sort or anotheris the proof of life. "

"Hence the noble profession of the pander, " observed Edmonds through acoil of minute and ascending smoke-rings. "He also serves the public. "

"You're not drawing a parallel--"

"Oh, no! It isn't the same thing, quite. But it's the same public. Letme tell you something to remember, youngster. The men who go to the topin journalism, the big men of power and success and grasp, come throughwith a contempt for the public which they serve, compared to which thecontempt of the public for the newspaper is as skim milk to corrosivesublimate. "

"Perhaps that's what is wrong with the business, then. "

"Have you any idea, " inquired Edmonds softly, "what the philosophy ofthe Most Ancient Profession is?"

Banneker shook his head. 

"I once heard a street-walker on the verge of D. T. 's--she wasintelligent; most of 'em are fools--express her analytical opinion ofthe men who patronized her. The men who make our news system have muchthe same notion of their public. How much poison _they_ scatter abroadwe won't know until a later diagnosis. "

"Yet you advise me to stick in the business. "

"You've got to. You are marked for it. "

"And help scatter the poison!"

"God forbid! I've been pointing out the disease of the business. There'sa lot of health in it yet. But it's got to have new blood. I'm too oldto do more than help a little. Son, you've got the stuff in you to dothe trick. Some one is going to make a newspaper here in this rotten, stink-breathing, sensation-sniffing town that'll be based on news. Truth! There's your religion for you. Go to it. "

"And serve a public that I'll despise as soon as I get strong enough todisregard it's contempt for me, " smiled Banneker. 

"You'll find a public that you can't afford to despise, " retorted theveteran. "There is such a public. It's waiting. "

"Well; I'll know in a couple of weeks, " said Banneker. "But _I_ thinkI'm about through. "

For Edmonds's bitter wisdom had gone far toward confirming hisresolution to follow up his first incursion into the magazine field ifit met with the success which he confidently expected of it. 

As if to hold him to his first allegiance, the ruling spirits of TheLedger now began to make things easy for him. Fat assignments came hisway again. Events which seemed almost made to order for his pen wereturned over to him by the city desk. Even though he found little timefor Sunday "specials, " his space ran from fifteen to twenty-five dollarsa day, and the "Eban" skits on the editorial page, now paid at doublerates because of their popularity, added a pleasant surplus. To put apoint to his mysteriously restored favor, Mr. Greenough called up onehot morning and asked Banneker to make what speed he could to Sippiac, New Jersey. Rioting had broken out between mill-guards and the strikersof the International Cloth Company factories, with a number of resultingfatalities. It was a "big story. " That Banneker was specially fitted, through his familiarity with the ground, to handle it, the city editorwas not, of course, aware. 

At Sippiac, Banneker found the typical industrial tragedy of that timeand condition, worked out to its logical conclusion. On the one side asmall army of hired gun-men, assured of full protection and endorsementin whatever they might do: on the other a mob of assorted foreigners, ignorant, resentful of the law, which seemed only a huge mechanism ofinjustice manipulated by their oppressors, inflamed by the heavypotations of a festal night carried over into the next day, and, becauseof the criminally lax enforcement of the law, tacitly permitted to goarmed. Who had started the clash was uncertain and, perhaps inessentials, immaterial; so perfectly and fatefully had the stage beenset for mutual murder. At the close of the fray there were ten dead. Onewas a guard: the rest, strikers or their dependents, including a womanand a six-year-old child, both shot down while running away. 

By five o'clock that afternoon Banneker was in the train returning tothe city with a board across his knees, writing. Five hours later hisaccount was finished. At the end of his work, he had one of those ideasfor "pointing" a story, mere commonplaces of journalism nowadays, whichlater were to give him his editorial reputation. In the pride of hispublicity-loving soul, Mr. Horace Vanney, chief owner of theInternational Cloth Mills, had given to Banneker a reprint of an addressby himself, before some philosophical and inquiring society, wherein hehad set forth some of his simpler economic theories. A quotation, admirably apropos to Banneker's present purposes, flashed forth clearand pregnant, to his journalistic memory. From the Ledger "morgue" heselected one of several cuts of Mr. Vanney, and turned it in to thenight desk for publication, with this descriptive note:

Horace Vanney, Chairman of the Board of the International Cloth Company, Who declares that if working-women are paid more than a bare living wage, The surplus goes into finery and vanities which tempt them to ruin, Mr. Vanney's mills pay girls four dollars a week. 

Ravenously hungry, Banneker went out to order a long-delayed dinner atKatie's. Hardly had he swallowed his first mouthful of soup, when anoffice boy appeared. 

"Mr. Gordon wants to know if you can come back to the office at once. "

On the theory that two minutes, while important to his stomach, wouldnot greatly matter to the managing editor, Banneker consumed the rest ofhis soup and returned. He found Mr. Gordon visibly disturbed. 

"Sit down, Mr. Banneker, " he said. 

Banneker compiled. 

"We can't use that Sippiac story. "

Banneker sat silent and attentive. 

"Why did you write it that way?"

"I wrote it as I got it. "

"It is not a fair story. "

"Every fact--"

"It is a most unfair story. "

"Do you know Sippiac, Mr. Gordon?" inquired Banneker equably. 

"I do not. Nor can I believe it possible that you could acquire theknowledge of it implied in your article, in a few hours. "

"I spent some time investigating conditions there before I came on thepaper. "

Mr. Gordon was taken aback. Shifting his stylus to his left hand, heassailed severally the knuckles of his right therewith before he spoke. "You know the principles of The Ledger, Mr. Banneker. "

"To get the facts and print them, so I have understood. "

"These are not facts. " The managing editor rapped sharply upon theproof. "This is editorial matter, hardly disguised. "

"Descriptive, I should call it, " returned the writer amiably. 

"Editorial. You have pictured Sippiac as a hell on earth. "

"It is. "

"Sentimentalism!" snapped the other. His heavy visage wore a disturbedand peevish expression that rendered it quite plaintive. "You have beenwith us long enough, Mr. Banneker, to know that we do not cater to theuplift-social trade, nor are we after the labor vote. "

"Yes, sir. I understand that. "

"Yet you present here, what is, in effect, a damning indictment of theSippiac Mills. "

"The facts do that; not I. "

"But you have selected your facts, cleverly--oh, very cleverly--toproduce that effect, while ignoring facts on the other side. "

"Such as?"

"Such as the presence and influence of agitators. The evening editionshave the names, and some of the speeches. "

"That is merely clouding the main issue. Conditions are such there thatno outside agitation is necessary to make trouble. "

"But the agitators are there. They're an element and you have ignoredit. Mr. Banneker, do you consider that you are dealing fairly with thispaper, in attempting to commit it to an inflammatory, pro-strikecourse?"

"Certainly, if the facts constitute that kind of an argument. "

"What of that picture of Horace Vanney? Is that news?"

"Why not? It goes to the root of the whole trouble. "

"To print that kind of stuff, " said Mr. Gordon forcibly, "would make TheLedger a betrayer of its own cause. What you personally believe is notthe point. "

"I believe in facts. "

"It is what The Ledger believes that is important here. You mustappreciate that, as long as you remain on the staff, your only honorablecourse is to conform to the standards of the paper. When you write anarticle, it appears to our public, not as what Mr. Banneker says, but aswhat The Ledger says. "

"In other words, " said Banneker thoughtfully, "where the facts conflictwith The Ledger's theories, I'm expected to adjust the facts. Is thatit?"

"Certainly not! You are expected to present the news fairly and withouteditorial emphasis. "

"I'm sorry, Mr. Gordon, but I don't believe I could rewrite that storyso as to give a favorable slant to the International's side. Shootingdown women and kids, you know--"

Mr. Gordon's voice was crisp as he cut in. "There is no question of yourrewriting it. That has been turned over to a man we can trust. "

"To handle facts tactfully, " put in Banneker in his mildest voice. 

Considerably to his surprise, he saw a smile spread over Mr. Gordon'sface. "You're an obstinate young animal, Banneker, " he said. "Take thisproof home, put it under your pillow and dream over it. Tell me a weekfrom now what you think of it. "

Banneker rose. "Then, I'm not fired?" he said. 

"Not by me. "

"Why not?"

"Because I'm trusting in your essential honesty to bring you around. "

"To be quite frank, " returned Banneker after a moment's thought, "I'mafraid I've got to be convinced of The Ledger's essential honesty tocome around. "

"Go home and think it over, " suggested the managing editor. 

To his associate, Andreas, he said, looking at Banneker's retreatingback: "We're going to lose that young man, Andy. And we can't afford tolose him. "

"What's the matter?" inquired Andreas, the fanatical devotee of thecreed of news for news' sake. 

"Quixotism. Did you read his story?"

"Yes. "

Mr. Gordon looked up from his inflamed knuckles for an opinion. 

"A great job, " pronounced Andreas, almost reverently. 

"But not for us. "

"No; no. Not for us. "

"It wasn't a fair story, " alleged the managing editor with a hint of thedefensive in his voice. 

"Too hot for that, " the assistant supported his chief. "And yetperhaps--"

"Perhaps what?" inquired Mr. Gordon with roving and anxious eye. 

"Nothing, " said Andreas. 

As well as if he had finished, Mr. Gordon supplied the conclusion. "Perhaps it is quite as fair as our recast article will be. "

It was, on the whole, fairer. 

CHAPTER XII

Sound though Mr. Gordon's suggestion was, Banneker after the interviewdid not go home to think it over. He went to a telephone booth andcalled up the Avon Theater. Was the curtain down? It was, just. Could hespeak to Miss Raleigh? The affair was managed. 

"Hello, Bettina. "

"Hello, Ban. "

"How nearly dressed are you?"

"Oh--half an hour or so. "

"Go out for a bite, if I come up there?"

The telephone receiver gave a transferred effect of conscientiousconsideration. "No: I don't think so. I'm tired. This is my night forsleep. "

To such a basis had the two young people come in the course of thepolice investigation and afterward, that an agreement had beenformulated whereby Banneker was privileged to call up the youthful starat any reasonable hour and for any reasonable project, which she mightaccept or reject without the burden of excuse. 

"Oh, all right!" returned Banneker amiably. 

The receiver produced, in some occult manner, the manner of not beingprecisely pleased with this. "You don't seem much disappointed, " itsaid. 

"I'm stricken but philosophical. Don't you see me, pierced to the heart, but--"

"Ban, " interrupted the instrument: "you're flippant. Have you beendrinking?"

"No. Nor eating either, now that you remind me. "

"Has something happened?"

"Something is always happening in this restless world. "

"It has. And you want to tell me about it. "

"No. I just want to forget it, in your company. "

"Is it a decent night out?"

"Most respectable. "

"Then you may come and walk me home. I think the air will do me good. "

"It's very light diet, though, " observed Banneker. 

"Oh, very well, " responded the telephone in tones of patientresignation. "I'll watch you eat. Good-bye. "

Seated at a quiet table in the restaurant, Betty Raleigh leaned back inher chair, turning expectant eyes upon her companion. 

"Now tell your aged maiden auntie all about it. "

"Did I say I was going to tell you about it?"

"You said you weren't. Therefore I wish to know. "

"I think I'm fired. "

"Fired? From The Ledger? Do you care?"

"For the loss of the job? Not a hoot. Otherwise I wouldn't be going tofire myself. "

"Oh: that's it, is it?"

"Yes. You see, it's a question of my doing my work my way or TheLedger's way. I prefer my way. "

"And The Ledger prefers its way, I suppose. That's because what you call_your_ work, The Ledger considers _its_ work. "

"In other words, as a working entity, I belong to The Ledger. "

"Well, don't you?"

"It isn't a flattering thought. And if the paper wants me to falsify orsuppress or distort, I have to do it. Is that the idea?"

"Unless you're big enough not to. "

"Being big enough means getting out, doesn't it?"

"Or making yourself so indispensable that you can do things your ownway. "

"You're a wise child, Betty, " said he. "What do you really think of thenewspaper business?"

"It's a rotten business. "

"That's frank, anyway. "

"Now I've hurt your feelings. Haven't I?"

"Not a bit. Roused my curiosity: that's all. Why do you think it arotten business?"

"It's so--so mean. It's petty. "

"As for example?" he pressed. 

"See what Gurney did to me--to the play, " she replied naïvely. "Just tobe smart. "

"Whew! Talk about the feminine propensity for proving a generalizationby a specific instance! Gurney is an old man reared in an old tradition. He isn't metropolitan journalism. "

"He's dramatic criticism, " she retorted. 

"No. Only one phase of it. "

"Anyway, a successful phase. "

"He wants to produce his little sensation, " ruminated Banneker, recalling Edmonds's bitter diagnosis. "He does it by being clever. Thereare worse ways, I suppose. "

"He'd always rather say a clever thing than a true one. "

Banneker gave her a quick look. "Is that the disease from which thenewspaper business is suffering?"

"I suppose so. Anyway, it's no good for you, Ban, if it won't let you beyourself. And write as you think. This isn't new to me. I've knownnewspaper men before, a lot of them, and all kinds. "

"Weren't any of them honest?"

"Lots. But very few of them independent. They can't be. Not even theowners, though they think they are. "

"I'd like to try that. "

"You'd only have a hundred thousand bosses instead of one, " said shewisely. 

"You're talking about the public. They're your bosses, too, aren'tthey?"

"Oh, I'm only a woman. It doesn't matter. Besides, they're not. I lead'em by the ear--the big, red, floppy ear. Poor dears! They think I love'em all. "

"Whereas what you really love is the power within yourself to pleasethem. You call it art, I suppose. "

"Ban! What a repulsive way to put it. You're revenging yourself for whatI said about the newspapers. "

"Not exactly. I'm drawing the deadly parallel. "

She drew down her pretty brows in thought. "I see. But, at worst, I'minterpreting in my own way. Not somebody else's. "

"Not your author's?"

"Certainly not, " she returned mutinously. "I know how to put a line overbetter than he possibly could. That's _my_ business. "

"I'd hate to write a play for you, Bettina. "

"Try it, " she challenged. "But don't try to teach me how to play itafter it's written. "

"I begin to see the effect of the bill-board's printing the star's namein letters two feet high and the playwright's in one-inch type. "

"The newspapers don't print yours at all, do they? Unless you shoot someone, " she added maliciously. 

"True enough. But I don't think I'd shine as a playwright. "

"What will you do, then, if you fire yourself?"

"Fiction, perhaps. It's slow but glorious, I understand. When I'mstarving in a garret, awaiting fame with the pious and cocksureconfidence of genius, will you guarantee to invite me to a square mealonce a fortnight? Think what it would give me to look forward to!"

She was looking him in the face with an expression of frank curiosity. "Ban, does money never trouble you?"

"Not very much, " he confessed. "It comes somehow and goes every way. "

"You give the effect of spending it with graceful ease. Have you gotmuch?"

"A little dribble of an income of my own. I make, I suppose, about aquarter of what your salary is. "

"One doesn't readily imagine you ever being scrimped. You give theeffect of pros--no, not of prosperity; of--well--absolute ease. It'squite different. "

"Much nicer. "

"Do you know what they call you, around town?"

"Didn't know I had attained the pinnacle of being called anything, around town. "

"They call you the best-dressed first-nighter in New York. "

"Oh, damn!" said Banneker fervently. 

"That's fame, though. I know plenty of men who would give half of theirremaining hairs for it. "

"I don't need the hairs, but they can have it. "

"Then, too, you know, I'm an asset. "

"An asset?"

"Yes. To you, I mean. " She pursed her fingers upon the tip of her firmlittle chin and leaned forward. "Our being seen so much together. Ofcourse, that's a brashly shameless thing to say. But I never have towear a mask for you. In that way you're a comfortable person. "

"You do have to furnish a diagram, though. "

"Yes? You're not usually stupid. Whether you try for it or not--and Ithink there's a dash of the theatrical in your make-up--you're apicturesque sort of animal. And I--well, I help out the picture; makeyou the more conspicuous. It isn't your good looks alone--you'rehandsome as the devil, you know, Ban, " she twinkled at him--"nor thesuper-tailored effect which you pretend to despise, nor your fame as agun-man, though that helps a lot. . . . I'll give you a bit of tea-talk:two flappers at The Plaza. 'Who's that wonderful-looking man over by thepalm?'--'Don't you know him? Why, that's Mr. Banneker. '--'Who's he; andwhat does he do? Have I seen him on the stage?'--'No, indeed! I don'tknow what he does; but he's an ex-ranchman and he held off a gang ofriver-pirates on a yacht, all alone, and killed eight or ten of them. Doesn't he look it!'"

"I don't go to afternoon teas, " said the subject of this sprightlysketch, sulkily. 

"You will! If you don't look out. Now the same scene several yearshence. Same flapper, answering same question: 'Who's Banneker? Oh, areporter or something, on one of the papers. ' _Et voilà tout_!"

"Suppose you were with me at the Plaza, as an asset, several yearshence?"

"I shouldn't be--several years hence. "

Banneker smiled radiantly. "Which I am to take as fair warning that, unless I rise above my present lowly estate, that waxing young star, Miss Raleigh, will no longer--"

"Ban! What right have you to think me a wretched little snob?"

"None in the world. It's I that am the snob, for even thinking about it. Just the same, what you said about 'only a reporter or something' struckin. "

"But in a few years from now you won't be a reporter. "

"Shall I still be privileged to invite Miss Raleigh to supper--or was ittea?"

"You're still angry. That isn't fair of you when I'm being so frank. I'mgoing to be even franker. I'm feeling that way to-night. Comes of beingtired, I suppose. Relaxing of the what-you-callems of inhibition. Do youknow there's a lot of gossip about us, back of stage?"

"Is there? Do you mind it?"

"No. It doesn't matter. They think I'm crazy about you. " Her clear, steady eyes did not change expression or direction. 

"You're not; are you?"

"No; I'm not. That's the strange part of it. "

"Thanks for the flattering implication. But you couldn't take anyserious interest in a mere reporter, could you?" he said wickedly. 

This time Betty laughed. "Couldn't I! I could take serious interest in atumblebug, at times. Other times I wouldn't care if the whole race ofmen were extinct--and that's most times. I feel your charm. And I liketo be with you. You rest me. You're an asset, too, in a way, Ban;because you're never seen with any woman. You're supposed not to carefor them. . . . You've never tried to make love to me even the least littlebit, Ban. I wonder why. "

"That sounds like an invitation, but--"

"But you know it isn't. That's the delightful part of you; you do knowthings like that. "

"Also I know better than to risk my peace of mind. "

"Don't lie to me, my dear, " she said softly. "There's some one else. "

He made no reply. 

"You see, you don't deny it. " Had he denied it, she would have said: "Ofcourse you'd deny it!" the methods of feminine detective logic being sodevised. 

"No; I don't deny it. "

"But you don't want to talk about her. "

"No. "

"It's as bad as that?" she commiserated gently. "Poor Ban! But you'reyoung. You'll get over it. " Her brooding eyes suddenly widened. "Orperhaps you won't, " she amended with deeper perceptiveness. "Have youbeen trying me as an anodyne?" she demanded sternly. 

Banneker had the grace to blush. Instantly she rippled into laughter. 

"I've never seen you at a loss before. You look as sheepish as astage-door Johnnie when his inamorata gets into the other fellow's car. Ban, you never hung about stage-doors, did you? I think it would be goodfor you; tame your proud spirit and all that. Why don't you write one ofyour 'Eban' sketches on John H. Stage-Door?"

"I'll do better than that. Give me of your wisdom on the subject andI'll write an interview with you for Tittle-Tattle. "

"Do! And make me awfully clever, please. Our press-agent hasn't putanything over for weeks. He's got a starving wife and seven drunkenchildren, or something like that, and, as he'll take all the credit forthe interview and even claim that he wrote it unless you sign it, perhaps it'll get him a raise and he can then buy the girl who plays themanicure part a bunch of orchids. _He_'d have been a stage-door Johnnieif he hadn't stubbed his toe and become a press-agent. "

"All right, " said Banneker. "Now: I'll ask the stupid questions and yougive the cutie answers. "

It was two o'clock when Miss Betty Raleigh, having seen the gist of allher witty and profound observations upon a strange species embodied inthree or four scrawled notes on the back of a menu, rose and observedthat, whereas acting was her favorite pastime, her real and seriousbusiness was sleep. At her door she held her face up to him asstraightforwardly as a child. "Good luck to you, dear boy, " she saidsoftly. "If I ever were a fortune-teller, I would say that your star wasfor happiness and success. "

He bent and kissed her cheek lightly. "I'll have my try at success, " hesaid. "But the other isn't so easy. "

"You'll find them one and the same, " was her parting prophecy. 

Inured to work at all hours, Banneker went to the small, bare room inhis apartment which he kept as a study, and sat down to write theinterview. Angles of dawn-light had begun to irradiate the steep canyonof the street by the time he had finished. He read it over and found itgood, for its purposes. Every line of it sparkled. It had theeffervescent quality which the reading public loves to associate withstage life and stage people. Beyond that, nothing. Banneker mailed it toMiss Westlake for typing, had a bath, and went to bed. At noon he was atThe Ledger office, fresh, alert, and dispassionately curious toascertain the next resolution of the mix-up between the paper andhimself. 

Nothing happened; at least, nothing indicative. Mr. Greenough'sexpression was as flat and neutral as the desk over which he presided ashe called Banneker's name and said to him:

"Mr. Horace Vanney wishes to relieve his soul of some pricelessinformation. Will you call at his office at two-thirty?"

It was Mr. Vanney's practice, whenever any of his enterprisesappeared in a dubious or unfavorable aspect, immediately to materializein print on some subject entirely unrelated, preferably an announcementon behalf of one of the charitable or civic organizations which heofficially headed. Thus he shone forth as a useful, serviceable, andpublic-spirited citizen, against whom (such was the inference which thenewspaper reader was expected to draw) only malignancy could allegeanything injurious. In this instance his offering upon the altar ofpublicity, carefully typed and mimeographed, had just enough importanceto entitle it to a paragraph of courtesy. After it was given out tothose who called, Mr. Vanney detained Banneker. 

"Have you read the morning papers, Mr. Banneker?"

"Yes. That's my business, Mr. Vanney. "

"Then you can see, by the outbreak in Sippiac, to what disastrousresults anarchism and fomented discontent lead. "

"Depends on the point of view. I believe that, after my visit to themills for you, I told you that unless conditions were bettered you'dhave another and worse strike. You've got it. "

"Fortunately it is under control. The trouble-makers and thugs have beentaught a needed lesson. "

"Especially the six-year-old trouble-making thug who was shot throughthe lungs from behind. "

Mr. Vanney scowled. "Unfortunate. And the papers laid unnecessary stressupon that. Wholly unnecessary. Most unfair. "

"You would hardly accuse The Ledger, at least, of being unfair to themill interests. "

"Yes. The Ledger's handling, while less objectionable than some of theothers, was decidedly unfortunate. "

Banneker gazed at him in stupefaction. "Mr. Vanney, The Ledger minimizedevery detail unfavorable to the mills and magnified every one which toldagainst the strikers. It was only its skill that concealed the bias inevery paragraph. "

"You are not over-loyal to your employer, sir, " commented the otherseverely. 

"At least I'm defending the paper against your aspersions, " returnedBanneker. 

"Most unfair, " pursued Mr. Vanney. "Why publish such matter at all? Itmerely stirs up more discontent and excites hostility against the wholeindustrial system which has made this country great. And I give morecopy to the newspaper men than any other public man in New York. It'srank ingratitude, that's what it is. " He meditated upon the injuriousmatter. "I suppose we ought to have advertised, " he added pensively. "Then they'd let us alone as they do the big stores. "

Banneker left the Vanney offices with a great truth illuminatinghis brain; to wit, that news, whether presented ingenuously ordisingenuously, will always and inevitably be unpopular with those mostnearly affected. For while we all read avidly what we can find about theother man's sins and errors, we all hope, for our own, the kindly mantleof silence. And because news always must and will stir hostility, theattitude of a public, any part of which may be its next innocent (orguilty) victim, is instinctively inimical. Another angle of thepariahdom of those who deal in day-to-day history, for Banneker toponder. 

Feeling a strong desire to get away from the troublous environment ofprint, Banneker was glad to avail himself of Densmore's invitation tocome to The Retreat on the following Monday and try his hand at poloagain. This time he played much better, his mallet work in particularbeing more reliable. 

"You ride like an Indian, " said Densmore to him after the scratch game, "and you've got no nerves. But I don't see where you got your wrist, except by practice. "

"I've had the practice, some time since. "

"But if you've only knocked about the field with stable-boys--"

"That's the only play I've ever had. But when I was riding range in thedesert, I picked up an old stick and a ball of the owner's, and I'vechased that ball over more miles of sand and rubble than you'd care towalk. Cactus plants make very fair goal posts, too; but the sand istricky going for the ball. "

Densmore whistled. "That explains it. Maitland says you'll make the clubteam in two years. Let us get together and fix you up some ponies, "invited Densmore. 

Banneker shook his head, but wistfully. 

"Until you're making enough to carry your own. "

"That might be ten years, in the newspaper business. Or never. 

"Then get out of it. Let Old Man Masters find you something in theStreet. You could get away with it, " persuaded Densmore. "And he'll doanything for a polo-man. "

"No, thank you. No paid-athlete job for mine. I'd rather stay areporter. "

"Come into the club, anyway. You can afford that. And at least you cantake a mount on your day off. "

"I'm thinking of another job where I'll have more time to myself thanone day a week, " confessed Banneker, having in mind possible magazinework. He thought of the pleasant remoteness of The Retreat. It wasexpensive; it would involve frequent taxi charges. But, as ever, Banneker had an unreasoning faith in a financial providence of supply. "Yes: I'll come in, " he said. "That is, if I can get in. "

"You'll get in, with Poultney Masters for a backer. Otherwise, I'll tellyou frankly, I think your business would keep you out, in spite of yourpolo. "

"Densmore, there's something I've been wanting to put up to you. "

Densmore's heavy brows came to attention. "Fire ahead. "

"You were ready to beat me up when I came here to ask you certainquestions. "

"I was. Any fellow would be. You would. "

"Perhaps. But suppose, through the work of some other reporter, adivorce story involving the sister and brother-in-law of some chap inyour set had appeared in the papers. "

"No concern of mine. "

"But you'd read it, wouldn't you?"

"Probably. "

"And if your paper didn't have it in and another paper did, you'd buythe other paper to find out about it. "

"If I was interested in the people, I might. "

"Then what kind of a sport are you, when you're keen to read about otherpeople's scandals, but sore on any one who inquires about yours?"

"That's the other fellow's bad luck. If he--"

"You don't get my point. A newspaper is simply a news exchange. Ifyou're ready to read about the affairs of others, you should not resentthe activity of the newspaper that attempts to present yours. I'm merelyadvancing a theory. "

"Damned ingenious, " admitted the polo-player. "Make a reporter a sort ofpublic agent, eh? Only, you see, he isn't. He hasn't any right to myprivate affairs. "

"Then you shouldn't take advantage of his efforts, as you do when youread about your friends. "

"Oh, that's too fine-spun for me. Now, I'll tell you; just because Itake a drink at a bar I don't make a pal of the bartender. It comes toabout the same thing, I fancy. You're trying to justify your profession. Let me ask _you_; do you feel that you're within your decent rights whenyou come to a stranger with such a question as you put up to me?"

"No; I don't, " replied Banneker ruefully. "I feel like a man trying tohold up a bigger man with a toy pistol. "

"Then you'd better get into some other line. "

But whatever hopes Banneker may have had of the magazine line suffered aset-back when, a few days later, he called upon the Great Gaines at hisoffice, and was greeted with a cheery though quizzical smile. 

"Yes; I've read it, " said the editor at once, not waiting for thequestion. "It's clever. It's amazingly clever. "

"I'm glad you like it, " replied Banneker, pleased but not surprised. 

Mr. Gaines's expression became one of limpid innocence. "Like it? Did Isay I liked it?"

"No; you didn't say so. "

"No. As a matter of fact I don't like it. Dear me, no! Not at all. Wheredid you get the idea?" asked Mr. Gaines abruptly. 

"The plot?"

"No; no. Not the plot. The plot is nothing. The idea of choosing such anenvironment and doing the story in that way. "

"From The New Era Magazine. "

"I begin to see. You have been studying the magazine. "

"Yes. Since I first had the idea of trying to write for it. "

"Flattered, indeed!" said Mr. Gaines dryly. "And you modeled yourselfupon--what?"

"I wrote the type of story which the magazine runs to. "

"Pardon me. You did not. You wrote, if you will forgive me, an imitationof that type. Your story has everything that we strive for exceptreality. "

"You believe that I have deliberately copied--"

"A type, not a story. No; you are not a plagiarist, Mr. Banneker. Butyou are very thoroughly a journalist. "

"Coming from you that can hardly be accounted a compliment. "

"Nor is it so intended. But I don't wish you to misconstrue me. You arenot a journalist in your style and method; it goes deeper than that. Youare a journalist in your--well, in your approach. 'What the publicwants. '"

Inwardly Banneker was raging. The incisive perception stung. But hespoke lightly. "Doesn't The New Era want what its public wants?"

"My dear sir, in the words of a man who ought to have been an editor ofto-day, 'The public be damned!' What I looked to you for was not youridea of what somebody else wanted you to write, but your expression ofwhat you yourself want to write. About hoboes. About railroad wrecks. About cowmen or peddlers or waterside toughs or stage-door Johnnies, orward politicians, or school-teachers, or life. Not pink teas. "

"I have read pink-tea stories in your magazine. "

"Of course you have. Written by people who could see through the pink tothe primary colors underneath. When _you_ go to a pink tea, you arepink. Did you ever go to one?"

Still thoroughly angry, Banneker nevertheless laughed, "Then the storyis no use?"

"Not to us, certainly. Miss Thornborough almost wept over it. She saidthat you would undoubtedly sell it to The Bon Vivant and be damnedforever. "

"Thank her on my behalf, " returned the other gravely. "If The Bon Vivantwants it and will pay for it, I shall certainly sell it to them. "

"Out of pique?. . . Hold hard, young sir! You can't shoot an editor in hissanctum because of an ill-advised but natural question. "

"True enough. Nor do I want--well, yes; I would rather like to. "

"Good! That's natural and genuine. "

"What do you think The Bon Vivant would pay for that story?" inquiredBanneker. 

"Perhaps a hundred dollars. Cheap, for a career, isn't it!"

"Isn't the assumption that there is but one pathway to the True Art andbut one signboard pointing to it a little excessive?"

"Abominably. There are a thousand pathways, broad and narrow. They allgo uphill. . . . Some day when you spin something out of your own inside, Mr. Banneker, forgive the well-meaning editor and let us see it. Itmight be pure silk. "

All the way downtown, Banneker cursed inwardly but brilliantly. This washis first set-back. Everything prior which he had attempted had beensuccessful. Inevitably the hard, firm texture of his inner endurance hadsoftened under the spoiled-child treatment which the world had readilyaccorded him. Even while he recognized this, he sulked. 

To some extent he was cheered up by a letter from the editor of thatlively and not too finicky publication, Tittle-Tattle. The interviewwith Miss Raleigh was acclaimed with almost rapturous delight. It wasprecisely the sort of thing wanted. Proof had already been sent to MissRaleigh, who was equally pleased. Would Mr. Banneker kindly read andrevise enclosed proof and return it as soon as possible? Mr. Bannekerdid better than that. He took back the corrected proof in person. Theeditor was most cordial, until Banneker inquired what price was to bepaid for the interview. Then the editor was surprised and grieved. Itappeared that he had not expected to pay anything for it. 

"Do you expect to get copy for nothing?" inquired the astonished andannoyed Banneker. 

"If it comes to that, " retorted the sharp-featured young man at theeditorial desk, "you're the one that's getting something for nothing. "

"I don't follow you. "

"Come off! This is red-hot advertising matter for Betty Raleigh, and youknow it. Why, I ought to charge a coupla hundred for running it at all. But you being a newspaper man and the stuff being so snappy, I'm willingto make an exception. Besides, you're a friend of Raleigh's, ain't you?Well--'nuff said!"

It was upon the tip of Banneker's tongue to demand the copy back. Then he bethought himself of Betty's disappointment. The thing _was_well done. If he had been a thousand miles short of giving even a hintof the real Betty--who was a good deal of a person--at least he hadembodied much of the light and frivolous charm which was her stagestock-in-trade, and what her public wanted. He owed her that much, anyhow. 

"All right, " he said shortly. 

He left, and on the street-car immersed himself in some disillusioningcalculations. Suppose he did sell the rejected story to The Bon Vivant. One hundred dollars, he had learned, was the standard price paid by thatfrugal magazine; that would not recompense him for the time bestowedupon it. He could have made more by writing "specials" for the Sundaypaper. And on top of that to find that a really brilliant piece ofinterviewing had brought him in nothing more substantial thancongratulations and the sense of a good turn done for a friend!

The magazine field, he began to suspect, might prove to be arid land. 

CHAPTER XIII

What next? Banneker put the query to himself with more seriousness thanhe had hitherto given to estimating the future. Money, as he told BettyRaleigh, had never concerned him much. His start at fifteen dollars aweek had been more than he expected; and though his one weekly eveningof mild sybaritism ate up all his margin, and his successful sartorialexperiments consumed his private surplus, he had no cause for worry, since his salary had been shortly increased to twenty, and even moreshortly thereafter to twenty-five. Now it was a poor week in which hedid not exceed the hundred. All of it went, rather more fluently thanhad the original fifteen. Frugal though he could be in normalexpenditures, the rental of his little but fashionably situatedapartment, his new club expenses, his polo outfit, and his occasionalassociations with the after-theater clique, which centered at The Avon, caused the debit column to mount with astonishing facility. Furthermore, through his Western associations he had an opportunity to pick up twohalf-broken polo ponies at bargain prices. He had practically decided tobuy them. Their keep would be a serious item. He must have more money. How to get it? Harder work was the obvious answer. Labor had no terrorsfor Banneker. Mentally he was a hardened athlete, always in training. Being wise and self-protective, he did no writing on his day off. Butexcept for this period of complete relaxation, he gave himself norespite. Any morning which did not find him writing in his den, after alight, working breakfast, he put in at the Library near by, insatiablyreading economics, sociology, politics, science, the more seriousmagazines, and always the news and comments of the day. He was possessedof an assertive and sane curiosity to know what was going on in theworld, an exigence which pressed upon him like a healthy appetite, thestimulus of his hard-trained mental condition. The satisfaction of thisdemand did not pay an immediate return; he obtained little or no actualmaterial to be transmuted into the coin of so-much-per-column, except ashe came upon suggestions for editorial use; and, since his earlierexperience of The Ledger's editorial method with contributions (which heconsidered light-fingered), he had forsworn this medium. Notwithstandingthis, he wrote or sketched out many an editorial which would haveastonished, and some which would have benefited, the Inside Room wherethe presiding genius, malicious and scholarly, dipped his penalternately into luminous ether and undiluted venom. Some day, Bannekerwas sure, he himself was going to say things editorially. 

His opinion of the editorial output in general was unflattering. Itseemed to him bound by formalism and incredibly blind to the immense andvivid interest of the news whereby it was surrounded, as if a man, setdown in a meadow full of deep and clear springs, should elect to drinkfrom a shallow, torpid, and muddy trickle. Legislation, taxes, transportation problems, the Greatness of Our City, our National Duty(whatever it might be at the time--and according to opinion), the drinkquestion, the race problem, labor and capital; these were the reiteratedtopics, dealt with informatively often, sometimes wittily, seldomimpartially. But, at best, this was but the creaking mechanism of theartificial structure of society, and it was varied only by an occasionalliterary or artistic sally, or a preachment in the terms of a convincedmoralization upon the unvarying text that the wages of sin is death. Whynot a touch of humanism, now and again, thought Banneker, following theinevitable parallels in paper after paper; a ray of light strikingthrough into the life-texture beneath?

By way of experiment he watched the tide of readers, flowing through thenewspaper room of the Public Library, to ascertain what they read. Notone in thirty paid any attention to the editorial pages. Essayingfarther afield, he attended church on several occasions. His suspicionswere confirmed; from the pulpit he heard, addressed to scantycongregations, the same carefully phrased, strictly correct comments, now dealing, however, with the mechanism of another world. The chiefpoint of difference was that the newspaper editorials were, on thewhole, more felicitously worded and more compactly thought out. Essentially, however, the two ran parallel. 

Banneker wondered whether the editorial rostrum, too, was fated todeliver its would-be authoritative message to an audience whichthreatened to dwindle to the vanishing point. Who read those carefullywrought columns in The Ledger? Pot-bellied chair-warmers in clubs;hastening business men appreciative of the daily assurance thatstability is the primal and final blessing, discontent the cardinal sin, the extant system perfect and holy, and any change a wile of the forcesof destruction--as if the human race had evoluted by the power ofstanding still! For the man in the street they held no message. No; norfor the woman in the home. Banneker thought of young Smith of the yachtand the coming millions, with a newspaper waiting to drop into hishands. He wished he could have that newspaper--any newspaper, for ayear. He'd make the man in the street sit up and read his editorials. Yes, and the woman in the home. Why not the boy and the girl in school, also? Any writer, really master of his pen, ought to be able to makeeven a problem in algebra editorially interesting!

And if he could make it interesting, he could make it pay. . . . But howwas he to profit by all this hard work, this conscientious technicaltraining to which he was devoting himself? True, it was improving hisstyle. But for the purposes of Ledger reporting, he wrote quite wellenough. Betterment here might be artistically satisfactory; financiallyit would be fruitless. Already his space bills were the largest, consistently, on the staff, due chiefly to his indefatigable industry indevoting every spare office hour to writing his "Eban" sketches, nowpaid at sixteen dollars a column, and Sunday "specials. " He might pushthis up a little, but not much. 

From the magazine field, expectations were meager in the immediatesense. True, The Bon Vivant had accepted the story which The Erarejected; but it had paid only seventy-five dollars. Banneker did notcare to go farther on that path. Aside from the unsatisfactory return, his fastidiousness revolted from being identified with the output of athird-class and flashy publication. Whatever The Ledger's shortcomings, it at least stood first in its field. But was there any future for himthere, other than as a conspicuously well-paid reporter? In spite of thecritical situation which his story of the Sippiac riots had broughtabout, he knew that he was safe as long as he wished to stay. 

"You're too valuable to lose, " said Tommy Burt, swinging his pudgy legsover Banneker's desk, having finished one of his mirthful stories of arow between a wine agent and a theatrical manager over a doubly reservedtable in a conspicuous restaurant. "Otherwise--phutt! But they'll bevery careful what kind of assignments they hand over to your recklesshands in future. You mustn't throw expensive and brittle conventions atthe editor's head. They smash. "

"And the fragments come back and cut. I know. But what does it all leadto, Tommy?"

"Depends on which way you're going. "

"To the top, naturally. "

"From anybody else that would sound blatant, Ban, " returned Tommyadmiringly. "Somehow you get away with it. Are you as sincere as youact?"

"In so far as my intentions go. Of course, I may trip up and breakmyself in two. "

"No. You'll always fall light. There's a buoyancy about you. . . . But whatabout coming to the end of the path and finding nowhere else toproceed?"

"Paragon of wisdom, you have stated the situation. Now produce theanswer. "

"More money?" inquired Tommy. 

"More money. More opportunity. "

"Then you've got to aim at the executive end. Begin by taking acopy-desk. "

"At forty a week?"

"It isn't so long ago that twenty-five looked pretty big to you, Ban. "

"A couple of centuries ago, " stated Banneker positively. "Forty a weekwouldn't keep me alive now. "

"You could write a lot of specials. Or do outside work. "

"Perhaps. But what would a desk lead to?

"City editor. Night city editor. Night editor. Managing editor atfifteen thou. "

"After ten years. If one has the patience. I haven't. Besides, whatchance would _I_ have?'

"None, with the present lot in the Inside Room. You're a heretic. You'reunsound. You've got dangerous ideas--accent on the dangerous. I doubt ifthey'd even trust you with a blue pencil. You might inject somethingradical into a thirty-head. "

"Tommy, " said Banneker, "I'm still new at this game. What becomes ofstar reporters?"

"Drink, " replied Tommy brusquely. 

"Rats!" retorted Banneker. "That's guff. There aren't three heavydrinkers in this office. "

"A lot of the best men go that way, " persisted Burt. "It's the latehours and the irregular life, I suppose. Some drift out into otherlines. This office has trained a lot of playwrights and authors andad-men. "

"But some must stick. "

"They play out early. The game is too hard. They get to be hacks. _Or_permanent desk-men. D'you know Philander Akely?"

"Who is he?"

"Ask me who he _was_ and I'll tell you. He was the brilliant youngster, the coruscating firework, the--the Banneker of ten years ago. Come intothe den and meet him. "

In one of the inner rooms Banneker was introduced to a fragile, desiccated-looking man languidly engaged in scissoring newspaper afternewspaper which he took from a pile and cast upon the floor afteroperation. The clippings he filed in envelopes. A checkerboard lay onthe table beside him. 

"Do you play draughts, Mr. Banneker?" he asked in a rumbling bass. 

"Very little and very poorly. "

The other sighed. "It is pure logic, in the form of contest. Far more sothan chess, which is merely sustained effort of concentration. Are youinterested in emblemology?"

"I'm afraid I know almost nothing of it, " confessed Banneker. 

Akely sighed again, gave Banneker a glance which proclaimed an utterlack of interest, and plunged his shears into the editorial vitals ofthe Springfield Republican. Tommy Burt led the surprised Banneker away. 

"Dried up, played out, and given a measly thirty-five a week ashopper-feeder for the editorial room, " he announced. "And he was thestar man of his time. "

"That's pretty rotten treatment for him, then, " said Bannekerindignantly. 

"Not a bit of it. He isn't worth what he gets. Most offices would havechucked him out on the street. "

"What was his trouble?"

"Nothing in particular. Just wore his machine out. Everything going out, nothing coming in. He spun out enough high-class copy to keep theordinary reporter going for a life-time; but he spun it out too fast. Nothing left. The tragedy of it is that he's quite happy. "

"Then it isn't a tragedy at all. "

"Depends on whether you take the Christian or the Buddhist point ofview. He's found his Nirvana in checker problems and collectingliterature about insignia. Write? I don't suppose he'd want to if hecould. 'There but for the grace of God goes'--you or I. _I_ think the_facilis descensus_ to the gutter is almost preferable. "

"So you've shown him to me as a dreadful warning, have you, Tommy?"mused Banneker aloud. 

"Get out of it, Ban; get out of it. "

"Why don't you get out of it yourself?"

"Inertia. Or cowardice. And then, I haven't come to the turning-pointyet. When I do reach it, perhaps it'll be too late. "

"What do you reckon the turning-point?"

"As long as you feel the excitement of the game, " explained this veteranof thirty, "you're all right. That will keep you going; the sense ofadventure, of change, of being in the thick of things. But there's anunderlying monotony, so they tell me: the monotony of seeing things byglimpses, of never really completing a job, of being inside importantthings, but never of them. That gets into your veins like a cloggingpoison. Then you're through. Quit it, Ban, before it's too late. "

"No. I'm not going to quit the game. It's my game. I'm going to beatit. "

"Maybe. You've got the brains. But I think you're too stiff in thebackbone. Go-to-hell-if-you-don't-like-the-way-I-do-it may be all rightfor a hundred-dollar-a-week job; but it doesn't get you a managingeditorship at fifteen to twenty thousand. Even if it did, you'd give upthe go-to-hell attitude as soon as you landed, for fear it would costyou your job and be too dear a luxury. "

"All right, Mr. Walpole, " laughed Banneker. "When I find what my priceis, I'll let you know. Meantime I'll think over your well-meant advice. "

If the normal way of advancement were closed to him in The Ledger officebecause of his unsound and rebellious attitude on social and laborquestions, there might be better opportunities in other offices, Banneker reflected. 

Before taking any step he decided to talk over the general situationwith that experienced campaigner, Russell Edmonds. Him and hisdiminutive pipe he found at Katie's, after most of the diners had left. The veteran nodded when Banneker told him of his having reached whatappeared to be a _cul-de-sac_. 

"It's about time you quit, " said Edmonds vigorously. 

"You've changed your mind?"

The elder nodded between two spirals of smoke which gave him theappearance of an important godling delivering oracles through incense. "That was a dam' bad story you wrote of the Sippiac killings. "

"I didn't write it. "

"Didn't uh? You were there. "

"My story went to the office cat. "

"What was the stuff they printed? Amalgamated Wire Association?"

"No. Machine-made rewrite in the office. "

"It wasn't dishonest. The Ledger's too clever for that. It was unhonest. You can't be both neutral and fair on cold-blooded murder. "

"You weren't precisely neutral in The Courier. "

Edmonds chuckled. "I did rather put it over on the paper. But that waseasy. Simply a matter of lining up the facts in logical sequence. "

"Horace Vanney says you're an anarchist. "

"It's mutual. I think he's one. To hell with all laws and rights thatdiscommode _Me_ and _My_ interests. That's the Vanney platform. "

"He thinks he ought to have advertised. "

"Wise guy! So he ought. "

"To secure immunity?"

It required six long, hard puffs to elicit from Edmonds the opinion:"He'd have got it. Partly. Not all he paid for. "

"Not from The Ledger, " said Banneker jealously. "We're independent inthat respect. "

Edmonds laughed. "You don't have to bribe your own heeler. The Ledgerbelieves in Vanney's kind of anarchism, as in a religion. "

"Could he have bought off The Courier?"

"Nothing as raw as that. But it's quite possible that if the SippiacMills had been a heavy advertiser, the paper wouldn't have sent me tothe riots. Some one more sympathetic, maybe. "

"Didn't they kick on your story?"

"Who? The mill people? Howled!"

"But it didn't get them anything?"

"Didn't it! You know how difficult it is to get anything for publicationout of old Rockface Enderby. Well, I had a brilliant idea that this wassomething he'd talk about. Law Enforcement stuff, you know. And he did. Gave me a hummer of an interview. Tore the guts out of the mill-ownersfor violating all sorts of laws, and put it up that the mill-guards werethemselves a lawless organization. There's nothing timid about Enderby. Why, we'd have started a controversy that would be going yet. "

"Well, why didn't you?"

"Interview was killed, " replied Edmonds, grinning ruefully. "For thebest interests of the paper. That's what the Vanney crowd's kick gotthem. "

"Pop, what do you make of Willis Enderby?"

"Oh, he's plodding along only a couple of decades behind his time. "

"A reactionary?"

"Didn't I say he was plodding along? A reactionary is immovable exceptin the wrong direction. Enderby's a conservative. "

"As a socialist you're against any one who isn't as radical as you are. "

"I'm not against Willis Enderby. I'm for him, " grunted the veteran. 

"Why; if he's a conservative?"

"Oh, as for that, I can bring a long indictment against him. He's a firmbeliever in the capitalistic system. He's enslaved to the old economictheories, supply and demand, and all that rubbish from the ruins ofancient Rome. He believes that gold is the only sound material forpillars of society. The aristocratic idea is in his bones. " Edmonds, bya feat of virtuosity, sent a thin, straight column of smoke, as it mighthave been an allegorical and sardonic pillar itself, almost to theceiling. "But he believes in fair play. Free speech. Open field. Therigor of the game. He's a sportsman in life and affairs. That's why he'sdangerous. "

"Dangerous? To whom?"

"To the established order. To the present system. Why, son, all weSocialists ask is fair play. Give us an even chance for labor, for theproletariat; an even show before the courts, an open forum in thenewspapers, the right to organize as capital organizes, and we'll win. If we can't win, we deserve to lose. I say that men like Willis Enderbyare our strongest supporters. "

"Probably he thinks his side will win, under the strict rules of thegame. "

"Of course. But if he didn't, he'd still be for fair play, to the lastinch. "

"That's a pretty fine thing to say of a man, Pop. "

"It's a pretty fine man, " said Edmonds. 

"What does Enderby want? What is he after?"

"For himself? Nothing. It's something to be known as the ablest honestlawyer in New York. Or, you can turn it around and say he's thehonestest able lawyer in New York. I think, myself, you wouldn't be farastray if you said the ablest and honestest. No; he doesn't wantanything more than what he's got: his position, his money, hisreputation. Why should he? But it's going to be forced on him one ofthese days. "

"Politically?"

"Yes. Whatever there is of leadership in the reform element here centersin him. It's only a question of time when he'll have to carry thestandard. "

"I'd like to be able to fall in behind him when the time comes. "

"On The Ledger?" grunted Edmonds. 

"But I shan't be on The Ledger when the time comes. Not if I can findany other place to go. "

"Plenty of places, " affirmed Edmonds positively. 

"Yes; but will they give me the chance I want?"

"Not unless you make it for yourself. But let's canvass 'em. You want amorning paper. "

"Yes. Not enough salary in the evening field. "

"Well: you've thought of The Sphere first, I suppose. "

"Naturally. I like their editorial policy. Their news policy makes meseasick. "

"I'm not so strong for the editorials. They're always for reform andnever for progress. "

"Ah, but that's epigram. "

"It's true, nevertheless. The Sphere is always tiptoeing up to the edgeof some decisive policy, and then running back in alarm. What of TheObserver? They're looking for new blood. "

"The Observer! O Lord! Preaches the eternal banalities and believes themthe eternal verities. "

"Epigram, yourself, " grinned Edmonds. "Well, The Monitor?"

"The three-card Monitor, and marked cards at that. "

"Yes; you'd have to watch the play. The Graphic then?"

"Nothing but an ornamental ghost. The ghost of a once handsomely keptlady. I don't aspire to write daily epitaphs. "

"And The Messenger I suppose you wouldn't even call a kept lady. Toocommon. Babylonian stuff. But The Express is respectable enough foranybody. "

"And conscious of it in every issue. One long and pious scold, after ahigh-minded, bad-tempered formula of its own. "

"Then I'll give you a motto for your Ledger. " Edmonds puffed it outenjoyably, --decorated with bluish and delicate whorls. "'_Meliora videoproboque, deleriora sequor_. '"

"No; I won't have that. The last part will do; we do follow the worserway; but if we see the better, we don't approve it. We don't evenrecognize it as the better. We're honestly convinced in our advocacy ofthe devil. "

"I don't know that we're honestly convinced of anything on The Courier, except of the desirability of keeping friendly with everybody. But suchas we are, we'd grab at you. "

"No; thanks, Pop. You yourself are enough in the troubled-water ducklingline for one old hen like The Courier. "

"Then there remains only The Patriot, friend of the Pee-pul. "

"Skimmed scum, " was Banneker's prompt definition. "And nothing in thesoup underneath. "

Ernst, the waiter, scuttled across the floor below, and disappeared backof the L-angle a few feet away. 

"Somebody's dining there, " remarked Edmonds, "while we've been strippingthe character off every paper in the field. "

"May it be all the editors and owners in a lump!" said Banneker. "I'msorry I didn't talk louder. I'm feeling reckless. "

"Bad frame of mind for a man seeking a job. By the way, what _are_ youout after, exactly? Aiming at the editorial page, aren't you?"

Banneker leaned over the table, his face earnest to the point ofsomberness. "Pop, " he said, "you know I can write. "

"You can write like the devil, " Edmonds offered up on twin supports ofvapor. 

"Yes, and I can do more than that. I can think. "

"For self, or others?" propounded the veteran. 

"I take you. I can think for myself and make it profitable to others, ifI can find the chance. Why, Pop, this editorial game is child's play!"

"You've tried it?"

"Experimentally. The opportunities are limitless. I could make peopleread editorials as eagerly as they read scandal or baseball. "

"How?"

"By making them as simple and interesting as scandal or baseball. "

"Oh! As easy as that, " observed Edmonds scornfully. "High art, son!Nobody's found the way yet. Perhaps, if--"

He stopped, took his pipe from his lips and let his raised eyes levelthemselves toward the corner of the L where appeared a figure. 

"Would you gentlemen mind if I took my coffee with you?" said thenewcomer smoothly. 

Banneker looked with questioning eyebrows toward Edmonds, who nodded. "Come up and sit down, Mr. Marrineal, " invited Banneker, moving hischair to leave a vacancy between himself and his companion. 

CHAPTER XIV

Tertius C. Marrineal was a man of forty, upon whom the years had laid nobonds. A large fortune, founded by his able but illiterate father in thetimber stretches of the Great Lakes region, and spread out into variousprofitable enterprises of mining, oil, cattle, and milling, provided himwith a constantly increasing income which, though no amateur atspending, he could never quite overtake. Like many other hustlers of hisday and opportunity, old Steve Marrineal had married a shrewd littleshopgirl who had come up with him through the struggle by the slow, patient steps described in many of our most improving biographies. Asfrequently occurs, though it doesn't get into the biographies, she whohad played a helpful role in adversity, could not withstand affluence. She bloated physically and mentally, and became the juicy andunsuspecting victim of a horde of parasites and flatterers who swarmedeagerly upon her, as soon as the rough and contemptuous protection ofher husband was removed by the hand of a medical prodigy who advertisedhimself as the discoverer of a new and infallible cure for cancer, andwhom Mrs. Marrineal, with an instinctive leaning toward quackery, hadforced upon her spouse. Appraising his prospective widow with anaccurate eye, the dying man left a testament bestowing the bulk of hisfortune upon his son, with a few heavy income-producing properties forMrs. Marrineal. Tertius Marrineal was devoted to his mother, with ajealous, pitying, and protective affection. This is popularly approvedas the infallible mark of a good man. Tertius Marrineal was not a goodman. 

Nor was there any particular reason why he should be. Boys who have abusiness pirate for father, and a weak-minded coddler for mother, seldomgrow into prize exhibits. Young Marrineal did rather better than mighthave been expected, thanks to the presence at his birth-cradle of arobust little good-fairy named Self-Preservation, who never gets halfthe credit given to more picturesque but less important gift-bringers. He grew up with an instinctive sense of when to stop. Sometimes hestopped inopportunely. He quit several courses of schooling too soon, because he did not like the unyielding regimen of the institutions. When, a little, belated, he contrived to gain entrance to a small, old, and fashionable Eastern college, he was able, or perhaps willing, to goonly halfway through his sophomore year. Two years in world travel witha well-accredited tutor seemed to offer an effectual and not toorigorous method of completing the process of mind-formation. YoungMarrineal got a great deal out of that trip, though the result shouldperhaps be set down under the E of Experience rather than that ofErudition. The mentor also acquired experience, but it profited himlittle, as he died within the year after the completion of the trip, hishealth having been sacrificed in a too conscientious endeavor to keepeven pace with his pupil. Young Marrineal did not suffer in health. Hewas a robust specimen. Besides, there was his good and protective fairyalways ready with the flag of warning at the necessary moment. 

Launched into the world after the elder Marrineal's death, Tertiusinterested himself in sundry of the businesses left by his father. Though they had been carefully devised and surrounded with safeguards, the heir managed to break into and improve several of them. The resultwas more money. After having gambled with fair luck, played the profuselibertine for a time, tried his hand at yachting, horse-racing, big-gamehunting, and even politics, he successively tired of the first three, and was beaten at the last, but retained an unsatisfied hunger for it. To celebrate his fortieth birthday, he had bought a house on the easternvista of Central Park, and drifted into a rather indeterminate life, identified with no special purpose, occupation, or set. Large though hisfortune was, it was too much disseminated and he was too indifferent toit, for him to be conspicuous in the money game which constitutes NewYork's lists of High Endeavor. His reputation, in the city of carelessreckonings, was vague, but just a trifle tarnished; good enough for thecasual contacts which had hitherto made up his life, but offeringdifficulties should he wish to establish himself more firmly. 

The best clubs were closed to him; he had reached his possible summitalong that path in achieving membership in the recently and superblyestablished Oligarchs Club, which was sumptuous, but over-vivid like anew Oriental rug. As to other social advancement, his record was anobstacle. Not that it was worse than, nor indeed nearly as bad as, thatof many an established member of the inner circle; but the test for anoutsider seeking admittance is naturally made more severe. Delavan Eyre, for example, an average sinner for one of his opportunities andstanding, had certainly no better a general repute, and latterly a muchmore dubious one than Marrineal. But Eyre "belonged" of right. 

As sufficient indication of Marrineal's status, by the way, it may bepointed out that, while he knew Eyre quite well, it was highlyimprobable that he would ever know Mrs. Eyre, or, if he did fortuitouslycome to know her, that he would be able to improve upon theacquaintance. All this Marrineal himself well understood. But it mustnot be inferred that he resented it. He was far too much of aphilosopher for that. It amused him as offering a new game to be played, more difficult certainly and inferentially more interesting than any ofthose which had hitherto enlisted his somewhat languid efforts. Heappreciated also, though with a cynical disbelief in the logic of thesituation, that he must polish up his reputation. He was on the newquest at the time when he overheard Banneker and Edmonds discuss thejournalistic situation in Katie's restaurant, and had already determinedupon his procedure. 

Sitting between the two newspaper workers, Marrineal overtopped themboth; the supple strength of Banneker as well as the gnarly slendernessof Edmonds. He gave an impression of loose-jointed and rather lazypower; also of quiet self-confidence. He began to talk at once, with theeasy, drifting commentary of a man who had seen everything, measuredmuch, and liked the glittering show. Both of the others, one his elder, the other his junior, felt the ready charm of the man. Both were contentto listen, waiting for the clue to his intrusion which he had contrivedto make not only inoffensive, but seemingly a casual act ofgood-fellowship. The clue was not afforded, but presently some shrewdopinion of the newcomer upon the local political situation set them bothto discussion. Quite insensibly Marrineal withdrew from theconversation, sipping his coffee and listening with an effect ofeffortless amenity. 

"If we had a newspaper here that wasn't tied hard and fast, politically!" cried Edmonds presently. 

Marrineal fingered a specially fragrant cigar. "But a newspaper must betied to something, mustn't it?" he queried. "Otherwise it drifts. "

"Why not to its reading public?" suggested Banneker. 

"That's an idea. But can you tie to a public? Isn't the public itselfadrift, like seaweed?"

"Blown about by the gales of politics. " Edmonds accepted the figure. "Well, the newspaper ought to be the gale. "

"I gather that you gentlemen do not think highly of present journalisticconditions. "

"You overheard our discussion, " said Banneker bluntly. 

Marrineal assented. "It did not seem private. Katie's is a sort of freeforum. That is why I come. I like to listen. Besides, it touched mepretty closely at one or two points. "

The two others turned toward him, waiting. He nodded, and took uponhimself an air of well-pondered frankness. "I expect to take a moreactive part in journalism from now on. "

Edmonds followed up the significant phrase. "_More_ active? You havenewspaper interests?"

"Practically speaking, I own The Patriot. What do you gentlemen think ofit?"

"Who reads The Patriot?" inquired Banneker. He was unprepared for theswift and surprised flash from Marrineal's fine eyes, as if someprofoundly analytical or revealing suggestion had been made. 

"Forty thousand men, women, and children. Not half enough, of course. "

"Not a tenth enough, I would say, if I owned the paper. Nor are they theright kind of readers. "

"How would you define them, then?" asked Marrineal, still in that smoothvoice. 

"Small clerks. Race-track followers. People living in that class oftenements which call themselves flats. The more intelligent servants. Totally unimportant people. "

"Therefore a totally unimportant paper?"

"A paper can be important only through what it makes people believe andthink. What possible difference can it make what The Patriot's readersthink?"

"If there were enough of them?" suggested Marrineal. 

"No. Besides, you'll never get enough of them, in the way you're runningthe paper now. "

"Don't say 'you, ' please, " besought Marrineal. "I've been keeping myhands off. Watching. "

"And now you're going to take hold?" queried Edmonds. "Personally?"

"As soon as I can find my formula--and the men to help me work it out, "he added, after a pause so nicely emphasized that both his hearers had asimultaneous inkling of the reason for his being at their table. 

"I've seen newspapers run on formula before, " muttered Edmonds. 

"Onto the rocks?"

"Invariably. "

"That's because the formulas were amateur formulas, isn't it?"

The veteran of a quarter-century turned a mildly quizzical smile uponthe adventurer into risky waters. "Well?" he jerked out. 

Marrineal's face was quite serious as he took up the obviousimplication. "Where is the dividing line between professional andamateur in the newspaper business? You gentlemen will bear with me if Igo into personal details a little. I suppose I've always had thenewspaper idea. When I was a youngster of twenty, I tried myself out. Got a job as a reporter in St. Louis. It was just a callow escapade. Andof course it couldn't last. I was an undisciplined sort of cub. Theyfired me; quite right, too. But I did learn a little. And at least iteducated me in one thing; how to read newspapers. " He laughed lightly. "Perhaps that is as nearly thorough an education as I've ever had inanything. "

"It's rather an art, newspaper reading, " observed Banneker. 

"You've tried it, I gather. So have I, rather exhaustively in the lastyear. I've been reading every paper in New York every day and allthrough. "

"That's a job for an able-minded man, " commented Edmonds, looking at himwith a new respect. 

"It put eye-glasses on me. But if it dimmed my eyes, it enlightened mymind. The combined newspapers of New York do not cover the availablefield. They do not begin to cover it. . . . Did you say something, Mr. Banneker?"

"Did I? I didn't mean to, " said Banneker hastily. "I'm a good dealinterested. "

"I'm glad to hear that, " returned Marrineal with gravity. "After I'dmade my estimate of what the newspapers publish and fail to publish, I canvassed the circulation lists and news-stands and made anotherdiscovery. There is a large potential reading public not yet tied up toany newspaper. It's waiting for the right paper. "

"The imputation of amateurishness is retracted, with apologies, "announced Russell Edmonds. 

"Accepted. Though there are amateur areas yet in my mind. I bought ThePatriot. "

"Does that represent one of the areas?"

"It represents nothing, thus far, except what it has always represented, a hand-to-mouth policy and a financial deficit. But what's wrong with itfrom your point of view?"

"Cheap and nasty, " was the veteran's succinct criticism. 

"Any more so than The Sphere? The Sphere's successful. "

"Because it plays fair with the main facts. It may gloss 'em up with atouch of sensationalism, like the oil on a barkeep's hair. But it doesgo after the facts, and pretty generally it presents 'em as found. ThePatriot is fakey; clumsy at it, too. Any man arrested with more thanfive dollars in his pocket is a millionaire clubman. If BridgetO'Flaherty jumps off Brooklyn Bridge, she becomes a prominent societywoman with picture (hers or somebody else's) in The Patriot. And thecheapest little chorus-girl tart, who blackmails a broker's clerk with abreach of promise, gets herself called a 'distinguished actress' and hima 'well-known financier. ' Why steal the Police Gazette's rouge andlip-stick?"

"Because it's what the readers want. "

"All right. But at least give it to 'em well done. And cut out theprinting of wild rumors as news. That doesn't get a paper anything inthe long run. None of your readers have any faith in The Patriot. "

"Does any paper have the confidence of its public?" returned Marrineal. 

Touched upon a sensitive spot, Edmonds cursed briefly. "If it hasn't, it's because the public has a dam'-fool fad for pretending it doesn'tbelieve what it reads. Of course it believes it! Otherwise, how wouldit know who's president, or that the market sagged yesterday? This'I-never-believe-what-I-read-in-the-papers' guff makes me sick to thetips of my toes. "

"Only the man who knows newspapers from the inside can disbelieve themscientifically, " put in Banneker with a smile. 

"What would _you_ do with The Patriot if you had it?" interrogated theproprietor. 

"I? Oh, I'd try to make it interesting, " was the prompt and simplereply. 

"How, interesting?"

For his own purposes Banneker chose to misinterpret the purport of thequestion. "So interesting that half a million people would have to readit. "

"You think you could do that?"

"I think it could be done. "

"Will you come with me and try it?"

"You're offering me a place on The Patriot staff?"

"Precisely. Mr. Edmonds is joining. "

That gentleman breathed a small cloud of blue vapor into the airtogether with the dispassionate query: "Is that so? Hadn't heard of it. "

"My principle in business is to determine whether I want a man or anarticle, and then bid a price that can't be rejected. "

"Sound, " admitted the veteran. "Perfectly sound. But I'm not speciallyin need of money. "

"I'm offering you opportunity. "

"What kind?"

"Opportunity to handle big stories according to the facts as you seethem. Not as you had to handle the Sippiac strike story. "

Edmonds set down his pipe. "What did you think of that?"

"A masterpiece of hinting and suggestion and information for those whocan read between the lines. Not many have the eye for it. With me youwon't have to write between the lines. Not on labor or politicalquestions, anyway. You're a Socialist, aren't you?"

"Yes. You're not going to make The Patriot a Socialist paper, are you?"

"Some people might call it that. I'm going to make it a popular paper. It's going to be for the many against the few. How are you going tobring about Socialism?"

"Education. "

"Exactly! What better chance could you ask? A paper devoted to theinterests of the masses, and willing to print facts. I want you to dothe same sort of thing that you've been doing for The Courier; a job ofhandling the big, general stories. You'll be responsible to me alone. The salary will be a third higher than you are now getting. Think itover. "

"I've thought. I'm bought, " said Russell Edmonds. He resumed his pipe. 

"And you, Mr. Banneker?"

"I'm not a Socialist, in the party sense. Besides a Socialist paper inNew York has no chance of big circulation. "

"Oh, The Patriot isn't going to tag itself. Politically it will beindependent. Its policy will be socialistic only in that it will be forlabor rather than capital and for the under dog as against the upperdog. It certainly won't tie up to the Socialist Party or advocate itsprinciples. It's for fair play and education. "

"What's your purpose?" demanded Banneker. "Money?"

"I've a very comfortable income, " replied Marrineal modestly. 

"Political advancement? Influence? Want to pull the wires?" persistedthe other. 

"The game. I'm out of employment and tired of it. "

"And you think I could be of use in your plan? But you don't know muchabout me. "

Marrineal murmured smilingly something indefinite but complimentary asto Banneker's reputation on Park Row; but this was by no means a fairindex to what he knew about Banneker. 

Indeed, that prematurely successful reporter would have been surprisedat the extent to which Marrineal's private investigations had gone. Notonly was the purchaser of The Patriot apprised of Banneker'sprofessional career in detail, but he knew of his former employment, andalso of his membership in The Retreat, which he regarded with perplexityand admiration. Marrineal was skilled at ascertainments. He made aspecialty of knowing all about people. 

"With Mr. Edmonds on roving commission and you to handle the big localstuff, " he pursued, "we should have the nucleus of a news organization. Like him, you would be responsible to me alone. And, of course, it wouldbe made worth your while. What do you think? Will you join us?"

"No. "

"No?" There was no slightest hint of disappointment, surprise, orresentment in Marrineal's manner. "Do you mind giving me the reason?"

"I don't care to be a reporter on The Patriot. "

"Well, this would hardly be reporting. At least, a very specialized andimportant type. "

"For that matter, I don't care to be a reporter on any paper muchlonger. Besides, you need me--or some one--in another department morethan in the news section. "

"You don't like the editorials, " was the inference which Marrineal drewfrom this, and correctly. 

"I think they're solemn flapdoodle. "

"So do I. Occasionally I write them myself and send them in quietly. Itisn't known yet that I own the property; so I don't appear at theoffice. Mine are quite as solemn and flapdoodlish as the others. Towhich quality do you object the most?"

"Solemnity. It's the blight of editorial expression. All the paperssuffer from it. "

"Then you wouldn't have the editorial page modeled on that of any of ourcontemporaries. "

"No. I'd try to make it interesting. There isn't a page in town that theaverage man-in-the-street-car can read without a painful effort atthought. "

"Editorials are supposed to be for thinking men, " put in Edmonds. 

"Make the thinking easy, then. Don't make it hard, with heavy words anda didactic manner. Talk to 'em. You're trying to reach for their brainmechanism. Wrong idea. Reach for their coat-lapels. Hook a finger in thebuttonholes and tell 'em something about common things they neverstopped to consider. Our editorializers are always tucking their handsinto their oratorical bosoms and discoursing in a sonorous voice aboutfreight differentials as an element in stabilizing the market. How doesthat affect Jim Jones? Why, Jim turns to the sporting page. But if yousay to him casually, in print, 'Do you realize that every woman whobrings a child into the world shows more heroism than Teddy Rooseveltwhen he charged up San Juan Hill?'--what'll Jim do about that? Turn tothe sporting page just the same, maybe. But after he's absorbed theball-scores, he'll turn back to the editorial. You see, he never thoughtabout Mrs. Jones just that way before. "

"Sentimentalism, " observed Marrineal. "Not altogether original, either. "But he did not speak as a critic. Rather as one pondering upon newvistas of thought. 

"Why shouldn't an editorial be sentimental about something besides thestarry flag and the boyhood of its party's candidate? Original? Ishouldn't worry overmuch about that. All my time would be occupied intrying to be interesting. After I got 'em interested, I could perhaps beinstructive. Very cautiously, though. But always man to man: that's theeditorial trick, as I see it. Not preacher to congregation. "

"Where are your editorials, son?" asked the veteran Edmonds abruptly. 

"Locked up. " Banneker tapped his forehead. 

"In the place of their birth?" smiled Marrineal. 

"Oh, I don't want too much credit for my idea. A fair share of itbelongs to a bald-headed and snarling old nondescript whom I met one dayin the Public Library and shall probably never meet again anywhere. Somebody had pointed me out--it was after that shooting mess--and theold fellow came up to me and growled out, 'Employed on a newspaper?' Iadmitted it. 'What do you know about news?' was his next question. Well, I'm always open to any fresh slants on the business, so I asked himpolitely what he knew. He put on an expression like a prayerful owl andsaid, 'Suppose I came into your office with the information that adestructive plague was killing off the earthworms?' Naturally, I thoughtone of the librarians had put up a joke on me; so I said, 'Refer you tothe Anglers' Department of the All-Outdoors Monthly. ' 'That is as far asyou could see into the information?' he said severely. I had to confessthat it was. 'And you are supposed to be a judge of news!' he snarled. Well, he seemed so upset about it that I tried to be soothing by askinghim if there was an earthworm pestilence in progress. 'No, ' answers he, 'and lucky for you. For if the earthworms all died, so would you and therest of us, including your accursed brood of newspapers, which would besome compensation. Read Darwin, ' croaks the old bird, and calls me acallow fool, and flits. "

"Who was he? Did you find out?" asked Edmonds. 

"Some scientific grubber from the museum. I looked up the Darwin bookand decided that he was right; not Darwin; the old croaker. "

"Still, that was not precisely news, " pointed out Marrineal. 

"Theoretical news. I'm not sure, " pursued Banneker, struck with a newidea, "that that isn't the formula for editorial writing; theoreticalnews. Supplemented by analytical news, of course. "

"Philosophizing over Darwin and dead worms would hardly inspire half amillion readers to follow your editorial output, day after day. "Marrineal delivered his opinion suavely. 

"Not if written in the usual style, suggesting a conscientious rehashof the encyclopedia. But suppose it were done differently, and with acaption like this, 'Why Does an Angle-Worm Wriggle?' Set that inirregular type that weaved and squirmed across the column, andJones-in-the-street-car would at least look at it. "

"Good Heavens! I should think so, " assented Marrineal. "And call for thepolice. "

"Or, if that is too sensational, " continued Banneker, warming up, "wecould head it 'Charles Darwin Would Never Go Fishing, Because' and aheavy dash after 'because. '"

"Fakey, " pronounced Edmonds. "Still, I don't know that there's any harmin that kind of faking. "

"Merely a trick to catch the eye. I don't know whether Darwin ever wentfishing or not. Probably he did if only for his researches. But, inessentials, I'm giving 'em a truth; a big truth. "

"What?" inquired Marrineal. 

"Solemn sermonizers would call it the inter-relations of life orsomething to that effect. What I'm after is to coax 'em to think alittle. "

"About angle-worms?"

"About anything. It's the process I'm after. Only let me start themthinking about evolution and pretty soon I'll have them thinking aboutthe relations of modern society--and thinking my way. Five hundredthousand people, all thinking in the way we told 'em to think--"

"Could elect Willis Enderby mayor of New York, " interjected thepractical Edmonds. 

Marrineal, whose face had become quite expressionless, gave a littlestart. "Who?" he said. 

"Judge Enderby of the Law Enforcement Society. "

"Oh! Yes. Of course. Or any one else. "

"Or any one else, " agreed Banneker, catching a quick, informed glancefrom Edmonds. 

"Frankly, your scheme seems a little fantastic to me, " pronounced theowner of The Patriot. "But that may be only because it's new. It mightbe worth trying out. " He reverted again to his expressionless reverie, out of which exhaled the observation: "I wonder what the presenteditorial staff could do with that. "

"Am I to infer that you intend to help yourself to my idea?" inquiredBanneker. 

Mr. Marrineal aroused himself hastily from his editorial dream. Thoughby no means a fearful person, he was uncomfortably sensible of a menace, imminent and formidable. It was not in Banneker's placid face, nor inthe unaltered tone wherein the pertinent query was couched. Nevertheless, the object of that query became aware that young Bannekerwas not a person to be trifled with. He now went on, equably to say:

"Because, if you do, it might be as well to give me the chance ofdeveloping it. "

Possibly the "Of course, " with which Marrineal responded to thisreasonable suggestion, was just a little bit over-prompt. 

"Give me ten days. No: two weeks, and I'll be ready to show my wares. Where can I find you?"

Marrineal gave a telephone address. "It isn't in the book, " he said. "Itwill always get me between 9 A. M. And noon. "

They talked of matters journalistic, Marrineal lapsing tactfully intothe role of attentive listener again, until there appeared in the lowerroom a dark-faced man of thirty-odd, spruce and alert, who, uponsighting them, came confidently forward. Marrineal ordered him a drinkand presented him to the two journalists as Mr. Ely Ives. As Mr. Ives, it appeared, was in the secret of Marrineal's journalistic connection, the talk was resumed, becoming more general. Presently Marrinealconsulted his watch. 

"You're not going up to the After-Theater Club to-night?" he askedBanneker, and, on receiving a negative reply, made his adieus and wentout with Ives to his waiting car. 

Banneker and Edmonds looked at each other. "Don't both speak at once, "chuckled Banneker. "What do _you_?"

"Think of him? He's a smooth article. Very smooth. But I've seen 'embefore that were straight as well as smooth. "

"Bland, " said Banneker. "Bland with a surpassing blandness. A blandnessamounting to blandeur, as grandness in the highest degree becomesgrandeur. I like that word, " Banneker chucklingly approved himself. "ButI wouldn't use it in an editorial, one of those editorials that ourgenial friend was going to appropriate so coolly. A touch of the piratein him, I think. I like him. "

"Yes; you have to. He makes himself likable. What do you figure Mr. ElyIves to be?"

"Henchman. "

"Do you know him?"

"I've seen him uptown, once or twice. He has some reputation as anamateur juggler. "

"I know him, too. But he doesn't remember me or he wouldn't have been sopleasant, " said the veteran, committing two errors in one sentence, forEly Ives had remembered him perfectly, and in any case would never haveexhibited any unnecessary rancor in his carefully trained manner. "Wrotea story about him once. He's quite a betting man; some say a sure-thingbettor. Several years ago Bob Wessington was giving one of his famousbooze parties on board his yacht 'The Water-Wain, ' and this chap was inon it somehow. When everybody was tanked up, they got to doing stuntsand he bet a thousand with Wessington he could swarm up the backstay tothe masthead. Two others wished in for a thousand apiece, and he cleanedup the lot. It cut his hands up pretty bad, but that was cheap at threethousand. Afterwards it turned out that he'd been practicing that veryclimb in heavy gloves, down in South Brooklyn. So I wrote the story. Hecame back with a threat of a libel suit. Fool bluff, for it wasn'tlibelous. But I looked up his record a little and found he was anex-medical student, from Chicago, where he'd been on The Chronicle for awhile. He quit that to become a press-agent for a group of oil-gamblers, and must have done some good selling himself, for he had money when helanded here. To the best of my knowledge he is now a sort of lookout forthe Combination Traction people, with some connection with the CityIlluminating Company on the side. It's a secret sort of connection. "

Banneker made the world-wide symbolistic finger-shuffle ofmoney-handling. "Legislative?" he inquired. 

"Possibly. But it's more keeping a watch on publicity and politics. Hegives himself out as a man-about-town, and is supposed to make a goodthing out of the market. Maybe he does, though I notice that generallythe market makes a good thing out of the smart guy who tries to beatit. "

"Not a particularly desirable person for a colleague. "

"I doubt if he'd be Marrineal's colleague exactly. The inside of thenewspaper isn't his game. More likely he's making himself attractive anduseful to Marrineal just to find out what he's up to with his paper. "

"I'll show him something interesting if I get hold of that editorialpage. "

"Son, are you up to it, d'you think?" asked Edmonds with affectionatesolicitude. "It takes a lot of experience to handle policies. "

"I'll have you with me, won't I, Pop? Besides, if my little schemeworks, I'm going out to gather experience like a bee after honey. "

"We'll make a queer team, we three, " mused the veteran, shaking his bonyhead, as he leaned forward over his tiny pipe. His protuberant foreheadseemed to overhang the idea protectively. Or perhaps threateningly. "None of us looks at a newspaper from the same angle or as the same kindof a machine as the others view it. "

"Never mind our views. They'll assimilate. What about his?"

"Ah! I wish I knew. But he wants something. Like all of us. " A shadepassed across the clearly modeled severity of the face. Edmonds sighed. "I don't know but that I'm too old for this kind of experiment. Yet I'vefallen for the temptation. "

"Pop, " said Banneker with abrupt irrelevance, "there's a line fromEmerson that you make me think of when you look like that. 'His sadlucidity of soul. '"

"Do I? But it isn't Emerson. It's Matthew Arnold. "

"Where do you find time for poetry, you old wheelhorse! Never mind; youought to be painted as the living embodiment of that line. "

"Or as a wooden automaton, jumping at the end of a special wire from'our correspondent. ' Ban, can you see Marrineal's hand on a wire?"

"If it's plain enough to be visible, I'm underestimating his tact. I'dlike to have a lock of his hair to dream on to-night. I'm off to thinkthings over, Pop. Good-night. "

Banneker walked uptown, through dimmed streets humming with the harmonicechoes of the city's never-ending life, faint and delicate. He stoppedat Sherry's, and at a small table in the side room sat down with abottle of ale, a cigarette, and some stationery. When he rose, it was tomail a letter. That done, he went back to his costly little apartmentupon which the rent would be due in a few days. He had the cash in hand:that was all right. As for the next month, he wondered humorouslywhether he would have the wherewithal to meet the recurring bill, not tomention others. However, the consideration was not weighty enough tokeep him sleepless. 

Custom kindly provides its own patent shock-absorbers to all the variousorganisms of nature; otherwise the whole regime would perish. Necessarily a newspaper is among the best protected of organisms againstshock: it deals, as one might say, largely in shocks, and its hand issubdued to what it works in. Nevertheless, on the following noon TheLedger office was agitated as it hardly would have been had BrooklynBridge fallen into the East River, or the stalest mummy in the NaturalHistory Museum shown stirrings of life. A word was passing from eagermouth to incredulous ear. 

Banneker had resigned. 

CHAPTER XV

Looking out of the front window, into the decorum of Grove Street, Mrs. Brashear could hardly credit the testimony of her glorified eyes. Couldthe occupant of the taxi indeed be Mr. Banneker whom, a few monthsbefore and most sorrowfully, she had sacrificed to the sternrespectability of the house? And was it possible, as the very eleganttrunk inscribed "E. B. --New York City" indicated, that he was coming backas a lodger? For the first time in her long and correct professionalcareer, the landlady felt an unqualified bitterness in the fact that allher rooms were occupied. 

The occupant of the taxi jumped out and ran lightly up the steps. 

"How d'you do, Mrs. Brashear. Am I still excommunicated?"

"Oh, Mr. Banneker! I'm _so_ glad to see you. If I could tell you howoften I've blamed myself--"

"Let's forget all that. The point is I've come back. "

"Oh, dear! I do hate not to take you in. But there isn't a spot. "

"Who's got my old room?"

"Mr. Hainer. "

"Hainer? Let's turn him out. "

"I would in a minute, " declared the ungrateful landlady to whom Mr. Hainer had always been a model lodger. "But the law--"

"Oh, I'll fix Hainer if you'll fix the room. "

"How?" asked the bewildered Mrs. Brashear. 

"The room? Just as it used to be. Bed, table, couple of chairs, bookshelf. "

"But Mr. Hainer's things?"

"Store 'em. It'll be for only a month. "

Leaving his trunk, Banneker sallied forth in smiling confidence toaccost and transfer the unsuspecting occupant of his room. To achievethis, it was necessary only to convince the object of the scheme thatthe incredible offer was made in good faith; an apartment in the "swell"Regalton, luxuriously furnished, service and breakfast included, rentfree for a whole month. A fairy-tale for the prosaic Hainer to begloated over for the rest of his life! Very quietly, for this was partof the bargain, the middle-aged accountant moved to his new glories andBanneker took his old quarters. It was all accomplished that evening. The refurnishing was finished on the following day. 

"But what are you doing it for, if I may be so bold, Mr. Banneker?"asked the landlady. 

"Peace, quiet, and work, " he answered gayly. "Just to be where nobodycan find me, while I do a job. "

Here, as in the old, jobless days, Banneker settled down to concentratedand happy toil. Always a creature of Spartan self-discipline in thematter of work, he took on, in this quiet and remote environment, newenergies. Miss Westlake, recipient of the output as it came from thehard-driven pen, was secretly disquieted. Could any human being maintainsuch a pace without collapse? Day after day, the devotee of thethird-floor-front rose at seven, breakfasted from a thermos bottle and atin box, and set upon his writing; lunched hastily around the corner, returned with armfuls of newspapers which he skimmed as a preliminary toa second long bout with his pen; allowed himself an hour for dinner, andcame back to resume the never-ending task. As in the days of the "Eban"sketches, now on the press for book publication, it was write, rewrite, and re-rewrite, the typed sheets coming back to Miss Westlake amended, interlined, corrected, but always successively shortened and simplified. Profitable, indeed, for the solicitous little typist; but she ventured, after a fortnight of it, to remonstrate on the score of ordinaryprudence. Banneker laughed, though he was touched, too, by her interest. 

"I'm indestructible, " he assured her. "But next week I shall run aroundoutside a little. "

"You must, " she insisted. 

"Field-work, I believe they call it. The Elysian Fields of ManhattanIsland. Perhaps you'll come with me sometimes and see that I attendproperly to my recreation. "

Curiosity as well as a mere personal interest prompted her to accept. She did not understand the purpose of these strange and vivid writingscommitted to her hands, so different from any of the earlier of Mr. Banneker's productions; so different, indeed, from anything that she hadhitherto seen in any print. Nor did she derive full enlightenment fromher Elysian journeys with the writer. They seemed to be casual if notaimless. The pair traveled about on street-cars, L trains, Fifth Avenuebuses, dined in queer, crowded restaurants, drank in foreign-appearingbeer-halls, went to meetings, to Cooper Union forums, to the ArtGallery, the Aquarium, the Museum of Natural History, to dances inEast-Side halls: and everywhere, by virtue of his easy and gracefulgood-fellowship, Banneker picked up acquaintances, entered into theirdiscussions, listened to their opinions and solemn dicta, agreeing orcontroverting with equal good-humor, and all, one might have carelesslysupposed, in the idlest spirit of a light-minded Haroun al Raschid. 

"What is it all about, if you don't mind telling?" asked his companionas he bade her good-night early one morning. 

"To find what people naturally talk about, " was the ready answer. 

"And then?"

"To talk with them about what interests them. In print. "

"Then it isn't Elysian-fielding at all. "

"No. It's work. Hard work. "

"And what do you do after it?"

"Oh, sit up and write for a while. "

"You'll break down. "

"Oh, no! It's good for me. "

And, indeed, it was better for him than the alternative of trying tosleep without the anodyne of complete exhaustion. For again, his hourswere haunted by the not-to-be-laid spirit of Io Welland. As in thoseearlier days when, with hot eyes and set teeth, he had sent up hisnightly prayer for deliverance from the powers of the past--

"Heaven shield and keep us freeFrom the wizard, MemoryAnd his cruel necromancies!"--

she came back to her old sway over his soul, and would not beexorcised. --So he drugged his brain against her with the opiate ofweariness. 

Three of his four weeks had passed when Banneker began to whistle at hisdaily stent. Thereafter small boys, grimy with printer's ink, calledoccasionally, received instructions and departed, and there emanatedfrom his room the clean and bitter smell of paste, and the clip ofshears. Despite all these new activities, the supply of manuscript forMiss Westlake's typewriter never failed. One afternoon Banneker knockedat the door, asked her if she thought she could take dictation direct, and on her replying doubtfully that she could try, transferred her andher machine to his den, which was littered with newspapers, proof-sheets, and foolscap. Walking to and fro with a sheet of thelatter inscribed with a few notes in his hand, the hermit proceeded todeliver himself to the briskly clicking writing machine. 

"Three-em dash, " said he at the close. "That seemed to go fairly well. "

"Are you training me?" asked Miss Westlake. 

"No. I'm training myself. It's easier to write, but it's quicker totalk. Some day I'm going to be really busy"--Miss Westlake gasped--"andtime-saving will be important. Shall we try it again to-morrow?"

She nodded. "I could brush up my shorthand and take it quicker. "

"Do you know shorthand?" He looked at her contemplatively. "Would youcare to take a regular position, paying rather better than this casualwork?"

"With you?" asked Miss Westlake in a tone which constituted a sufficientacceptance. 

"Yes. Always supposing that I land one myself. I'm in a big gamble, andthese, " he swept a hand over the littered accumulations, "are my cards. If they're good enough, I'll win. "

"They are good enough, " said Miss Westlake with simple faith. 

"I'll know to-morrow, " replied Banneker. 

For a young man, jobless, highly unsettled of prospects, the ratio ofwhose debts to his assets was inversely to what it should have been, Banneker presented a singularly care-free aspect when, at 11 A. M. Of arainy morning, he called at Mr. Tertius Marrineal's Fifth Avenue house, bringing with him a suitcase heavily packed. Mr. Marrineal's personalJap took over the burden and conducted it and its owner to a small rearroom at the top of the house. Banneker apprehended at the first glancethat this was a room for work. Mr. Marrineal, rising from behind abroad, glass-topped table with his accustomed amiable smile, also lookedworkmanlike. 

"You have decided to come with us, I hope, " said he pleasantly enough, yet with a casual politeness which might have been meant to suggest ameasure of indifference. Banneker at once caught the note of bargaining. 

"If you think my ideas are worth my price, " he replied. 

"Let's have the ideas. "

"No trouble to show goods, " Banneker said, unclasping the suitcase. Hepreferred to keep the talk in light tone until his time came. From thecase he extracted two close-packed piles of news-print, folded in half. 

"Coals to Newcastle, " smiled Marrineal. "These seem to be copies of ThePatriot. "

"Not exact copies. Try this one. " Selecting an issue at random he passedit to the other. 

Marrineal went into it carefully, turning from the front page to theinside, and again farther in the interior, without comment. Nor did hespeak at once when he came to the editorial page. But he glanced up atBanneker before settling down to read. 

"Very interesting, " he said presently, in a non-committal manner. "Haveyou more?"

Silently Banneker transferred to the table-top the remainder of thesuitcase's contents. Choosing half a dozen at random, Marrineal turnedeach inside out and studied the editorial columns. His expression didnot in any degree alter. 

"You have had these editorials set up in type to suit yourself, I takeit, " he observed after twenty minutes of perusal; "and have pasted theminto the paper. "

"Exactly. "

"Why the double-column measure?"

"More attractive to the eye. It stands out. "

"And the heavy type for the same reason?"

"Yes. I want to make 'em just as easy to read as possible. "

"They're easy to read, " admitted the other. "Are they all yours?"

"Mine--and others'. "

Marrineal looked a bland question. Banneker answered it. 

"I've been up and down in the highways and the low-ways, Mr. Marrineal, taking those editorials from the speech of the ordinary folk who talkabout their troubles and their pleasures. "

"I see. Straight from the throbbing heart of the people. Jones-in-the-street-car. "

"And Mrs. Jones. Don't forget her. She'll read 'em. "

"If she doesn't, it won't be because they don't bid for her interest. Here's this one, 'Better Cooking Means Better Husbands: Try It. ' That'sthe _argumentum ad feminam_ with a vengeance. "

"Yes. I picked that up from a fat old party who was advising a thinyoung wife at a fish-stall. 'Give'm his food _right_ an' he'll come hometo it, 'stid o' workin' the free lunch. '"

"Here are two on the drink question. 'Next Time Ask the Barkeep Why _He_Doesn't Drink, ' and, 'Mighty Elephants Like Rum--and Are ChainedSlaves. '"

"You'll find more moralizing on booze if you look farther. It's one ofthe subjects they talk most about. "

"'The Sardine is Dead: Therefore More Comfortable Than You, Mr. Straphanger, '" read Marrineal. 

"Go up in the rush-hour L any day and you'll hear that editorial withtrimmings. "

"And 'Mr. Flynn Owes You a Yacht Ride' is of the same order, I suppose. "

"Yes. If it had been practicable, I'd have had some insets with that: apicture of Flynn, a cut of his new million-dollar yacht, and a tableshowing the twenty per cent dividends that the City Illuminating Companypays by over-taxing Jones on his lighting and heating. That would almosttell the story without comment. "

"I see. Still making it easy for them to read. "

Marrineal ran over a number of other captions, sensational, personal, invocative, and always provocative: "Man, Why Hasn't Your Wife DivorcedYou?" "John L. Sullivan, the Great Unknown. " "Why Has the OrnithorhyncusGot a Beak?" "If You Must Sell Your Vote, Ask a Fair Price For It. ""Mustn't Play, You Kiddies: It's a Crime: Ask Judge Croban. " "Socrates, Confucius, Buddha, Christ; All Dead, But--!!!" "The Inventor ofGoose-Plucking Was the First Politician. They're At It Yet. " "How MuchWould You Pay a Man to Think For You?" "Air Doesn't Cost Much: Have YouGot Enough to Breathe?"

"All this, " said the owner of The Patriot, "is taken from what peopletalk and think about?"

"Yes. "

"Doesn't some of it reach out into the realm of what Mr. Banneker thinksthey _ought_ to talk and think about?"

Banneker laughed. "Discovered! Oh, I won't pretend but what I propose toteach 'em thinking. "

"If you can do that and make them think our way--"

"'Give me place for my fulcrum, ' said Archimedes. "

"But that's an editorial you won't write very soon. One more detail. You've thrown up words and phrases into capital letters all through foremphasis. I doubt whether that will do. "

"Why not?"

"Haven't you shattered enough traditions without that? The publicdoesn't want to be taught with a pointer. I'm afraid that's rather toomuch of an innovation. "

"No innovation at all. In fact, it's adapted plagiarism. "

"From what?"

"Harper's Monthly of the seventy's. I used to have some odd volumes inmy little library. There was a department of funny anecdote; and thepoint of every joke, lest some obtuse reader should overlook it, wasprinted in italics. That, " chuckled Banneker, "was in the days when weused to twit the English with lacking a sense of humor. However, themethod has its advantages. It's fool-proof. Therefore I helped myself toit. "

"Then you're aiming at the weak-minded?"

"At anybody who can assimilate simple ideas plainly expressed, " declaredthe other positively. "There ought to be four million of 'em withinreaching distance of The Patriot's presses. "

"Your proposition--though you haven't made any as yet--is that we leadour editorial page daily with matter such as this. Am I correct?"

"No. Make a clean sweep of the present editorials. Substitute mine. Onea day will be quite enough for their minds to work on. "

"But that won't fill the page, " objected the proprietor. 

"Cartoon. Column of light comment. Letters from readers. That will, "returned Banneker with severe brevity. 

"It might be worth trying, " mused Marrineal. 

"It might be worth, to a moribund paper, almost anything. " The tone wassignificant. 

"Then you are prepared to join our staff?"

"On suitable terms. "

"I had thought of offering you, " Marrineal paused for better effect, "one hundred and fifty dollars a week. "

Banneker was annoyed. That was no more than he could earn, with a littleoutside work, on The Ledger. He had thought of asking two hundred andfifty. Now he said promptly:

"Those editorials are worth three hundred a week to any paper. As astarter, " he added. 

A pained and patient smile overspread Marrineal's regular features. "ThePatriot's leader-writer draws a hundred at present. "

"I dare say. "

"The whole page costs barely three hundred. "

"It is overpaid. "

"For a comparative novice, " observed Marrineal without rancor, "you donot lack self-confidence. "

"There are the goods, " said Banneker evenly. "It is for you to decidewhether they are worth the price asked. "

"And there's where the trouble is, " confessed Marrineal. "I don't know. They might be. "

Banneker made his proposition. "You spoke of my being a novice. I admitthe weak spot. I want more experience. You can afford to try this outfor six months. In fact, you can't afford not to. Something has got tobe done with The Patriot, and soon. It's losing ground daily. "

"You are mistaken, " returned Marrineal. 

"Then the news-stands and circulation lists are mistaken, too, " retortedthe other. "Would you care to see my figures?"

Marrineal waved away the suggestion with an easy gesture whichsurrendered the point. 

"Very well. I'm backing the new editorial idea to get circulation. "

"With my money, " pointed out Marrineal. 

"I can't save you the money. But I can spread it for you, that threehundred dollars. "

"How, spread it?"

"Charge half to editorial page: half to the news department. "

"On account of what services to the news department?"

"General. That is where I expect to get my finishing experience. I'vehad enough reporting. Now I'm after the special work; a little politics, a little dramatic criticism; a touch of sports; perhaps somebook-reviewing and financial writing. And, of course, an apprenticeshipin the Washington office. "

"Haven't you forgotten the London correspondence?"

Whether or not this was sardonic, Banneker did not trouble to determine. "Too far away, and not time enough, " he answered. "Later, perhaps, I cantry that. "

"And while you are doing all these things who is to carry out theeditorial idea?"

"I am. "

Marrineal stared. "Both? At the same time?"

"Yes. "

"No living man could do it. "

"I can do it. I've proved it to myself. "

"How and where?"

"Since I last saw you. Now that I've got the hang of it, I can do aneditorial in the morning, another in the afternoon, a third in theevening. Two and a half days a week will turn the trick. That leaves therest of the time for the other special jobs. "

"You won't live out the six months. "

"Insure my life if you like, " laughed Banneker. "Work will never killme. "

Marrineal, sitting with inscrutable face turned half away from hisvisitor, was beginning, "If I meet you on the salary, " when Bannekerbroke in:

"Wait until you hear the rest. I'm asking that for six months only. Thereafter I propose to drop the non-editorial work and with it thesalary. "

"With what substitute?"

"A salary based upon one cent a week for every unit of circulation puton from the time the editorials begin publication. "

"It sounds innocent, " remarked Marrineal. "It isn't as innocent as itsounds, " he added after a penciled reckoning on the back of an envelope. "In case we increase fifty thousand, you will be drawing twenty-fivethousand a year. "

"Well? Won't it be worth the money?"

"I suppose it would, " admitted Marrineal dubiously. "Of course fiftythousand in six months is an extreme assumption. Suppose the circulationstands still?"

"Then I starve. It's a gamble. But it strikes me that I'm giving theodds. "

"Can you amuse yourself for an hour?" asked Marrineal abruptly. 

"Why, yes, " answered Banneker hesitantly. "Perhaps you'd turn me loosein your library. I'd find something to put in the time on there. "

"Not very much, I'm afraid, " replied his host apologetically. "I'm ofthe low-brow species in my reading tastes, or else rather severelypractical. You'll find some advertising data that may interest you, however. "

From the hour--which grew to an hour and a half--spent in the library, Banneker sought to improve his uncertain conception of his prospectiveemployer's habit and trend of mind. The hope of revelation was not borneout by the reading matter at hand. Most of it proved to be technical. 

When he returned to Marrineal's den, he found Russell Edmonds with thehost. 

"Well, son, you've turned the trick, " was the veteran's greeting. 

"You've read 'em?" asked Banneker, and Marrineal was shrewd enough tonote the instinctive shading of manner when expert spoke to expert. Hewas an outsider, being merely the owner. It amused him. 

"Yes. They're dam' good. "

"Aren't they dam' good?" returned Banneker eagerly. 

"They'll save the day if anything can. "

"Precisely my own humble opinion if a layman may speak, " put inMarrineal. "Mr. Banneker, shall I have the contract drawn up?"

"Not on my account. I don't need any. If I haven't made myself soessential after the six months that you _have_ to keep me on, I'll wantto quit. "

"Still in the gambling mood, " smiled Marrineal. 

The two practical journalists left, making an appointment to spend thefollowing morning with Marrineal in planning policy and methods. Banneker went back to his apartment and wrote Miss Camilla Van Arsdaleall about it, in exultant mood. 

"Brains to let! But I've got my price. And I'll get a higher one: thehighest, if I can hold out. It's all due to you. If you hadn't kept mymind turned to things worth while in the early days at Manzanita, withyour music and books and your taste for all that is fine, I'd have falleninto a rut. It's success, the first real taste. I like it. I love it. AndI owe it all to you. "

Camilla Van Arsdale, yearning over the boyish outburst, smiled andsighed and mused and was vaguely afraid, with quasi-maternal fears. She, too, had had her taste of success; a marvelous stimulant, bubbling withinspiration and incitement. But for all except the few who are strongand steadfast, there lurks beneath the effervescence a subtle poison. 

CHAPTER XVI

Not being specially gifted with originality of either thought orexpression, Mr. Herbert Cressey stopped Banneker outside of hisapartment with the remark made and provided for the delayed reunion offrequent companions: "Well I thought you were dead!"

By way of keeping to the same level Banneker replied cheerfully: "I'mnot. "

"Where've you been all this while?"

"Working. "

"Where were you Monday last? Didn't see you at Sherry's. "

"Working. "

"And the week before? You weren't at The Retreat. "

"Working, also. "

"And the week before that? Nobody's seen so much--"

"Working. Working. Working. "

"I stopped in at your roost and your new man told me you were away andmight be gone indefinitely. Funny chap, your new man. Mysterious sort ofmanner. Where'd you pick him up?"

"Oh, Lord! Hainer!" exclaimed Banneker appreciatively. "Well, he toldthe truth. "

"You look pulled down, too, by Jove!" commented Cressey, concern on hissightly face. "Ridin' for a fall, aren't you?"

"Only for a test. I'm going to let up next week. "

"Tell you what, " proffered Cressey. "Let's do a day together. SayWednesday, eh? I'm giving a little dinner that night. And, oh, I say! Bythe way--no: never mind that. You'll come, won't you? It'll be at TheRetreat. "

"Yes: I'll come. I'll be playing polo that afternoon. "

"Not if Jim Maitland sees you first. He's awfully sore on you for notturning up to practice. Had a place for you on the second team. "

"Don't want it. I'm through with polo. "

"Ban! What the devil--"

"Work, I tell you. Next season I may be able to play. For the presentI'm off everything. "

"Have they made you _all_ the editors of The Ledger in one?"

"I'm off The Ledger, too. Give you all the painful details Wednesday. Fare-you-well. "

General disgust and wrath pervaded the atmosphere of the polo field whenBanneker, making his final appearance on Wednesday, broke the news toMaitland, Densmore, and the others. 

"Just as you were beginning to know one end of your stick from theother, " growled the irate team captain. 

Banneker played well that afternoon because he played recklessly. Lackof practice sometimes works out that way; as if luck took charge of aman's play and carried him through. Three of the five goals made by thesecond team fell to his mallet, and he left the field heartily cursed onall sides for his recalcitrancy in throwing himself away on work whenthe sport of sports called him. Regretful, yet well pleased withhimself, he had his bath, his one, lone drink, and leisurely got intohis evening clothes. Cressey met him at the entry to the guest's loungegiving on the general dining-room. 

"Damned if you're not a good-lookin' chap, Ban!" he declared withsomething like envy in his voice. "Thinning down a bit gives you a kindof look. No wonder Mertoun puts in his best licks on your clothes. "

"Which reminds me that I've neglected even Mertoun, " smiled Banneker. 

"Go ahead in, will you? I've got to bone some feller for a fresh collar. My cousin's in there somewhere. Mrs. Rogerson Lyle from Philadelphia. She's a pippin in pink. Go in and tell on yourself, and order her acocktail. "

Seeking to follow the vague direction, Banneker turned to the left andentered a dim side room. No pippin in pink disclosed herself. But agracious young figure in black was bending over a table looking at amagazine, the long, free curve of her back turned toward him. Headvanced. The woman said in a soft voice that shook him to the depths ofhis soul:

"Back so soon, Archie? Want Sis to fix your tie?"

She turned then and said easily: "Oh, I thought you were mybrother. . . . How do you do, Ban?"

Io held out her hand to him. He hardly knew whether or not he took ituntil he felt the close, warm pressure of her fingers. Never before hadhe so poignantly realized that innate splendor of femininity that wasuniquely hers, a quality more potent than any mere beauty. Her look methis straight and frankly, but he heard the breath flutter at her lips, and he thought to read in her eyes a question, a hunger, and a delight. His voice was under rigid control as he said:

"I didn't know you were to be here, Mrs. Eyre. "

"I knew that you were, " she retorted. "And I'm not Mrs. Eyre, please. I'm Io. "

He shook his head. "That was in another world. "

"Oh, Ban, Ban!" she said. Her lips seemed to cherish the name that theygave forth so softly. "Don't be a silly Ban. It's the same world, onlyolder; a million years older, I think. . . . I came here only because youwere coming. Are you a million years older, Ban?"

"Unfair, " he said hoarsely. 

"I'm never unfair. I play the game. " Her little, firm chin went updefiantly. Yes: she was more lovely and vivid and desirable than in theother days. Or was it only the unstifled yearning in his heart that madeher seem so? "Have you missed me?" she asked simply. 

He made no answer. 

"I've missed you. " She walked over to the window and stood looking outinto the soft and breathing murk of the night. When she came back tohim, her manner had changed. "Fancy finding you here of all places!" shesaid gayly. 

"It isn't such a bad place to be, " he said, relieved to meet her on thenew ground. 

"It's a goal, " she declared. "Half of the aspiring gilded youth of thecity would give their eye-teeth to make it. How did you manage?"

"I didn't manage. It was managed for me. Old Poultney Masters put mein. "

"Well, don't scowl at me! For a reporter, you know, it's rather anachievement to get into The Retreat. "

"I suppose so. Though I'm not a reporter now. "

"Well, for any newspaper man. What are you, by the way?"

"A sort of all-round experimental editor. "

"I hadn't heard of that, " said Io, with a quickness which apprised himthat she had been seeking information about him. 

"Nobody has. It's only just happened. "

"And I'm the first to know of it? That's as it should be, " she assertedcalmly. "You shall tell me all about it at dinner. "

"Am I taking you in?"

"No: you're taking in my cousin, Esther Forbes. But I'm on your left. Benice to me. "

Others came in and joined them. Banneker, his inner brain a fiery whorl, though the outer convolutions which he used for social purposes remainedquite under control, drifted about making himself agreeable andapproving himself to his host as an asset of the highest value. Atdinner, sprightly and mischievous Miss Forbes, who recalled their formermeeting at Sherry's, found him wholly delightful and frankly told himso. He talked little with Io; but he was conscious to his nerve-ends ofthe sweet warmth of her so near him. To her questions about hisdeveloping career he returned vague replies or generalizations. 

"You're not drinking anything, " she said, as the third course cameon. "Have you renounced the devil and all his works?" There was animpalpable stress upon the "all. "

His answer, composed though it was in tone, quite satisfied her. "Iwouldn't dare touch drink to-night. "

After dinner there was faro bank. Banneker did not play. Io, after a runof indifferent luck, declared herself tired of the game and turned tohim. 

"Take me out somewhere where there is air to breathe. "

They stood together on the stone terrace, blown lightly upon by amist-ladden breeze. 

"It ought to be a great drive of rain, filling the world, " said Io inher voice of dreams. "The roar of waters above us and below, and theglorious sense of being in the grip of a resistless current. . . . We'reall in the grip of resistless currents. D'you believe that yet, Ban?"

"No. "

"Skeptic! You want to work out your own fate. You 'strive to see, tochoose your path. ' Well, you've climbed. Is it success. Ban?"

"It will be. "

"And have you reached the Mountains of Fulfillment?"

He shook his head. "One never does, climbing alone. "

"Has it been alone, Ban?"

"Yes. "

"Always?"

"Always. "

"So it has been for me--really. No, " she added swiftly; "don't ask mequestions. Not now. I want to hear more of your new venture. "

He outlined his plan and hopes for The Patriot. 

"It's good, " she said gravely. "It's power, and so it's danger. But it'sgood. . . . Are we friends, Ban?"

"How can we be!"

"How can we not be! You've tried to drop me out of your life. Oh, Iknow, because I know you--better than you think. You'll never drop meout of your life again, " she murmured with confident wistfulness. "Never, Ban. . . . Let's go in. "

Not until she came to bid him good-night, with a lingering handclasp, her palm cleaving to his like the reluctant severance of lips, did shetell him that she was going away almost immediately. "But I had to makesure first that you were really alive, and still Ban, " she said. 

It was many months before he saw her again. 

PART III

FULFILLMENT

CHAPTER I

The House With Three Eyes sent forth into the darkness a triple glow ofhospitality. Through the aloof Chelsea district street, beyond thewesternmost L structure, came taxicabs, hansoms, private autos, todischarge at the central door men who were presently revealed, under thelucent globe above the lintel, to be for the most part silhouettestudies in the black of festal tailoring and silk hat against the whiteof expansive shirt-front. Occasionally, though less often, one of thedoors at either flank of the house, also overwatched by shining orbs, opened to discharge an early departure. A midnight wayfarer, pausingopposite to contemplate this inexplicable grandeur in a dingyneighborhood, sought enlightenment from the passing patrolman:

"Wot's doin'? Swell gamblin' joint? Huh?" As he spoke a huge, silent carcrept swiftly to the entry, which opened to swallow up two bareheaded, luxuriously befurred women, with their escorts. The curious wayfarerpromptly amended his query, though not for the better. 

"Naw!" replied the policeman with scorn. "That's Mr. Banneker's house. "

"Banneker? Who's Banneker?"

With augmented contempt the officer requested the latest quotations onclover seed. "He's the editor of The Patriot, " he vouchsafed. "Amillionaire, too, they say. And a good sport. "

"Givin' a party, huh?"

"Every Saturday night, " answered he of the uniform and night-stick, who, having participated below-stairs in the reflections of theentertainment, was condescending enough to be informative. "Say, theswellest folks in New York fall over themselves to get invited here. "

"Why ain't he on Fi'th Avenyah, then?" demanded the other. 

"He makes the Fi'th Avenyah bunch come to him, " explained the policeman, with obvious pride. "Took a couple of these old houses on long lease, knocked out the walls, built 'em into one, on his own plan, and, say!It's a pallus! I been all through it. "

A lithely powerful figure took the tall steps of the house three at atime, and turned, under the light, to toss away a cigar. 

"Cheest!" exclaimed the wayfarer in tones of awe: "that's K. O. Doyle, the middleweight, ain't it?"

"Sure! That's nothin'. If you was to get inside there you'd bump intosome of the biggest guys in town; a lot of high-ups from Wall Street, and maybe a couple of these professors from Columbyah College, and someswell actresses, and a bunch of high-brow writers and painters, and adozen dames right off the head of the Four Hundred list. He takes 'em, all kinds, Mr. Banneker does, just so they're _somethin_'. He's awonder. "

The wayfarer passed on to his oniony boarding-house, a few steps along, deeply marveling at the irruption of magnificence into the neighborhoodin the brief year since he had been away. 

Equipages continued to draw up, unload, and withdraw, until twelvethirty, when, without so much as a preliminary wink, the House shut itsThree Eyes. A scant five minutes earlier, an alert but tired-lookingman, wearing the slouch hat of the West above his dinner coat, hadbriskly mounted the steps and, after colloquy with the cautious, blackguardian of the door, had been admitted to a side room, where he waspresently accosted by a graying, spare-set guest with ruminative eyes. 

"I heard about this show by accident, and wanted in, " explained thenewcomer in response to the other's look of inquiry. "If I could seeBanneker--"

"It will be some little time before you can see him. He's at work. "

"But this is his party, isn't it?"

"Yes. The party takes care of itself until he comes down. "

"Oh; does it? Well, will it take care of me?"

"Are you a friend of Mr. Banneker's?"

"In a way. In fact, I might claim to have started him on his career ofnewspaper crime. I'm Gardner of the Angelica City Herald. "

"Ban will be glad to see you. Take off your things. I am RussellEdmonds. "

He led the way into a spacious and beautiful room, filled with thecomposite hum of voices and the scent of half-hidden flowers. TheWesterner glanced avidly about him, noting here a spoken name familiarin print, there a face recognized from far-spread photographicreproduction. 

"Some different from Ban's shack on the desert, " he muttered. "Hello!Mr. Edmonds, who's the splendid-looking woman in brown with the yelloworchids, over there in the seat back of the palms?"

Edmonds leaned forward to look. "Royce Melvin, the composer, I believe. I haven't met her. "

"I have, then, " returned the other, as the guest changed her position, fully revealing her face. "Tried to dig some information out of heronce. Like picking prickly pears blindfold. That's Camilla Van Arsdale. What a coincidence to find her here!"

"No! Camilla Van Arsdale? You'll excuse me, won't you? I want to speakto her. Make yourself known to any one you like the looks of. That's therule of the house; no introductions. "

He walked across the room, made his way through the crescent curvingabout Miss Van Arsdale, and, presenting himself, was warmly greeted. 

"Let me take you to Ban, " he said. "He'll want to see you at once. "

"But won't it disturb his work?"

"Nothing does. He writes with an open door and a shut brain. "

He led her up the east flight of stairs and down a long hallway to anend room with door ajar, notwithstanding that even at that distance thehum of voices and the muffled throbbing of the concert grand piano frombelow were plainly audible. Banneker's voice, regular, mechanical, desensitized as the voices of those who dictate habitually are prone tobecome, floated out:

"Quote where ignorance is bliss 'tis folly to be wise end quote commasaid a poet who was also a cynic period. Many poets are comma but notthe greatest period. Because of their--turn back to the beginning of theparagraph, please, Miss Westlake. "

"I've brought up an old friend, Ban, " announced Edmonds, pushing widethe door. 

Vaguely smiling, for he had trained himself to be impervious tointerruptions, the editorializer turned in his chair. Instantly hesprang to his feet, and caught Miss Van Arsdale by both hands. 

"Miss Camilla!" he cried. "I thought you said you couldn't come. "

"I'm defying the doctors, " she replied. "They've given me so good areport of myself that I can afford to. I'll go down now and wait foryou. "

"No; don't. Sit up here with me till I finish. I don't want to lose anyof you, " said he affectionately. 

But she laughingly refused, declaring that he would be through all thesooner for his other guests, if she left him. 

"See that she meets some people, Bop, " Banneker directed. "Gaines of TheNew Era, if he's here, and Betty Raleigh, and that new composer, and theJunior Masters. "

Edmonds nodded, and escorted her downstairs. Nicely judging the timewhen Banneker would have finished, he was back in quarter of an hour. The stenographer had just left. 

"What a superb woman, Ban!" he said. "It's small wonder that Enderbylost himself. "

Banneker nodded. "What would she have said if she could know that you, an absolute stranger, had been the means of saving her from a terrificscandal? Gives one a rather shivery feeling about the power andresponsibility of the press, doesn't it?"

"It would have been worse than murder, " declared the veteran, with somuch feeling that his friend gave him a grateful look. "What's she doingin New York? Is it safe?"

"Came on to see a specialist. Yes; it's all right. The Enderbys areabroad. "

"I see. How long since you'd seen her?"

"Before this trip? Last spring, when I took a fortnight off. "

"You went clear West, just to see her?"

"Mainly. Partly, too, to get back to the restfulness of the place whereI never had any troubles. I've kept the little shack I used to own; paya local chap named Mindle to keep it in shape. So I just put in a weekof quiet there. "

"You're a queer chap, Ban. And a loyal one. "

"If I weren't loyal to Camilla Van Arsdale--" said Banneker, and leftthe implication unconcluded. 

"Another friend from your picturesque past is down below, " said Edmonds, and named Gardner. 

"Lord! That fellow nearly cost me my life, last time we met, " laughedBanneker. Then his face altered. Pain drew its sharp lines there, painand the longing of old memories still unassuaged. "Just the same, I'llbe glad to see him. "

He sought out the Californian, found him deep in talk with Guy Malloryof The Ledger, who had come in late, gave him hearty greeting, andlooked about for Camilla Van Arsdale. She was supping in the center of acuriously assorted group, part of whom remembered the old romance of herlife, and part of whom had identified her, by some chance, as RoyceMelvin, the composer. All of them were paying court to her charm andintelligence. She made a place beside herself for Banneker. 

"We've been discussing The Patriot, Ban, " she said, "and Mr. Gaines hasembalmed you, as an editorial writer, in the amber of one of his bestepigrams. "

The Great Gaines made a deprecating gesture. "My little efforts alwayssound better when I'm not present, " he protested. 

"To be the subject of any Gaines epigram, however stinging, is fame initself, " said Banneker. 

"And no sting in this one. 'Attic salt and American pep, '" she quoted. "Isn't it truly spicy?"

Banneker bowed with half-mocking appreciation. "I fancy, though, thatMr. Gaines prefers his journalistic egg more _au naturel_. "

"Sometimes, " admitted the most famous of magazine editors, "I coulddispense with some of the pep. "

"I like the pep, too, Ban. " Betty Raleigh, looking up from a seat whereshe sat talking to a squat and sensual-looking man, a dweller in thehigh places and cool serenities of advanced mathematics whomjocular-minded Nature had misdowered with the face of a satyr, interposed the suave candor of her voice. "I actually lick my lips overyour editorials even where I least agree with them. But the rest of thepaper--Oh, dear! It screeches. "

"Modern life is such a din that one has to screech to be heard aboveit, " said Banneker pleasantly. 

"Isn't it the newspapers which make most of the din, though?" suggestedthe mathematician. 

"Shouting against each other, " said Gaines. 

"Like Coney Island barkers for rival shows, " put in Junior Masters. 

"Just for variety how would it do to try the other tack and practice acareful but significant restraint?" inquired Betty. 

"Wouldn't sell a ticket, " declared Banneker. 

"Still, if we all keep on yelling in the biggest type and hottest wordswe can find, " pointed out Edmonds, "the effect will pall. "

"Perhaps the measure of success is in finding something constantly morestrident and startling than the other fellow's war whoop, " surmisedMasters. 

"I have never particularly admired the steam calliope as a form ofexpression, " observed Miss Van Arsdale. 

"Ah!" said the actress, smiling, "but Royce Melvin doesn't make musicfor circuses. "

"And a modern newspaper is a circus, " pronounced the satyr-like scholar. 

"Three-ring variety; all the latest stunts; list to the voice of theballyhoo, " said Masters. 

"_Panem et circenses_" pursued the mathematician, pleased with hissimile, "to appease the howling rabble. But it is mostly circus, andvery little bread that our emperors of the news give us. "

"We've got to feed what the animal eats, " defended Banneker lightly. 

"After having stimulated an artificial appetite, " said Edmonds. 

As the talk flowed on, Betty Raleigh adroitly drew Banneker out of thecurrent of it. "Your Patriot needn't have screeched at me, Ban, " shemurmured in an injured tone. 

"Did it, Betty? How, when, and where?"

"I thought you were horridly patronizing about the new piece, and quiteunkind to me, for a friend. "

"It wasn't my criticism, you know, " he reminded her patiently. "I don'twrite the whole paper, though most of my acquaintances seem to thinkthat I do. Any and all of it to which they take exception, at least. "

"Of course, I know you didn't write it, or it wouldn't have been sostupid. I could stand anything except the charge that I've lost mynaturalness and become conventional. "

"You're like the man who could resist anything except temptation, mydear: you can stand anything except criticism, " returned Banneker with asmile so friendly that there was no sting in the words. "You've neverhad enough of that. You're the spoiled pet of the critics. "

"Not of this new one of yours. He's worse than Gurney. Who is he andwhere does he come from?"

"An inconsiderable hamlet known as Chicago. Name, Allan Haslett. Dramatic criticism out there is still so unsophisticated as to beintelligent as well as honest--at its best. "

"Which it isn't here, " commented the special pet of the theatricalreviewers. 

"Well, I thought a good new man would be better than the good old ones. Less hampered by personal considerations. So I sent and got this one. "

"But he isn't good. He's a horrid beast. We've been specially nice tohim, on your account mostly--Ban, if you grin that way I shall hate you!I had Bezdek invite him to one of the rehearsal suppers and he wouldn'tcome. Sent word that theatrical suppers affected his eyesight when hecame to see the play. "

Banneker chuckled. "Just why I got him. He doesn't let the personalelement prejudice him. "

"He is prejudiced. And most unfair. Ban, " said Betty in her mostseductive tones, "do call him down. Make him write something decentabout us. Bez is fearfully upset. "

Banneker sighed. "The curse of this business, " he reflected aloud, "isthat every one regards The Patriot as my personal toy for me or myfriends to play with. "

"This isn't play at all. It's very much earnest. Do be nice about it, Ban. "

"Betty, do you remember a dinner party in the first days of ouracquaintance, at which I told you that you represented one essentialdifference from all the other women there?"

"Yes. I thought you were terribly presuming. "

"I told you that you were probably the only woman present who wasn'tpurchasable. "

"Not understanding you as well as I do now, I was quite shocked. Besides, it was so unfair. Nearly all of them were most respectablemarried people. "

"Bought by their most respectable husbands. Some of 'em bought away fromother husbands. But I gave you credit for not being on that market--orany other. And now you're trying to corrupt my professional virtue. "

"Ban! I'm not. "

"What else is it when you try to use your influence to have me fire ournice, new critic?"

"If that's being corruptible, I wonder if any of us are incorruptible. "She stretched upward an idle hand and fondled a spray of freesia thatdrooped against her cheek. "Ban; there's something I've been waiting totell you. Tertius Marrineal wants to marry me. "

"I've suspected as much. That would settle the obnoxious critic, wouldn't it! Though it's rather a roundabout way. "

"Ban! You're beastly. "

"Yes; I apologize, " he replied quickly. "But--have I got to revise myestimate of you, Betty? I should hate to. "

"Your estimate? Oh, as to purchasability. That's worse than what you'vejust said. Yet, somehow, I don't resent it. Because it's honest, Isuppose, " she said pensively. "No: it wouldn't be a--a market deal. Ilike Tertius. I like him a lot. I won't pretend that I'm madly in lovewith him. But--"

"Yes; I know, " he said gently, as she paused, looking at him steadily, but with clouded eyes. He read into that "but" a world of opportunities;a theater of her own--the backing of a powerful newspaper--wealth--andall, if she so willed it, without interruption to her professionalcareer. 

"Would you think any the less of me?" she asked wistfully. 

"Would you think any the less of yourself?" he countered. 

The blossoming spray broke under her hand. "Ah, yes; that's the questionafter all, isn't it?" she murmured. 

Meantime, Gardner, the eternal journalist, fostering a plan of his own, was gathering material from Guy Mallory who had come in late. 

"What gets me, " he said, looking over at the host, "is how he can do aday's work with all this social powwow going on. "

"A day's? He does three days' work in every one. He's the hardesttrained mind in the business. Why, he could sit down here this minute, in the middle of this room, and dictate an editorial while keeping uphis end in the general talk. I've seen him do it. "

"He must be a wonder at concentration. "

"Concentration? If he didn't invent it, he perfected it. Tell you astory. Ban doesn't go in for any game except polo. One day some of thefellows at The Retreat got talking golf to him--"

"The Retreat? Good Lord! He doesn't belong to The Retreat, does he?"

"Yes; been a member for years. Well, they got him to agree to try it. Jim Tamson, the pro--he's supposed to be the best instructor inAmerica--was there then. Banneker went out to the first tee, a 215-yardhole, watched Jim perform his show-em-how swing, asked a couple ofquestions. 'Eye on the ball, ' says Jim. 'That's nine tenths of it. Therest is hitting it easy and following through. Simple and easy, ' saysJim, winking to himself. Banneker tries two or three clubs to see whichfeels easiest to handle, picks out a driving-iron, and slams the ballalmost to the edge of the green. Chance? Of course, there was some luckin it. But it was mostly his everlasting ability to keep his attentionfocused. Jim almost collapsed. 'First time I ever saw a beginner thatdidn't top, ' says he. 'You'll make a golfer, Mr. Banneker. '

"'Not me, ' says Ban. 'This game is too easy. It doesn't interest me. ' Hehands Jim a twenty-dollar bill, thanks him, goes in and has his bath, and has never touched a golf-stick since. "

Gardner had been listening with a kindling eye. He brought his fist downon his knee. "You've told me something!" he exclaimed. 

"Going to try it out on your own game?"

"Not about golf. About Banneker. I've been wondering how he managed toestablish himself as an individual figure in this big town. Now I beginto see it. It's publicity; that's what it is. He's got the sense of howto make himself talked about. He's picturesque. I'll bet Banneker'sfirst and last golf shot is a legend in the clubs yet, isn't it?"

"It certainly is, " confirmed Mallory. "But do you really think that hereasoned it all out on the spur of the moment?"

"Oh, reasoned; probably not. It's instinctive, I tell you. And thetwenty to the professional was a touch of genius. Tamson will never stoptalking about it. Can't you hear him, telling it to his fellow pros?'Golf's too easy for me, ' he says, 'and hands me a double sawbuck! Didye ever hear the like!' And so the legend is built up. It's a greatthing to become a local legend. I know, for I've built up a few of 'emmyself. . . . I suppose the gun-play on the river-front gave him his startat it and the rest came easy. "

"Ask him. He'll probably tell you, " said Mallory. "At least, he'll beinterested in your theory. "

Gardner strolled over to Banneker's group, not for the purpose ofadopting Mallory's suggestion, for he was well satisfied with his owndiagnosis, but to congratulate him upon the rising strength of ThePatriot. As he approached, Miss Van Arsdale, in response to a plea fromBetty Raleigh, went to the piano, and the dwindled crowd settled downinto silence. For music, at The House With Three Eyes, was invariablythe sort of music that people listen to; that is, the kind of peoplewhom Banneker gathered around him. 

After she had played, Miss Van Arsdale declared that she must go, whereupon Banneker insisted upon taking her to her hotel. To herprotests against dragging him away from his own party, he retorted thatthe party could very well run itself without him; his parties often did, when he was specially pressed in his work. Accepting this, his friendelected to walk; she wanted to hear more about The Patriot. What did shethink of it, he asked. 

"I don't expect you to like it, " he added. 

"That doesn't matter. I do tremendously admire your editorials. They'rebeautifully done; the perfection of clarity. But the rest of thepaper--I can't see you in it. "

"Because I'm not there, as an individual. "

He expounded to her his theory of journalism. That was a justcharacterization of Junior Masters, he said: the three-ringed circus. He, Banneker, would run any kind of a circus they wanted, to catch andhold their eyes; the sensational acts, the clowns of the funny pages, the blare of the bands, the motion, the color, and the spangles; all tobeguile them into reading and eventually to thinking. 

"But we haven't worked it out yet, as we should. What I'm really aimingat is a saturated solution, as the chemists say: Not a saturatedsolution of circulation, for that isn't possible, but a saturatedsolution of influence. If we can't put The Patriot into every man'shouse, we ought to be able to put it into every man's mind. All thingsto all men: that's the formula. We're far from it yet, but we're on theroad. And in the editorials, I'm making people stir their minds aboutreal things who never before developed a thought beyond the everyday, mechanical processes of living. "

"To what end?" she asked doubtfully. 

"Does it matter? Isn't the thinking, in itself, end enough?"

"Brutish thinking if it's represented in your screaming headlines. "

"Predigested news. I want to preserve all their brain-power for myeditorial page. And, oh, how easy I make it for them! Thoughts of onesyllable. "

"And you use your power over their minds to incite them to discontent. "

"Certainly. "

"But that's dreadful, Ban! To stir up bitterness and rancor amongpeople. "

"Don't you be misled by cant, Miss Camilla, " adjured Banneker. "Thecontented who have everything to make them content have put a stigma ondiscontent. They'd have us think it a crime. It isn't. It's a virtue. "

"Ban! A virtue?"

"Well; isn't it? Call it by the other name, ambition. What then?"

Miss Van Arsdale pondered with troubled eyes. "I see what you mean, " sheconfessed. "But the discontent that arises within one's self is onething; the 'divine discontent. ' It's quite another to foment it for yourown purposes in the souls of others. "

"That depends upon the purpose. If the purpose is to help the others, through making their discontent effective to something better, isn't itjustified?"

"But isn't there always the danger of making a profession ofdiscontent?"

"That's a shrewd hit, " confessed Banneker. "I've suspected thatMarrineal means to capitalize it eventually, though I don't know justhow. He's a secret sort of animal, Marrineal. "

"But he gives you a free hand?" she asked. 

"He has to, " said Banneker simply. 

Camilla Van Arsdale sighed. "It's success, Ban. Isn't it?"

"Yes. It's success. In its kind. "

"Is it happiness?"

"Yes. Also in its kind. "

"The real kind? The best kind?"

"It's satisfaction. I'm doing what I want to do. "

She sighed. "I'd hoped for something more. "

He shook his head. "One can't have everything. "

"Why not?" she demanded almost fiercely. "You ought to have. You're madefor it. " After a pause she added: "Then it isn't Betty Raleigh. I'dhoped it was. I've been watching her. There's character there, Ban, aswell as charm. "

"She has other interests. No; it isn't Betty. "

"Ban, there are times when I could hate her, " broke out Miss VanArsdale. 

"Who? Betty?"

"You know whom well enough. "

"I stand corrected in grammar as well as fact, " he said lightly. 

"Have you seen her?"

"Yes. I see her occasionally. Not often. "

"Does she come here?"

"She has been. "

"And her husband?"

"No. "

"Ban, aren't you ever going to get over it?"

He looked at her silently. 

"No; you won't. There are a few of us like that. God help us!" saidCamilla Van Arsdale. 

CHAPTER II

Others than Banneker's friends and frequenters now evinced symptoms ofinterest in his influence upon his environment. Approve him you might, or disapprove him; the palpable fact remained that he wielded a growingpower. Several promising enterprises directed at the City Treasury hadaborted under destructive pressure from his pen. A once impregnablycohesive ring of Albany legislators had disintegrated with such violenceof mutual recrimination that prosecution loomed imminent, because of atwo weeks' "vacation" of Banneker's at the State Capitol. He had huntedsome of the lawlessness out of the Police Department and bludgeoned somedecent housing measures through the city councils. Politically he wasdeemed faithless and unreliable which meant that, as an independent, hehad ruined some hopefully profitable combinations in both parties. Certain men, high up in politics and finance at the point where theyoverlap, took thoughtful heed of him. How could they make him useful?Or, at least, prevent him from being harmful?

No less a potentate than Poultney Masters had sought illumination fromWillis Enderby upon the subject in the days when people in street-carsfirst began to rustle through the sheets of The Patriot, curious to seewhat the editorial had to say to them that day. 

"What do you think of him?" began the magnate. 

"Able, " grunted the other. 

"If he weren't, I wouldn't be troubling my head about him. What else?Dangerous?"

"As dangerous as he is upright. Exactly. "

"Now, I wonder what the devil you mean by that, Enderby, " said thefinancier testily. "Dangerous as long as he's upright? Eh? And dangerousto what?"

"To anything he goes after. He's got a following. I might almost say ablind following. "

"Got a boss, too, hasn't he?"

"Marrineal? Ah, I don't know how far Marrineal interferes. And I don'tknow Marrineal. "

"Upright, too; that one?" The sneer in Masters's heavy voice waspalpable. 

"You consider that no newspaper can be upright, " the lawyer interpreted. 

"I've bought 'em and bluffed 'em and stood 'em in a corner to be good, "returned the other simply. "What would you expect my opinion to be?"

"The Sphere, among them?" queried the lawyer. 

"Damn The Sphere!" exploded the other. "A dirty, muck-grubbing, lying, crooked rag. "

"Your actual grudge against it is not for those latter qualities, though, " pointed out Enderby. "On questions where it conflicts with yourenterprises, it's straight enough. That's it's defect. Upright equalsdangerous. You perceive?"

Masters shrugged the problem away with a thick and ponderous jerk of hisshoulders. "What's young Banneker after?" he demanded. 

"You ought to know him as well as I. He's a sort of protégé of yours, isn't he?"

"At The Retreat, you mean? I put him in because he looked to be polostuff. Now the young squirt won't practice enough to be certain teammaterial. "

"Found a bigger game. "

"Umph! But what's in back of it?"

"It's the game for the game's sake with him, I suspect. I can only tellyou that, wherever I've had contact with him, he has been perfectlystraightforward. "

"Maybe. But what about this anarchistic stuff of his?"

"Oh, anarchistic! You mean his attacks on Wall Street? The StockExchange isn't synonymous with the Constitution of the United States, you know, Masters. Do moderate your language. "

"Now you're laughing at me, damn you, Enderby. "

"It's good for you. You ought to laugh at yourself more. Ask Bannekerwhat he's at. Very probably he'll laugh at you inside. But he'll answeryou. "

"That reminds me. He had an editorial last week that stuck to me. 'It is the bitter laughter of the people that shakes thrones. Havea care, you money kings, not to become too ridiculous!' Isn't thatsocialist-anarchist stuff?"

"It's very young stuff. But it's got a quality, hasn't it?"

"Oh, hell, yes; quality!" rumbled the profane old man. "Well, I willtackle your young prodigy one of these days. "

Which, accordingly, he did, encountering, some days later, Banneker inthe reading-room at The Retreat. 

"What are you up to; making trouble with that editorial screed ofyours?" he growled at the younger man. 

Banneker smiled. He accepted that growl from Poultney Masters, notbecause Masters was a great and formidable figure in the big world, butbecause beneath the snarl there was a quality of--no, not offriendliness, but of man-to-man approach. 

"No. I'm trying to cure trouble, not make it. "

"Umph! Queer idea of curing. Here we are in the midst of good times, everywhere, and you talk about--what was the stuff?--oh, yes: 'Thegrinning mask of prosperity, beneath which Want searches with haggardand threatening eyes for the crust denied. ' Fine stuff!"

"Not mine. I don't write as beautifully as all that. It's quoted from aletter. But I'll take the responsibility, since I quoted it. There'ssome truth in it, you know. "

"Not a hair's-weight. If you fill the minds of the ignorant with thatsort of thing, where shall we end?"

"If you fill the minds of the ignorant, they will no longer beignorant. "

"Then they'll be above their class and their work. Our whole trouble isin that; people thinking they're too good for the sort of work they'refitted for. "

"Aren't they too good if they can think themselves into somethingbetter?"

Poultney Masters delivered himself of a historical profundity. "The manwho first had the notion of teaching the mass of people to read willhave something to answer for. "

"Destructive, isn't it?" said Banneker, looking up quickly. 

"Now, you want to go farther. You want to teach 'em to think. "

"Exactly. Why not?"

"Why not? Why, because, you young idiot, they'll think wrong. "

"Very likely. At first. We all had to spell wrong before we spelledright. What if people do think wrong? It's the thinking that'simportant. Eventually they'll think right. "

"With the newspapers to guide them?" There was a world of scorn in themagnate's voice. 

"Some will guide wrong. Some will guide right. The most I hope to do isto teach 'em a little to use their minds. Education and a fair field. Tofind out and to make clear what is found; that's the business of anewspaper as I see it. "

"Tittle-tattle. Tale-mongering, " was Masters's contemptuousqualification. 

"A royal mission, " laughed Banneker. "I call the Sage to witness. 'Butthe glory of kings is to search out a matter. '"

"But they've got to be kings, " retorted the other quickly. "It's atricky business, Banneker. Better go in for polo. We need you. " Helumbered away, morose and growling, but turned back to call over hisshoulder: "Read your own stuff when you get up to-morrow and see if poloisn't a better game and a cleaner. "

What the Great of the city might think of his journalistic achievementtroubled Banneker but little, so long as they thought of it at all, thereby proving its influence; the general public was his sole arbiter, except for the opinions of the very few whose approval he reallydesired, Io Eyre, Camilla Van Arsdale, and more remotely the men forwhose own standards he maintained a real respect, such as Willis Enderbyand Gaines. Determined to make Miss Van Arsdale see his point of view, as well as to assure himself of hers, he had extracted from her apromise that she would visit The Patriot office before she returned tothe West. Accordingly, on a set morning she arrived on her trip ofinspection, tall, serene, and, in her aloof _genre_, beautiful, an alienfigure in the midst of that fevered and delirious energy. He took herthrough the plant, elucidating the mechanical processes of the dailymiracle of publication, more far-reaching than was ever any other voiceof man, more ephemeral than the day of the briefest butterfly. Throughout, the visitor's pensive eyes kept turning from the creature tothe creator, until, back in the trim quietude of his office, famed asthe only orderly working-room of journalism, she delivered her wonderingquestion:

"And _you_ have made all this, Ban?"

"At least I've remade it. "

She shook her head. "No; as I told you before, I can't see you in it. "

"You mean, it doesn't express me. It isn't meant to. '

"Whom does it express, then? Mr. Marrineal?"

"No. It isn't an expression at all in that sense. It's a--a response. Aresponse to the demand of hundreds of thousands of people who have neverhad a newspaper made for them before. "

"An echo of _vox populi_? Does that excuse its sins?"

"I'm not putting it forth as an excuse. Is it really sins or only badtaste that offends you?"

"Clever, Ban. And true in a measure. But insincerity is more than badtaste. It's one of the primal sins. "

"You find The Patriot insincere?"

"Can I find it anything else, knowing you?"

"Ah, there you go wrong again, Miss Camilla. As an expression of myideals, the news part of the paper would be insincere. I don't like itmuch better than you do. But I endure it; yes, I'll be frank and admitthat I even encourage it, because it gives me wider scope for the thingsI want to say. Sincere things. I've never yet written in my editorialcolumn anything that I don't believe from the bottom of my soul. Takethat as a basis on which to judge me. "

"My dear Ban! I don't want to judge you. "

"I want you to, " he cried eagerly. "I want your judgment and yourcriticism. But you must see what I'm aiming for. Miss Camilla, I'mmaking people stir their minds and think who never before had a thoughtbeyond the everyday processes of life. "

"For your own purposes? Thought, as you manipulate it, might be ahigh-explosive. Have you thought of using it in that way?"

"If I found a part of the social edifice that had to be blown to pieces, I might. "

"Take care that you don't involve us all in the crash. Meantime, what isthe rest of your editorial page; a species of sedative to lull theirminds? Who is Evadne Ellington?"

"One of our most prominent young murderesses. "

"And you let her sign a column on your page?"

"Oh, she's a highly moral murderess. Killed her lover in defense of herhonor, you know. Which means that she shot him when he got tired of her. A sobbing jury promptly acquitted her, and now she's writing 'Warningsto Young Girls. ' They're most improving and affecting, I assure you. Welook after that. "

"Ban! I hate to have you so cynical. "

"Not at all, " he protested. "Ask the Prevention of Vice people and thecriminologists. They'll tell you that Evadne's column is a realinfluence for good among the people who read and believe it. "

"What class is Reformed Rennigan's sermon aimed at?" she inquired, withwrinkling nostrils. "'Soaking it to Satan'; is that another regularfeature?"

"Twice a week. It gives us a Y. M. C. A. Circulation that is worth a gooddeal to us. Outside of my double column, the page is a sort of forum. I'll take anything that is interesting or authoritative. For example, ifRoyce Melvin had something of value to say to the public about music, where else could she find so wide a hearing as through The Patriot?"

"No, I thank you, " returned his visitor dryly. 

"No? Are you sure? What is your opinion of 'The Star-Spangled Banner' asa national song?"

"It's dreadful. "

"Why?"

"For every reason. The music misfits the words. It's beyond the range ofmost voices. The harmonies are thin. No crowd in the world can sing it. What is the value or inspiration of a national song that the peoplecan't sing?"

"Ask it of The Patriot's public. I'll follow it up editorially; 'Wanted;A Song for America. '"

"I will, " she answered impulsively. Then she laughed. "Is that the wayyou get your contributors?"

"Often, as the spider said to the fly, " grinned Banneker the shameless. "Take a thousand words or more and let us have your picture. "

"No. Not that. I've seen my friends' pictures too often in your societycolumns. By the way, how comes it that a paper devoted to the interestsof the common people maintains that aristocratic feature?"

"Oh, the common people eat it alive. Russell Edmonds is largelyresponsible for keeping it up. You should hear his theory. It'singenious. I'll send for him. "

Edmonds, who chanced to be at his desk, entered the editorial den withhis tiny pipe between his teeth, and, much disconcerted at finding alady there, hastily removed it until Miss Van Arsdale suggested itsrestitution. 

"What? The society page?" said he. "Yes; I was against dropping it. Yousee, Miss Van Arsdale, I'm a Socialist in belief. "

"Is there a pun concealed in that or are you serious, Mr. Edmonds?"

"Serious. I'm always that on the subjects of Socialism and The Patriot. "

"Then you must explain if I'm to understand. "

"By whom is society news read? By two classes, " expounded the veteran;"those whose names appear, and those who are envious of those whosenames appear. Well, we're after the envious. "

"Still I don't see. With what purpose?'

"Jim Simpson, who has just got his grocery bill for more than he canpay, reads a high-colored account of Mrs. Stumpley-Triggs's aquaticdinner served in the hundred-thousand-dollar swimming-pool on herWestchester estate. That makes Jim think. "

"You mean that it makes him discontented. "

"Well, discontent is a mighty leaven. "

Miss Van Arsdale directed her fine and serious eyes upon Banneker. "Soit comes back to the cult of discontent. Is that Mr. Marrineal'sformula, too, Mr. Edmonds?"

"Underneath all his appearance of candor, Marrineal's a secret animal, "said Edmonds. 

"Does he leave you a free hand with your editorials, Ban?" inquired theoutsider. 

"Absolutely. "

"Watches the circulation only, " said Edmonds. "Thus far, " he added. 

"You're looking for an ulterior motive, then, " interpreted Miss VanArsdale. 

"I'm looking for whatever I can find in Marrineal, Miss Van Arsdale, "confessed the patriarch of the office. "As yet I haven't found much. "

"I have, " said Banneker. "I've discovered his theory of journalism. Wethree, Edmonds, Marrineal, and I, regard this business from threediverse viewpoints. To Edmonds it's a vocation and a rostrum. He wantsreally, under his guise as the most far-seeing news man of his time, tocall sinners against society to repentance, or to force repentance downtheir throats. There's a good deal of the stern evangelist about you, you know, Pop. "

"And you?" The other's smile seemed enmeshed in the dainty spiral ofsmoke brooding above his pursed lips. 

"Oh, I'm more the pedagogue. With me, too, the game is a vocation. Butit's a different one. I'd like to marshal men's minds as a generalissimomarshals armies. "

"In the bonds of your own discipline?" asked Miss Van Arsdale. 

"If I could chain a mind I'd be the most splendid tyrant of history. No. Free leadership of the free is good enough. "

"If Marrineal will leave you free, " commented the veteran. "What's yourdiagnosis of Marrineal, then?"

"A priest of Baal. "

"With The Patriot in the part of Baal?"

"Not precisely The Patriot. Publicity, rather, of which The Patriot ismerely the instrument. Marrineal's theory of publicity is interesting. It may even be true. Substantially it is this: All civilized Americansfear and love print; that is to say, Publicity, for which read Baal. They fear it for what it may do to them. They love and fawn on it forwhat it may do for them. It confers the boon of glory and launches thebolts of shame. Its favorites, made and anointed from day to day, arethe blessed of their time. Those doomed by it are the outcasts. It sitsin momentary judgment, and appeal from its decisions is too late toavail anything to its victims. A species of auto-juggernaut, withMarrineal at the wheel. "

"What rubbish!" said Miss Van Arsdale with amused scorn. 

"Oh, because you've nothing to ask or fear from Baal. Yet even you woulduse it, for your musical preachment. "

As he spoke, he became aware of Edmonds staring moodily and with pinchedlips at Miss Van Arsdale. To the mind's eye of the old stager hadflashed a sudden and astounding vision of all that pride of womanhoodand purity underlying the beauty of the face, overlaid and fouled by theinky vomit of Baal of the printing-press, as would have come to pass hadnot he, Edmonds, obstructed the vengeance. 

"I can imagine nothing printed, " said the woman who had loved WillisEnderby, "that could in any manner influence my life. "

"Fortunate you!" Edmonds wreathed his little congratulation in festoonsof light vapor. "But you live in a world of your own making. Marrinealis reckoning on the world which lives and thinks largely in terms ofwhat its neighbor thinks of it. "

"He once said to me, " remarked Banneker, "that the desire to get into orkeep out of print could be made the master-key to new and undreamed-ofpowers of journalism if one had the ability to find a formula for it. "

"I'm not sure that I understand what he means, " said Miss Van Arsdale, "but it has a sinister sound. "

"Are Baal's other names Bribery and Blackmail?" glowered Edmonds. 

"There has never been a hint of any illegitimate use of the paper, sofar as I can discover. Yet it's pretty plain to me that he intends touse it as an instrument. "

"As soon as we've made it strong enough, " supplied Edmonds. 

"An instrument of what?" inquired Miss Van Arsdale. 

"Power for himself. Political, I suppose. "

"Does he want office?" she asked. 

"Perhaps. Perhaps he prefers the deeper-lying power to make and unmakepoliticians. We've done it already in a few cases. That's Edmonds'sspecialty. I'll know within a few days what Marrineal wants, if I canget a showdown. He and I are coming to a new basis of finance. "

"Yes; he thinks he can't afford to keep on paying you by circulation. You're putting on too much. " This from Edmonds. 

"That's what he got me here for. However, I don't really believe he can. I'm eating up what should be the paper's legitimate profits. Andyet"--he smiled radiantly--"there are times when I don't see how I'mgoing to get along with what I have. It's pretty absurd, isn't it, tofeel pinched on fifty thousand a year, when I did so well at Manzanitaon sixty a month?"

"It's a fairy-tale, " declared Miss Van Arsdale. "I knew that you weregoing to arrive sooner or later, Ban. But this isn't an arrival. It's atriumph. "

"Say rather it's a feat of balancing, " he propounded. "A tight-ropestunt on a gilded rope. Failure on one side; debt on the other. Keepgoing like the devil to save yourself from falling. "

"What is it making of him, Mr. Edmonds?" Banneker's oldest friend turnedher limpid and anxious regard upon his closest friend. 

"A power. Oh, it's real enough, all this empire of words that crumblesdaily. It leaves something behind, a little residue of thought, ideals, convictions. What do you fear for him?"

"Cynicism, " she breathed uneasily. 

"It's the curse of the game. But it doesn't get the worker who feels hiswork striking home. "

"Do you see any trace of cynicism in the paper?" asked Bannekercuriously. 

"All this blaring and glaring and froth and distortion, " she replied, sweeping her hand across the issue which lay on the desk before her. "Can you do that sort of thing and not become that sort of thing?"

"Ask Edmonds, " said Banneker. 

"Thirty years I've been in this business, " said the veteran slowly. "Isuppose there are few of its problems and perplexities that I haven'tbeen up against. And I tell you, Miss Van Arsdale, all this froth andnoise and sensationalism doesn't matter. It's an offense to taste, Iknow. But back of it is the big thing that we're trying to do; to enlistthe ignorant and helpless and teach them to be less ignorant andhelpless. If fostering the political ambitions of a Marrineal is part ofthe price, why, I'm willing to pay it, so long as the paper keepsstraight and doesn't sell itself for bribe money. After all, Marrinealcan ride to his goal only on our chariot. The Patriot is an institutionnow. You can't alter an institution, not essentially. You get committedto it, to the thing you've made yourself. Ban and I have made the newPatriot, not Marrineal. Even if he got rid of us, he couldn't change thepaper; not for a long time and only very gradually. The following thatwe've built up would be too strong for him. "

"Isn't it too strong for you two?" asked the doubting woman-soul. 

"No. We understand it because we made it. "

"Frankenstein once said something like that, " she murmured. 

"It isn't a monster, " rumbled Edmonds. "Sometimes I think it's a toydog, with Ban's ribbon around its cute little neck. I'll answer for Ban, Miss Van Arsdale. "

The smoke of his minute pipe went up, tenuous and graceful, incensedevoted to the unseen God behind the strangely patterned curtain ofprint; to Baal who was perhaps even then grinning down upon hisunsuspecting worshipers. 

But Banneker, moving purposefully amidst that vast phantasmagoria ofpulsing print, wherein all was magnified, distorted, perverted to theclaims of a gross and rabid public appetite, dreamed his pure, untainteddream; the conception of his newspaper as a voice potent enough to reachand move all; dominant enough to impose its underlying ideal; confidentenough of righteousness to be free of all silencing and control. Thatvoice should supply the long unsatisfied hunger of the many for truthuncorrupted. It should enunciate straightly, simply, withoutreservation, the daily verities destined to build up the eternalstructure. It should be a religion of seven days a week, set forth by athousand devoted preachers for a million faithful hearers. 

Camilla Van Arsdale had partly read his dream, and could have wept forit and him. 

Io Eyre had begun to read it, and her heart went out to him anew. Forthis was the test of success. 

CHAPTER III

It was one of those mornings of coolness after cloying heat when eventhe crowded, reeking, frowzy metropolis wakes with a breath of freshnessin its nostrils. Independent of sleep as ever, Banneker was up andfooting it briskly for the station before eight o'clock, for Camilla VanArsdale was returning to Manzanita, having been ordered back to herseclusion with medical science's well-considered verdict wrapped up intactful words to bear her company on the long journey. When she would beordered on a longer journey by a mightier Authority, medical scienceforbore to specify; but in the higher interests of American music it wasurgently pressed upon her that she be abstemious in diet, niggardly ofwork, careful about fatigue and excitement, and in general comportherself in such manner as to deprive the lease of life remaining to herof most of its savor and worth. She had told Ban that the physiciansthought her condition favorable. 

Invalidism was certainly not suggested in her erect bearing and sereneface as she moved about her stateroom setting in order the books, magazines, flowers, and candy, with which Banneker had sought to fortifyher against the tedium of the trip. As the time for departure drew near, they fell into and effortfully maintained that meaningless, banal, andjerky talk which is the inevitable concomitant of long partings betweenpeople who, really caring for each other, can find nothing butcommonplaces wherewith to ease their stress of mind. Miss Van Arsdale'scommon sense came to the rescue. 

"Go away, my dear, " she said, with her understanding smile. "Don't thinkthat you're obliged to cling to the dragging minutes. It's an ungracefulposture. . . . Ban! What makes you look like that?"

"I thought--I heard--"

A clear voice outside said, "Then it must be this one. " There was adecisive tap on the door. "May I come in?". . . "Come in, " responded MissVan Arsdale. "Bring them here, porter, " directed the voice outside, andIo entered followed by an attendant almost hidden in a huge armful ofsuch roses as are unpurchasable even in the most luxurious of stores. 

"I've looted our conservatory, " said she. "Papa will slay me. They'lllast to Chicago. "

After an almost imperceptible hesitation she kissed the older woman. Shegave her hand to Banneker. "I knew I should find you here. "

"Any other woman of my acquaintance would have said, 'Who would haveexpected to find you here!'" commented Miss Van Arsdale. 

"Yes? I suppose so. But we've never been on that footing, Ban and I. "Io's tone was casual; almost careless. 

"I thought that you were in the country, " said Banneker. 

"So we are. I drove up this morning to bid Miss Van Arsdale _bonvoyage_, and all the luck in the world. I suppose we three shall meetagain one of these days. "

"You prophesy in the most matter-of-fact tone a gross improbability, "observed Miss Van Arsdale. 

"Oh, our first meeting was the gross improbability, " retorted the girllightly. "After that anything might be logical. _Au revoir_. "

"Go with her, Ban, " said Miss Camilla. 

"It isn't leaving time yet, " he protested. "There's five whole minutes. "

"Yes; come with me, Ban, " said Io tranquilly. 

Camilla Van Arsdale kissed his cheek, gave him a little, half-motherlypat, said, "Keep on making me proud of you, " in her even, confidenttones, and pushed him out of the door. 

Ban and Io walked down the long platform in a thoughtful silence whichdisconcerted neither of them. Io led the way out of it. 

"At half-past four, " she stated, "I had a glass of milk and onecracker. "

"Where do you want to breakfast?"

"Thanking you humbly, sir, for your kind invitation, the nearer thebetter. Why not here?"

They found a table in the well-appointed railroad restaurant andordered. Over her honey-dew melon Io asked musingly:

"What do you suppose she thinks of us?"

"Miss Camilla? What should she think?"

"What, indeed? What do we think, ourselves?"

"Has it any importance?" he asked gloomily. 

"And that's rather rude, " she chided. "Anything that I think should, bycourtesy, be regarded as important. . . . Ban, how often have we seen eachother?"

"Since I came to New York, you mean?"

"Yes. "

"Nine times. "

"So many? And how much have we talked together? All told; in time, Imean. "

"Possibly a solid hour. Not more. "

"It hasn't made any difference, has it? There's been no interruption. We've never let the thread drop. We've never lost touch. Not really. "

"No. We've never lost touch. "

"You needn't repeat it as if it were a matter for mourning andrepentance. I think it rather wonderful. . . . Take our return from thetrain, all the way down without a word. Were you sulking, Ban?"

"No. You know I wasn't. "

"Of course I know it. It was simply that we didn't need to talk. There'sno one else in the world like that. . . . How long is it? Threeyears--four--more than four years. 

'We twain once well in sunderWhat will the mad gods doFor hate with me, I wond--'"

"My God, Io! Don't!"

"Oh, Ban; I'm sorry! Have I hurt you? I was dreaming back into the oldworld. "

"And I've been trying all these years not to. "

"Is the reality really better? No; don't answer that! I don't want youto. Answer me something else. About Betty Raleigh. "

"What about her?"

"If I were a man I should find her an irresistible sort of person. Entirely aside from her art. Are you going to marry her, Ban?"

"No. "

"Tell me why not. "

"For one reason because she doesn't want to marry me. "

"Have you asked her? It's none of my business. But I don't believe youhave. Tell me this; would you have asked her, if it hadn't been for--ifNumber Three had never been wrecked in the cut? You see the old railroadterms you taught me still cling. Would you?"

"How do I know? If the world hadn't changed under my feet, and the skyover my head--"

"Is it so changed? Do the big things, the real things, ever change?. . . Don't answer that, either. Ban, if I'll go out of your life now, andstay out, _honestly_, will you marry Betty Raleigh and--and live happyever after?"

"Would you want me to?"

"Yes. Truly. And I'd hate you both forever. "

"Betty Raleigh is going to marry some one else. "

"No! I thought--people said--Are you sorry, Ban?"

"Not for myself. I think he's the wrong man for her. "

"Yes; that would be a change of the earth underfoot and the skyoverhead, if one cared, " she mused. "And I said they didn't change. "

"Don't they!" retorted Banneker bitterly. "You are married. "

"I have been married, " she corrected, with an air of amiablerectification. "It was a wise thing to do. Everybody said so. It didn'tlast. Nobody thought it would. I didn't really think so myself. "

"Then why in Heaven's name--"

"Oh, let's not talk about it now. Some other time, perhaps. Say nexttime we meet; five or six months from now. . . . No; I won't tease you anymore, Ban. It won't be that. It won't be long. I'll tell you the truth:I'd heard a lot about you and Betty Raleigh, and I got to know her and Ihoped it would be a go. I did; truly, Ban. I owed you that chance ofhappiness. I took mine, you see; only it wasn't happiness that I gambledfor. Something else. Safety. The stakes are usually different for menand women. So now you know. . . . Well, if you don't, you've grown stupid. And I don't want to talk about it any more. I want to talk about--aboutThe Patriot. I read it this morning while I was waiting; your editorial. Ban"--she drew a derisive mouth--"I was shocked. "

"What was it? Politics?" asked Banneker, who, turning out his editorialsseveral at a time, seldom bothered to recall on what particular day anyone was published. "You wouldn't be expected to like our politics. "

"Not politics. It is about Harvey Wheelwright. "

Banneker was amused. "The immortally popular Wheelwright. We'reserializing his new novel, 'Satiated with Sin, ' in the Sunday edition. My idea. It'll put on circulation where we most need it. "

"Is that any reason why you should exploit him as if he were theforemost living novelist?"

"Certainly. Besides, he is, in popularity. "

"But, Ban; his stuff is awful! If this latest thing is like the earlier. ["Worse, " murmured Banneker. ] And you're writing about him as if hewere--well, Conrad and Wells rolled into one. "

"He's better than that, for the kind of people that read him. It'saddressed to them, that editorial. All the stress is on his piety, hispopularity, his power to move men's minds; there isn't a word that eventouches on the domain of art or literary skill. "

"It has that effect. "

"Ah! That's my art, " chuckled Banneker. "_That's_ literary skill, if youchoose!"

"Do you know what I call it? I call it treason. "

His mind flashed to meet hers. She read comprehension in his changedface and the shadow in her eyes, lambent and profound, deepened. 

"Treason to the world that we two made for ourselves out there, " shepursued evenly. 

"You shattered it. "

"To the Undying Voices. "

"You stilled them, for me. "

"Oh, Ban! Not that!" A sudden, little sob wrenched at her throat. Shehalf thrust out a hand toward him, and withdrew it, to cup and hold herchin in the old, thoughtful posture that plucked at his heart withimperious memories. "Don't they sing for you any more?" begged Io, wistful as a child forlorn for a dream of fairies dispelled. 

"I wouldn't let them. They all sang of you. "

She sighed, but about the tender corners of her lips crept the tremor ofa smile. Instantly she became serious again. 

"If you still heard the Voices, you could never have written thateditorial. . . . What I hate about it is that it has charm; that it impartscharm to a--to a debasing thing. "

"Oh, come, Io!" protested the victim of this criticism, more easily. "Debasing? Why, Wheelwright is considered the most uplifting of all ourliterary morality-improvers. "

Io amplified and concluded her critique briefly and viciously. "A slug!"

"No; seriously. I'm not sure that he doesn't inculcate a lot of good inhis way. At least he's always on the side of the angels. "

"What kind of angels? Tinsel seraphs with paint on their cheeks, playingrag-time harps out of tune! There's a sickly slaver of sentiment overeverything he touches that would make any virtue nauseous. "

"Don't you want a job as a literary critic Our Special Reviewer, Miss IoWel--Mrs. Delavan Eyre, " he concluded, in a tone from which the railleryhad flattened out. 

At that bald betrayal, Io's color waned slightly. She lifted herwater-glass and sipped at it. When she spoke again it was as if an innerscene had been shifted. 

"What did you come to New York for?"

"Success. "

"As in all the fables. And you've found it. It was almost too easy, wasn't it?"

"Indeed, not. It was touch and go. "

"Would you have come but for me?"

He stared at her, considering, wondering. 

"Remember, " she adjured him; "success was my prescription. Be flatteringfor once. Let me think that I'm responsible for the miracle. "

"Perhaps. I couldn't stay out there--afterward. The loneliness. . . . "

"I didn't want to leave you loneliness, " she burst out passionatelyunder her breath. "I wanted to leave you memory and ambition and thedetermination to succeed. "

"For what?"

"Oh, no; no!" She answered the harsh thought subtending his query. "Notfor myself. Not for any pride. I'm not cheap, Ban. "

"No; you're not cheap. "

"I would have kept my distance. . . . It was quite true what I said to youabout Betty Raleigh. It was not success alone that I wanted for you; Iwanted happiness, too. I owed you that--after my mistake. "

He caught up the last word. "You've admitted to yourself, then, that itwas a mistake?"

"I played the game, " she retorted. "One can't always play right. But onecan always play fair. "

"Yes; I know your creed of sportsmanship. There are worse religions. "

"Do you think I played fair with you, Ban? After that night on theriver?"

He was mute. 

"Do you know why I didn't kiss you good-bye in the station? Not reallykiss you, I mean, as I did on the island?"

"No. "

"Because, if I had, I should never have had the strength to go away. "She lifted her eyes to his. Her voice fell to a half whisper. "Youunderstood, on the island?. . . What I meant?"

"Yes. "

"But you didn't take me. I wonder. Ban, if it hadn't been for the lightflashing in our eyes and giving us hope. . . ?"

"How can I tell? I was dazed with the amazement and the glory of it--ofyou. But--yes. My God, yes! And then? Afterward?"

"Could there have been any afterward?" she questioned dreamily. "Wouldwe not just have waited for the river to sweep us up and carry us away?What other ending could there have been, so fitting?"

"Anyway, " he said with a sudden savage jealousy, "whatever happened youwould not have gone away to marry Eyre. "

"Should I not? I'm by no means sure. You don't understand much of me, mypoor Ban. "

"How could you!" he burst out. "Would that have been--"

"Oh, I should have told him, of course. I'd have said, 'Del, there'sbeen another man, a lover. ' One could say those things to him. "

"Would he have married you?"

"You wouldn't, would you?" she smiled. "All or nothing, Ban, for you. About Del, I don't know. " She shrugged dainty shoulders. "I shouldn'thave much cared. "

"And would you have come back to me, Io?"

"Do you want me to say 'Yes'? You do want me to say' Yes, ' don't you, mydear? How can I tell?. . . Sooner or later, I suppose. Fate. Theirresistible current. I am here now. "

"Io. " He leaned to her across the little table, his somber regardholding hers. "Why did you tell Camilla Van Arsdale that you would neverdivorce Eyre?"

"Because it's true. "

"But why tell her? So that it should come back to me?"

She answered him straight and fearlessly. "Yes. I thought it would beeasier for you to hear from her. "

"Did you?" He sat staring past her at visions. It was not withinBanneker's code, his sense of fair play in the game, to betray to Io hiswonderment (shared by most of her own set) that she should have enduredthe affront of Del Eyre's openly flagitious life, even though she hadherself implied some knowledge of it in her assumption that a divorcecould be procured. However, Io met his reticence with characteristiccandor. 

"Of course I know about Del. We have a perfect understanding. He'sagreed to maintain the outward decencies, from now on. I don't considerthat I've the right to ask more. You see, I shouldn't have married him. . . Even though he understood that I wasn't really in love with him. We're friends; and we're going to remain friends. Just that. Del's agood sort, " she added with a hint of pleading the cause of amisunderstood person. "He'd give me my divorce in a minute; even thoughhe still cares--in his way. But there's his mother. She's a sort oflatter-day saint; one of those rare people that you respect and love inequal parts; the only other one I know is Cousin Willis Enderby. She'san invalid, hopeless, and a Roman Catholic, and for me to divorce Delwould poison the rest of her life. So I won't. I can't. "

"She won't live forever, " muttered Banneker. 

"No. Not long, perhaps. " There was pain and resolution in Io's eyes asthey were lifted to meet his again. "There's another reason. I can'ttell even you, Ban. The secret isn't mine. . . . I'm sorry. "

"Haven't you any work to do to-day?" she asked after a pause, with asuccessful effect of lightness. 

He roused himself, settled the check, and took her to her car, parkednear by. 

"Where do you go now?" he asked. 

"Back to the country. "

"When shall I see you again?"

"I wonder, " said Io. 

CHAPTER IV

Panem et Circenses; bread and the Big Show. The diagnosis of thesatyr-like mathematician had been accurate. That same method whereby thetyrants of Rome had sought to beguile the restless and unthinkingmultitude, Banneker adopted to capture and lead the sensation-avidmetropolitan public through his newspaper. As a facture, a creation madeto the mind of the creator, The Patriot was Banneker's own. True, Marrineal reserved full control. But Marrineal, after a few months spentin anxious observation of his editor's headlong and revolutionarymethod, had taken the sales reports for his determinative guide anddecided to give the new man full sway. 

Circulation had gone up as water rises in a tube under irresistiblepressure from beneath. Nothing like it had ever been known in localjournalism. Barring some set-back, within four years of the time whenBanneker's introductory editorial appeared, the paper would haveeclipsed all former records. In less than two years it had climbed tothird place, and already Banneker's salary, under the percentageagreement, was, in the words of the alliterative Gardner, whose articledescribing The House With Three Eyes and its owner had gone forth on thewings of a far-spreading syndicate, "a stupendous stipend. "

Banneker's editorials pervaded and gave the keynote. With sublimeself-confidence he had adopted the untried scheme of having no set anddetermined place for the editorial department. Sometimes, his pageappeared in the middle of the paper; sometimes on the back; and once, when a most promising scheme of municipal looting was just about to beput through, he fired his blast from the front sheet in extra heavy, double-leaded type, displacing an international yacht race and a mosttitillating society scandal with no more explanation than was to befound in the opening sentence:

"This is more important to YOU, Mr. New Yorker, than any other news into-day's issue. "

"Where Banneker sits, " Russell Edmonds was wont to remark between puffs, "is the head of the paper. "

"Let 'em look for the stuff, " said Banneker confidently. "They'll thinkall the more of it when they find it. "

Often he used inset illustrations, not so much to give point to hispreachments, as to render them easier of comprehension to theunthinking. And always he sought the utmost of sensationalism in captionand in type, employing italics, capitals, and even heavy-face letterswith an effect of detonation. 

"Jollies you along until he can see the white of your mind, and thenfires his slug into your head, point-blank, " Edmonds said. 

With all this he had the high art to keep his style direct, unaffected, almost severe. No frills, no literary graces, no flashes of wit exceptan occasional restrained touch of sarcasm: the writing was in the pureststyle and of a classic simplicity. The typical reader of The Patriot hada friendly and rather patronizing feeling for the editorials: they weregenerally deemed quite ordinary, "common as an old shoe" (with anapproving accent from the commentator), comfortably devoid of theintricate elegancies practiced by Banneker's editorial compeers. So theywere read and absorbed, which was all that their writer hoped or wishedfor them. He was not seeking the bubble, reputation, but the solidsatisfaction of implanting ideas in minds hitherto unaroused to mentalprocesses, and training the resultant thought in his chosen way and toeventual though still vague purposes. 

"They're beginning to imitate you, Ban, " commented Russell Edmonds inthe days of The Patriot's first surprising upward leap. "Flattery ofyour peers. "

"Let 'em imitate, " returned Banneker indifferently. 

"Yes; they don't come very near to the original. It's a fundamentaldifference in style. "

"It's a fundamental difference in aim. "

"Aim?"

"They're writing at and for their owners; to make good with the boss. I'm writing at my public. "

"I believe you're right. It's more difficult, though, isn't it, to writefor a hundred thousand people than at one?"

"Not if you understand them from study at first hand, as I do. That'swhy the other fellows are five or ten-thousand-dollar men, " saidBanneker, quite without boastfulness "while I'm--"

"A fifty-thousand-dollar a year man, " supplied Edmonds. 

"Well, getting toward that figure. I'm on the target with the editorialsand I'm going to hold on it. But our news policy is different. We stillwobble there. "

"What do you want! Look at the circulation. Isn't that good enough?"

"No. Every time I get into a street-car and see a passenger reading someother paper, I feel that we've missed fire, " returned Bannekerinexorably. "Pop, did you ever see an actress make up?"

"I've a general notion of the process. "

"Find me a man who can make up news ready and rouged to go before thedaily footlights as an actress makes up her face. "

The veteran grunted. "Not to be found on Park Row. "

"Probably not. Park Row is too deadly conventional. "

One might suppose that the environment of religious journalism would beequally conventional. Yet it was from this department that the "find"eventually came, conducted by Edmonds. Edgar Severance, ten years olderthan Banneker, impressed the guiding spirit of The Patriot at firstsight with a sense of inner certitude and serenity not in the leastimpaired by his shabbiness which had the redeeming merit of being clean. 

"You're not a newspaper man?" said Banneker after the introduction. "What are you?"

"I'm a prostitute, " answered the other equably. 

Banneker smiled. "Where have you practiced your profession?"

"As assistant editor of Guidance. I write the blasphemous editorialswhich are so highly regarded by the sweetly simple souls that make upour _clientèle_; the ones which weekly give gratuitous advice to God. "

"Did Mr. Edmonds find you there?"

"No, " put in the veteran; "I traced him down through some popularscientific stuff in the Boston Sunday Star. "

"Fake, all of it, " proffered Severance. "Otherwise it wouldn't bepopular. "

"Is that your creed of journalism?" asked Banneker curiously. 

"Largely. "

"Why come to The Patriot, then? It isn't ours. "

Severance raised his fine eyebrows, but contented himself with saying:"Isn't it? However, I didn't come. I was brought. " He indicated Edmonds. 

"He gave me more ideas on news-dressing, " said the veteran, "than I'dpick up in a century on the Row. "

"Ideas are what we're after. Where do you get yours, Mr. Severance, since you are not a practical newspaper man?"

"From talking with people, and seeing what the newspapers fail to do. "

"Where were you before you went on Guidance?"

"Instructor at Harvard. "

"And you practiced your--er--specified profession there, too?"

"Oh, no. I was partly respectable then. 

"Why did you leave?"

"Drink. "

"Ah? You don't build up much of a character for yourself as prospectiveemployee. "

"If I join The Patriot staff I shall probably disappear once a month orso on a spree. "

"Why should you join The Patriot staff? That is what you fail to makeclear to me. "

"Reference, Mr. Russell Edmonds, " returned the other negligently. 

"You two aren't getting anywhere with all this chatter, " growled thereference. "Come, Severance; talk turkey, as you did to me. "

"I don't want to talk, " objected the other in his gentle, scholarlyaccents. "I want to look about: to diagnose the trouble in the newsdepartment. "

"What do you suspect the trouble to be?" asked Banneker. 

"Oh, the universal difficulty. Lack of brains. "

Banneker laughed, but without relish. "We pay enough for what we've got. It ought to be good quality. "

"You pay not wisely but too well. My own princely emolument as a prop ofpiety is thirty-five dollars a week. "

"Would you come here at that figure?"

"I should prefer forty. For a period of six weeks, on trial. "

"As Mr. Edmonds seems to think it worth the gamble, I'll take you on. From to-day, if you wish. Go out and look around. "

"Wait a minute, " interposed Edmonds. "What's his title? How is his jobto be defined?"

"Call him my representative in the news department. I'll pay his salarymyself. If he makes good, I'll more than get it back. "

Mr. Severance's first concern appeared to be to make himself popular. Inthe anomalous position which he occupied as representative between twomutually jealous departments, this was no easy matter. But his quiet, contained courtesy, his tentative, almost timid, way of offeringsuggestions or throwing out hints which subsequently proved to havedefinite and often surprising value, his retiring willingness to waiveany credit in favor of whosoever might choose to claim it, soon gave himan assured if inconspicuous position. His advice was widely sought. Asan immediate corollary a new impress made itself felt in the dailycolumns. With his quick sensitiveness Banneker apprehended the change. It seemed to him that the paper was becoming feminized in a curiousmanner. 

"Is it a play for the women?" he asked Severance in the early days ofthe development. 

"No. "

"You're certainly specializing on femaleness. "

"For the men. Not the women. It's an old lure. "

Banneker frowned. "And not a pretty one. "

"Effective, though. I bagged it from the Police Gazette. Have you everhad occasion to note the almost unvarying cover appeal of that justlypopular weekly?"

"Half-dressed women, " said Banneker, whose early researches had extendedeven to those levels. 

"Exactly. With all they connote. Thereby attracting the crude and rovingmale eye. Of course, we must do the trick more artistically and lessobviously. But the pictured effect is the thing. I'm satisfied of that. By the way, I am having a little difficulty with your art department. Your man doesn't adapt himself to new ideas. "

"I've thought him rather old-fashioned. What do you want to do?"

"Bring in a young chap named Capron whom I've run upon. He used to be anitinerant photographer, and afterward had a try at the movies, but he'sessentially a news man. Let him read the papers for pictures. "

Capron came on the staff as an insignificant member with aninsignificant salary. Personally a man of blameless domesticity, he wasintellectually and professionally a sex-monger. He conceived thebusiness of a news art department to be to furnish pictured Susannahsfor the delectation of the elders of the reading public. His _flair_ forfemininity he transferred to The Patriot's pages, according to a simpleand direct formula; the greater the display of woman, the surer theappeal and therefore the sale. Legs and bosoms he specialized for inillustrations. Bathing-suits and boudoir scenes were his particular aim, although any picture with a scandal attachment in the accompanying newswould serve, the latter, however, to be handled in such manner asinvariably to point a moral. Herein his team work with Severance wasapplied in high perfection. 

"Should Our Girls Become Artists' Models" was one of their early andinspired collaborations, a series begun with a line of "beauty pictures"and spun out by interviews with well or less known painters andillustrators, giving rich opportunity for displays of nudity, the moralbeing pointed by equally lavish interviews with sociologists andprominent Mothers in Israel. Although at least ninety-nine per cent ofall professional posing is such as would not be out of place at a churchsociable, the casual reader of the Capron-Severance presentation wouldhave supposed that a lace veil was the extent of the protection allowedto a female model between sheer nakedness and the outer artistic world. Following this came a department devoted (ostensibly) to physicalculture for women. It was conducted by the proprietress of a fashionablereducing gymnasium, who was allowed, as this was a comparativelyunimportant feature, to supply the text subject to Severance'stouching-up ingenuity; but the models were devised and posed by Capron. They were extremely shapely and increasingly expressive in posture andarrangement until they attained a point where the post-officeauthorities evinced symptoms of rising excitement--though not the typeof excitement at which the Art Expert was aiming--when the series took aturn for the milder, and more purely athletic, and, by the same token, less appetizing; and presently faded away in a burst of semi-editorialself-laudation over The Patriot's altruistic endeavors to improve thephysical status of the "future mothers of the nation. "

Failing any other excuse for their careful lubricities, the team couldalways conjure up an enticing special feature from an imaginary foreigncorrespondent, aimed direct at the family circle and warning against the"Moral Pitfalls of Paris, " or the "Vampires of High Life in Vienna. " Theinvariable rule was that all sex-stuff must have a moral and virtuousslant. Thus was afforded to the appreciative reader a doublesatisfaction, physical and ethical, pruriency and piety. 

It was Capron who devised the simple but effective legend whichafterward became, in a thousand variants, a stock part of every newsitem interesting enough to merit graphic treatment, "The X Marks theSpot Where the Body Was Found. " He, too, adapted, from a design in adrug-store window picturing a sponge fisherman in action, thecross-section illustration for news. Within a few weeks he had displacedthe outdated art editor and was in receipt of a larger salary than thecity editor, who dealt primarily in news, not sensations, _panem_ not_circenses_. 

Sensationalism of other kinds was spurred to keep pace with the sexappeal. The news columns became constantly more lurid. They shrieked, yelled, blared, shrilled, and boomed the scandals and horrors of themoment in multivocal, multigraphic clamor, tainting the peaceful airbreathed by everyday people going about their everyday business, withincredible blatancies which would be forgotten on the morrow in theexcitement of fresh percussions, though the cumulative effect upon thepublic mind and appetite might be ineradicable. "Murderer Dabbles Namein Bloody Print. " "Wronged Wife Mars Rival's Beauty. " "Society WomanGives Hundred-Dollar-Plate Dinner. " "Scientist Claims Life Flickers inMummy. " "Cocktails, Wine, Drug, Ruin for Lovely Girl of Sixteen. ""Financier Resigns After Sprightly Scene at Long Beach. " Severancedeveloped a literary genius for excitant and provocativeword-combinations in the headings; "Love-Slave, " "Girl-Slasher, ""Passion-Victim, " "Death-Hand, " "Vengeance-Oath, " "Lust-Fiend. " Thearticles chosen for special display were such as lent themselves, first, to his formula for illustration, and next to captions which thrilledwith the sensations of crime, mystery, envy of the rich and conspicuous, or lechery, half concealed or unconcealed. For facts as such he carednothing. His conception of news was as a peg upon which to hang asensation. "Love and luxury for the women: money and power for the men, "was his broad working scheme for the special interest of the paper, with, of course, crime and the allure of the flesh for general interest. A jungle man, perusing one day's issue (supposing him to have beencompetent to assimilate it), would have judged the civilization picturedtherein too grisly for his unaccustomed nerves and fled in horror backto the direct, natural, and uncomplicated raids and homicides of thedecent wilds. 

The Great Gaines, descending for once from the habitual classicism ofhis phraseology, described The Patriot of Severance's production in twoterse and sufficient words. 

"It itches. "

That itch irked Banneker almost unendurably at times. He longed to berelieved of it; to scratch the irritant Severance clean off the skin ofThe Patriot. But Severance was too evidently valuable. Banneker did goso far as to protest. 

"Aren't you rather overdoing this thing, Severance?"

"Which thing? We're overdoing everything; hence the growth of thepaper. "

Banneker fell back upon banality. "Well, we've got to draw the linesomewhere. "

Severance bestowed upon the other his well-bred and delicate smile. "Exactly my principle. I'm for drawing the line every issue and on everypage, if there's room for it. '_Nulla dies sine linea_. ' The line ofappeal to the sensations, whether it's a pretty face or a caption thatjumps out and grabs you by the eye. I want to make 'em gloat. "

"I see. You were in earnest more or less when in our first talk, youdefined your profession. "

Severance waved a graceful hand. "Prostitution is the profession of allsuccessful journalism which looks at itself honestly. Why not play thepander frankly?--among ourselves, of course. Perhaps I'm offending you, Mr. Banneker. "

"You're interesting me. But, 'among ourselves' you say. You're not anewspaper man; you haven't the traditions. "

"Therefore I haven't the blind spots. I'm not fooled by thesentimentalism of the profession or the sniveling claims of being anapostle of public enlightenment. If enlightenment pays, all very well. But it's circulation, not illumination, that's the prime desideratum. Frankly, I'd feed the public gut with all it can and will stand. "

"Even to the extent of keeping the Tallman divorce scandal on the frontpage for a week consecutively. You won't pretend that, as news, it'sworth it. "

"Give me a definition of news, " retorted the expert. "The Tallman storywon't alter the history of the world. But it has its--well, itsspecialized value for our purposes. "

"You mean, " said Banneker, deliberately stimulating his own growingnausea, "that it makes the public's mind itch. "

"It's a pretty filthy and scabby sort of animal, the public, Mr. Banneker. We're not trying to reform its morals in our news columns, Itake it. "

"No. No; we're not. Still--"

"That's the province of your editorials, " went on the apostle oftitillation smoothly. "You may in time even educate them up to astandard of decency where they won't demand the sort of thing we'regiving them now. But our present business with the news columns is tocatch them for you to educate. "

"Quite so! You lure them into the dive where I wait to preach them asermon. "

After that conversation Banneker definitely decided that Severance'sactivities must be curbed. But when he set about it, he suffered anunpleasant surprise. Marrineal, thoroughly apprised of the new man'sactivities (as he was, by some occult means of his own, of everythinggoing on in the office), stood fast by the successful method, and letBanneker know, tactfully but unmistakably, that Severance, who had beentransferred to the regular payroll at a highly satisfactory figure, wasto have a free hand. So the ex-religious editor continued to strollleisurely through his unauthoritative and influential routine, contributing his commentary upon the news as it flowed in. He wouldsaunter over to the make-up man's clotted desk, run his eye over thedummy of the morrow's issue, and inquire;

"Wasn't there a shooting scrape over a woman in a big West-Sideapartment?. . . Being kept by the chap that was shot, wasn't she?. . . Oh, abank clerk?. . . Well, that's a pretty dull-looking seventh page. Why notlift this text of the new Suburban Railways Bill and spread the shootingacross three columns? Get Sanderson to work out a diagram and do one ofhis filmy line drawings of the girl lying on the couch. And let's besure to get the word 'Banker' into the top head. "

Or he would deliver a practical lecture from a text picked out of whatto a less keen-scented news-hound might have appeared an unpromisingsubject. 

"Can't we round out that disappearance story a little; the suburbanwoman who hasn't been seen since she went to New York three days ago?Get Capron to fake up a picture of the home with the three children init grouped around Bereaved Husband, and--here, how would something likethis do for caption: '"Mamma, Mamma! Come Back!" Sob Tiny Tots. ' Thehuman touch. Nothing like a bit of slush to catch the women. And we'vebeen going a little shy on sentiment lately. "

The "human touch, " though it became an office joke, also took its placeas an unwritten law. Severance's calm and impersonal cynicism wastransmuted into a genuine enthusiasm among the copy-readers. Headliningtook on a new interest, whetted by the establishment of a weekly prizefor the most attractive caption. Maximum of sensationalism was theinvariable test. 

Despite his growing distaste for the Severance cult, Banneker was honestenough to admit that the original stimulus dated from the day when hehimself had injected his personality and ideas into the variousdepartments of the daily. He had established the new policy; Severancehad done no more than inform it with the heated imaginings andprovocative pictorial quality inherent in a mind intensely if scornfullyapprehensive of the unsatiated potential depravities of public taste. Itwas Banneker's hand that had set the strings vibrating to a new tune;Severance had only raised the pitch, to the _n_th degree ofsensationalism. And, in so far as the editorial page gave him a lead, the disciple was faithful to the principles and policies of his chief. The practice of the news columns was always informed by a patentlydefensible principle. It paeaned the virtues of the poor and lowly; ithowled for the blood of the wicked and the oppressor; it was stridentfor morality, the sanctity of the home, chastity, thrift, sobriety, thePeople, religion, American supremacy. As a corollary of these piousstandards it invariably took sides against wealth and power, sentimentalized every woman who found her way into the public prints, whether she had perpetrated a murder or endowed a hospital, simpered andslavered over any "heart-interest story" of childhood ("blue-eyed totstuff" was the technical office term), and licked reprehensive butgustful lips over divorce, adultery, and the sexual complications. Itpeeped through keyholes of print at the sanctified doings of Society andsnarled while it groveled. All the shibboleths of a journalism whichrespected neither itself, its purpose, nor its readers echoed from everypage. And this was the reflex of the work and thought of Errol Banneker, who intimately respected himself, and his profession as expressed inhimself. There is much of the paradoxical in journalism--as, indeed, inthe life which it distortedly mirrors. 

Every other newspaper in town caught the contagion; became by insensibledegrees more sensational and pornographic. The Patriot had started arag-time pace (based on the same fundamental instinct which the rhythmof rag-time expresses, if the psychologists are correct) and the restmust, perforce, adopt it. Such as lagged in this Harlot's Progresssuffered a loss of circulation, journalism's most condign penalty. Forthere are certain appetites which, once stimulated, must be appeased. Otherwise business wanes!

Out of conscious nothing, as represented by the now moribund News, therewas provoked one evening a large, round, middle-aged, smiling, bespectacled apparition who named himself as Rudy Sheffer and invitedhimself to a job. Marrineal had sent him to Severance, and Severance, ever tactful, had brought him to Banneker. Russell Edmonds being calledin, the three sat in judgment upon the Big Idea which Mr. Sheffer hadbrought with him and which was:

"Give 'em a laugh. "

"The potentialities of humor as a circulation agency, " opined Severancein his smoothest academic voice, "have never been properly exploited. "

"A laugh on every page where there ain't a thrill, " pursued Shefferconfidently. 

"You find some of our pages dull?" asked Banneker, always interested inany new view. 

"Well, your market page ain't no scream. You gotta admit it. "

"People don't usually want to laugh when they're studying the stockmarket, " growled Edmonds. 

"Surprise 'em, then. Give 'em a jab in the ribs and see how they likeit. Pictures. Real comics. Anywhere in the paper that there's room for'em. "

"There's always a cartoon on the editorial page, " pointed out Banneker. 

"Cartoon? What does that get you? A cartoon's an editorial, ain't it?"

Russell Edmonds shot a side glance at Banneker, meaning: "This is nofool. Watch him. "

"Makes 'em think, don't it?" pursued the visitor. "If it tickles 'em, that's on the side. It gets after their minds, makes 'em work for whatthey get. That's an effort. See?"

"All right. What's your aim?"

"Not their brains. I leave that to Mr. Banneker's editorials. I'm afterthe laugh that starts down here. " He laid hand upon his rotundwaistcoat. "The belly-laugh. "

"The anatomy of anti-melancholy, " murmured Severance. "Valuable. "

"You're right, it's valuable, " declared its proponent. "It's money;that's what it is. Watch 'em at the movies. When their bellies begin toshake, the picture's got 'em. "

"How would you produce this desirable effect?" asked Severance. 

"No trouble to show goods. I'm dealing with gents, I know. This is allunder your shirt for the present, if you don't take up the scheme. "

From a portfolio which he had set in a corner he produced a sheaf ofdrawings. They depicted the adventures, mischievous, predatory, orcriminal, of a pair of young hopefuls whose physiognomies and postureswere genuinely ludicrous. 

"Did you draw these?" asked Banneker in surprise, for thedraughtsmanship was expert. 

"No. Hired a kid artist to do 'em. I furnished the idea. "

"Oh, you furnished the idea, did you?" queried Edmonds. "And where didyou get it?"

With an ineffably satisfied air, Mr. Sheffer tapped his bullet head. 

"You must be older than you look, then. Those figures of the kids areredrawn from a last-century German humorous classic, 'Max und Moritz. ' Iused to be crazy over it when I was a youngster. My grandfather broughtit to me from Europe, and made a translation for us youngsters. "

"Sure! Those pictures'd make a reformer laugh. I picked up the book inGerman on an Ann Street sidewalk stand, caught the Big Idea right thenand there; to Americanize the stuff and--"

"For 'Americanize, ' read 'steal, '" commented Edmonds. 

"There ain't no thin' crooked in this, " protested the other withsincerity. "The stuff ain't copyrighted here. I looked that upparticularly. "

"Quite true, I believe, " confirmed Severance. "It's an open field. "

"I got ten series mapped out to start. Call 'em 'The Trouble-hunterTwins, Ruff and Reddy. ' If they catch on, the artist and me can keep 'emgoin' forever. And they'll catch. "

"I believe they will, " said Severance. 

"Smeared across the top of a page it'll make a business man laugh ashard as a kid. I know business men. I was one, myself. Sold bar fixtureson the road for four years. And my best selling method was the laughs Igot out of 'em. Used to take a bit of chalk and do sketches on thetable-tops. So I know what makes 'em laugh. Belly-laughs. You make abusiness man laugh that way, and you get his business. It ain'tcirculation alone; it's advertising that the stuff will bring in. Eh?"

"What do you think, Mr. Banneker?" asked Severance. 

"It's worth trying, " decided Banneker after thought. "You don't thinkso, do you, Pop?"

"Oh, go ahead!" returned Edmonds, spewing forth a mouthful of smoke asif to expel a bad taste. "What's larceny among friends?"

"But we're not taking anything of value, since there's no copyright andany one can grab it, " pointed out the smooth Severance. 

Thus there entered into the high-tension atmosphere of thesensationalized Patriot the relaxing quality of humor. Under theingenuous and acquisitive Sheffer, whose twins achieved immediatepopularity, it developed along other lines. Sheffer--who knew what makesbusiness men laugh--pinned his simple faith to three main subjects, convulsive of the diaphragmatic muscles, building up each series uponthe inherent humor to be extracted from physical violence as representedin the perpetrations and punishments of Ruff and Reddy, maritalinfidelity as mirrored in the stratagems and errancies of an amorous apewith an aged and jealous spouse, and the sure-fire familiarity of agedminstrel jokes (mother-in-law, country constable, young married cookery, and the like) refurbished in pictorial serials through the agency of twouproarious and imbecilic vulgarians, Bonehead and Buttinsky. 

Children cried for them, and laughed to exhaustion over them. Not lessdid the mentally exhausted business man writhe abdominally over theirappeal. Spread across the top of three pages they wrung the profitablebelly-laugh from growing thousands of new readers. If Banneker sometimeshad misgivings that the educational influence of The Patriot was notnotably improved by all this instigation of crime and immorality madesubject for mirth in the mind of developing youth, he stifled them inthe thought of increased reading public for his own columns. Furthermore, it was not his newspaper, anyway. 

But the editorial page was still peculiarly his own, and with thatclarity of view which he never permitted personal considerations toprejudice, Banneker perceived that it was falling below pitch. Or, rather, that, while it remained static, the rest of the paper, under thestimulus of Severance, Capron, Sheffer, and, in the background butincreasingly though subtly assertive, Marrineal, had raised its level ofexcitation. Change his editorials he would not. Nor was there need; theresponse to them was too widespread and fervent, their following tooblindly fanatic, the opposition roused by them too furious to permit ofany doubt as to their effectiveness. But that portion of the page nottaken up by his writings and the cartoon (which was often based upon anidea supplied by him), was susceptible of alteration, of keying-up. Casting about him for the popular note, the circus appeal, he started a"signed-article" department of editorial contributions to which heinvited any and all persons of prominence in whatever line. The lure ofthat universal egotism which loves to see itself in the public eyesecured a surprising number of names. Propagandists were quick toappreciate the opportunity of The Patriot's wide circulation forfurthering their designs, selfish or altruistic. To such desirables ascould not be caught by other lures, Banneker offered generous payment. 

It was on this latter basis that he secured a prize, in the person ofthe Reverend George Bland, ex-revivalist, ex-author of pious stories forthe young, skilled dealer in truisms, in wordy platitudes couchedlargely in plagiarized language from the poets and essayists, in all thepseudo-religious slickeries wherewith men's souls are so easily lulledinto self-satisfaction. The Good, the True, the Beautiful; these werehis texts, but the real god of his worship was Success. This, under theguise of Duty ("man's God-inspired ambition to be true to his bestpossibilities"), he preached day in and day out through his "Daily Help"in The Patriot: Be guided by me and you will be good: Be good and youwill be prosperous: Be prosperous and you will be happy. On an adjoiningpage there were other and far more specific instructions as to how to beprosperous and happy, by backing Speedfoot at 10 to 1 in the first race, or Flashaway at 5 to 2 in the third. Sometimes the Reverend Blandinveighed convincingly against the evils of betting. Yet a cynic mightguess that the tipsters' recipes for being prosperous and happy (andtherefore, by a logical inversion, good) were perhaps as well based andpractical as the reverend moralist's. His correspondence, surestindication of editorial following, grew to be almost as large asBanneker's. Severance nicknamed him "the Oracle of Boobs, " and for shorthe became known as the "Booblewarbler, " for there were times when heburst into verse, strongly reminiscent of the older hymnals. This heresented hotly and genuinely, for he was quite sincere; as sincere asSheffer, in his belief in himself. But he despised Sheffer and fearedSeverance, not for what the latter represented, but for the cynicalhonesty of his attitude. In retort for Severance's stab, he dubbed thepair Mephistopheles and Falstaff, which was above his usualfelicitousness of characterization. Sheffer (who read Shakespeare toimprove his mind, and for ideas!) was rather flattered. 

Even the platitudinous Bland had his practical inspirations; if they hadnot been practical, they would not have been Bland's. One of these wasan analysis of the national business character. 

"We Americans, " he wrote, "are natural merchandisers. We care less forthe making of a thing than for the selling of it. Salesmanship is thegreat American game. It calls forth all our native genius; it is theexpression of our originality, our inventiveness, our ingenuity, ouridealism, " and so on, for a full column slathered with deadly andself-betraying encomiums. For the Reverend Bland believed heartily thatthe market was the highest test of humankind. _He_ would rather sell athing than make it! In fact, anything made with any other purpose thanto sell would probably not be successful, and would fail to make itsauthor prosperous; therefore it must be wrong. Not the creator, but thesalesman was the modern evangel. 

"The Booblewarbler has given away the game, " commented Severance withhis slight, ironic smile, the day when this naive effusion appeared. "He's right, of course. But he thinks he's praising when he's damning. "

Banneker was disturbed. But the flood of letters which came in promptlyreassured him. The Reverend editorializer was hailed broadcast as theMessiah of the holy creed of Salesmanship, of the high cult of gettingrid of something for more than it is worth. He was organized into alecture tour; his department in the paper waxed ever greater. Banneker, with his swift appreciation of a hit, followed the lead with editorials;hired authors to write short stories glorifying the ennobled figure ofthe Salesman, his smartness, his strategy, his ruthless trickery, hissuccess. And the salesmanhood of the nation, in trains, in hotellobbies, at the breakfast table with its Patriot propped up flanking theegg and coffee, rose up to call him blessed and to add to his income. 

Personal experiences in achieving success were a logical sequence tothis; success in any field, from running a city as set forth by HisHonor the Mayor, to becoming a movie star, by all the movie stars oraspirants whom their press-agents could crowd into the paper. Adistinguished novelist of notably high blood-pressure contributed aseries of thoughtful essays on "How to be Irresistible in Love, " and asentimental pugilist indulged in reminiscences (per a hired pen from thecheap magazine field) upon "The Influence of my Mother on my Career. " Animitator of Banneker developed a daily half-column of self-improvementand inspiration upon moral topics, achieving his effects by capitalizingall the words which otherwise would have been too feeble or banal toattract notice, thereby giving an air of sublimated importance to themildly incomprehensible. Nine tenths of The Patriot's editorial readersbelieved that they were following a great philosopher along the path ofthe eternal profundities. To give a touch of science, an amateurastronomer wrote stirring imaginative articles on interstellar space, and there were occasional "authoritative" pronouncements by men ofimportance in the political, financial, or intellectual worlds, liftedfrom public speeches or old publications. The page, if it did notactually itch, buzzed and clanged. But above the composite clamor roseever the voice of Banneker, clear, serene, compelling. 

And Banneker took his pay for it, deeming it well earned. 

CHAPTER V

Life was broadening out before Banneker into new and golden persuasions. He had become a person of consequence, a force to be reckoned with, inthe great, unheeding city. By sheer resolute thinking and planning, expressed and fulfilled in unsparing labor, he had made opportunity leadto opportunity until his position was won. He was courted, sought after, accepted by representative people of every sort, their interest andliking answering to his broad but fine catholicity of taste in humanrelationships. If he had no intimates other than Russell Edmonds, it wasbecause he felt no need of them. 

He had found Io again. 

Prophecies had all failed in the matter of his rise. He thought, withpardonable exultation, of how he had confuted them, one after another. Cressey had doubted that one could be at the same time a successfuljournalist and a gentleman; Horace Vanney had deemed individualityinconsistent with newspaper writing; Tommy Burt and other jejunepessimists of the craft had declared genuine honesty incompatible withthe higher and more authoritative phases of the profession. Almostwithout set plan and by an inevitable progress, as it now seemed to him, he had risen to the most conspicuous, if not yet the most important, position on Park Row, and had suffered no conscious compromise ofstandards, whether of self-respect, self-assertion, or honor. 

Had he ever allowed monetary considerations seriously to concern him, hemight have been troubled by an untoward and not easily explicablephenomenon. His bank account consistently failed to increase in ratio tohis earnings. In fact, what with tempting investments, the importunitiesof a highly luxurious taste in life hitherto unsuspected, and anoccasional gambling flyer, his balance was precarious, so to speak. Withthe happy optimism of one to whom the rosy present casts an intensifiedglow upon the future, he confidently anticipated a greatly and steadilyaugmented income, since the circulation of The Patriot was now theterror of its rivals. That any radical alteration could be made in hismethod of recompense did not occur to him. So completely had heidentified himself with The Patriot that he subconsciously regardedhimself as essential to its prosperity if not to its actual existence. Therein he was supported by all the expert opinion of Park Row. Alreadyhe had accepted one modification of his contract, and his takings fornew circulation were now twenty-five cents per unit per year instead offifty cents as formerly. 

But Tertius Marrineal and his business manager, a shrewd and practicalgentleman named Haring, had done a vast deal of expert figuring, as aresult of which the owner strolled into his editor's office one noonwith his casual air of having nothing else to do, and pleasantlyinquired:

"Busy?"

"If I weren't, I wouldn't be worth much, " returned Banneker, in acheerful tone. 

"Well, if you can spare me fifteen minutes--"

"Sit down. " Banneker swiveled his chair to face the other. 

"I needn't tell you that the paper is a success; a big success, " beganMarrineal. 

"You needn't. But it's always pleasant to hear. "

"Possibly too big a success. What would you say to letting circulationdrop for a while?"

"What!" Banneker felt a momentary queer sensation near the pit of hisstomach. If the circulation dropped, his income followed it. But couldMarrineal be serious?

"The fact is we've reached the point where more circulation is a luxury. We're printing an enormous paper, and wood-pulp prices are going up. Ifwe could raise our advertising rates;--but Mr. Haring thinks that threeraises a year is all the traffic will bear. The fact is, Mr. Banneker, that the paper isn't making money. We've run ahead of ourselves. You'reswallowing all the profits. "

Banneker's inner voice said warningly to Banneker, "So that's it. "Banneker's outer voice said nothing. 

"Then there's the matter of advertising. Your policy is not helping usmuch there. "

"The advertising is increasing. "

"Not in proportion to circulation. Nothing like. "

"If the proper ratio isn't maintained, that is the concern of theadvertising department, isn't it?"

"Very much the concern. Will you talk with Mr. Haring about it?"

"No. "

Early in Banneker's editorship it had been agreed that he should keepfree of any business or advertising complications. Experience and thewarnings of Russell Edmonds had told him that the only course ofeditorial independence lay in totally ignoring the effect of what hemight write upon the profits and prejudices of the advertisers, whowere, of course, the principal support of the paper. Furthermore, Banneker heartily despised about half of the advertising which the papercarried; dubious financial proffers, flamboyant mercantile copy ofdiamond dealers, cheap tailors, installment furniture profiteers, thelure of loan sharks and race-track tipsters, and the specious and deadlyfallacies of the medical quacks. Appealing as it did to an ignorant and"easy" class of the public ("Banneker's First-Readers, " Russell Edmondswas wont to call them), The Patriot offered a profitable field for allthe pitfall-setters of print. The less that Banneker knew about them themore comfortable would he be. So he turned his face away from thosecolumns. 

The negative which he returned to Marrineal's question was no more orless than that astute gentleman expected. 

"We carried an editorial last week on cigarettes, 'There's a YellowStain on Your Boy's Fingers--Is There Another on his Character?'"

"Yes. It is still bringing in letters. "

"It is. Letters of protest. "

"From the tobacco people?"

"Exactly. Mr. Banneker, don't you regard tobacco as a legitimate articleof use?"

"Oh, entirely. Couldn't do without it, myself. "

"Why attack it, then, in your column?"

"Because my column, " answered Banneker with perceptible emphasis on thepossessive, "doesn't believe that cigarettes are good for boys. "

"Nobody does. But the effect of your editorial is to play into the handsof the anti-tobacco people. It's an indiscriminate onslaught on alltobacco. That's the effect of it. "

"Possibly. "

"And the result is that the tobacco people are threatening to cut us offfrom their new advertising appropriation. "

"Out of my department, " said Banneker calmly. 

Marrineal was a patient man. He pursued. "You have offended the medicaladvertisers by your support of the so-called Honest Label Bill. "

"It's a good bill. "

"Nearly a quarter of our advertising revenue is from the patent-medicinepeople. "

"Mostly swindlers. "

"They pay your salary, " Marrineal pointed out. 

"Not mine, " said Banneker vigorously. "The paper pays my salary. "

"Without the support of the very advertisers that you are attacking, itcouldn't continue to pay it. Yet you decline to admit any responsibilityto them. "

"Absolutely. To them or for them. "

"I confess I can't see your basis, " said the reasonable Marrineal. "Considering what you have received in income from the paper--"

"I have worked for it. "

"Admitted. But that you should absorb practically all the profits--isn'tthat a little lopsided, Mr. Banneker?"

"What is your proposition, Mr. Marrineal?"

Marrineal put his long, delicate fingers together, tip to tip before hisface, and appeared to be carefully reckoning them up. About the timewhen he might reasonably have been expected to have audited the totaland found it to be the correct eight with two supplementary thumbs, heejaculated:

"Coöperation. "

"Between the editorial page and the advertising department?"

"Perhaps I should have said profit-sharing. I propose that in lieu ofour present arrangement, based upon a percentage on a circulation whichis actually becoming a liability instead of an asset, we should reckonyour salary on a basis of the paper's net earnings. " As Banneker, sitting with thoughtful eyes fixed upon him, made no comment, he added:"To show that I do not underestimate your value to the paper, I proposeto pay you fifteen per cent of the net earnings for the next threeyears. By the way, it won't be necessary hereafter, for you to give anytime to the news or Sunday features. "

"No. You've got out of me about all you could on that side, " observedBanneker. 

"The policy is established and successful, thanks largely to you. Iwould be the last to deny it. "

"What do you reckon as my probable income under the proposedarrangement?"

"Of course, " answered the proprietor apologetically, "it would besomewhat reduced this year. If our advertising revenue increases, as itnaturally should, your percentage might easily rise above your earningsunder the old arrangement. "

"I see, " commented Banneker thoughtfully. "You propose to make it worthmy while to walk warily. As the pussy foots it, so to speak. "

"I ask you to recognize the fairness of the proposition that you conductyour column in the best interests of the concern--which, under the newarrangement, would also be your own best interests. "

"Clear. Limpidly clear, " murmured Banneker. "And if I decline the newbasis, what is the alternative?"

"Cut down circulation, and with it, loss. "

"And the other, the real alternative?" queried the imperturbableBanneker. 

Marrineal smiled, with a touch of appeal in his expression. 

"Frankness is best, isn't it?" propounded the editor. "I don't believe, Mr. Marrineal, that this paper can get along without me. It has becometoo completely identified with my editorial idea. On the other hand, Ican get along without it. "

"By accepting the offer of the Mid-West Evening Syndicate, beginning atforty thousand a year?"

"You're well posted, " said Banneker, startled. 

"Of necessity. What would you suppose?"

"Your information is fairly accurate. "

"I'm prepared to make you a guarantee of forty thousand, as a minimum. "

"I shall make nearer sixty than fifty this year. "

"At the expense of a possible loss to the paper. Come, Mr. Banneker; thefairness of my offer is evident. A generous guarantee, and a brilliantchance of future profits. "

"_And_ a free hand with my editorials?"

"Surely that will arrange itself. "

"Precisely what I fear. " Banneker had been making some swiftcalculations on his desk-blotter. Now he took up a blue pencil and witha gesture, significant and not without dramatic effect, struck it downthrough the reckoning. "No, Mr. Marrineal. It isn't good enough. I holdto the old status. When our contract is out--"

"Just a moment, Mr. Banneker. Isn't there a French proverb, somethingabout no man being as indispensable as he thinks?" Marrineal's voice wasnever more suave and friendly. "Before you make any final decision, lookthese over. " He produced from his pocket half a dozen of what appearedto be Patriot editorial clippings. 

The editor of The Patriot glanced rapidly through them. A puzzled frownappeared on his face. 

"When did I write these?"

"You didn't. "

"Who did?"

"I"

"They're dam' good. "

"Aren't they!"

"Also, they're dam' thievery. "

"Doubtless you mean flattery. In its sincerest form. Imitation. "

"Perfect. I could believe I'd written them myself. "

"Yes; I've been a very careful student of The Patriot's editorialstyle. "

"The Patriot's! Mine!"

"Surely not. You would hardly contend seriously that, having paid thelongest price on record for the editorials, The Patriot has not a vestedright in them and their style. "

"I see, " said Banneker thoughtfully. Inwardly he cursed himself for theworst kind of a fool; the fool who underestimates the caliber of hisopponent. 

"Would you say, " continued the smooth voice of the other, "that thesemight be mistaken for your work?"

"Nobody would know the difference. It's robbery of the rankest kind. Butit's infernally clever. "

"I'm not going to quarrel with you over a definition, Mr. Banneker, "said Marrineal. He leaned a little forward with a smile so frank andfriendly that it quite astonished the other. "And I'm not going to letyou go, either, " he pursued. "You need me and I need you. I'm not foolenough to suppose that the imitation can ever continue to be as good asthe real thing. We'll make it a fifty thousand guarantee, if you say so. And, as for your editorial policy--well, I'll take a chance on yourseeing reason. After all, there's plenty of earth to prance on withoutalways treading on people's toes. . . . Well, don't decide now. Take yourtime to it. " He rose and went to the door. There he turned, flapping theloose imitations in his hands. 

"Banneker, " he said chuckling, "aren't they really dam' good!" andvanished. 

In that moment Banneker felt a surge of the first real liking he hadever known for his employer. Marrineal had been purely human for aflash. 

Nevertheless, in the first revulsion after the proprietor had left, Banneker's unconquered independence rose within him, jealous andclamant. He felt repressions, claims, interferences potentially closingin upon his pen, also an undefined dread of the sharply revealedoverseer. That a force other than his own mind and convictions shouldexert pressure, even if unsuccessful, upon his writings, wasintolerable. Better anything than that. The Mid-West Syndicate, he knew, would leave him absolutely untrammeled. He would write the generaldirector at once. 

In the act of beginning the letter, the thought struck and stunned himthat this would mean leaving New York. Going to live in a Middle-Westerncity, a thousand miles outside of the orbit in which moved Io Eyre!

He left the letter unfinished, and the issue to the fates. 

CHAPTER VI

Put to the direct question, as, for example, on the witness stand, Mr. Ely Ives would, before his connection with Tertius Marrineal, haveprobably identified himself as a press-agent. In that capacity he hadacted, from time to time, for a railroad with many axes to grind, awidespread stock-gambling enterprise, a minor political ring, a liquorcombination, and a millionaire widow from the West who innocentlybelieved that publicity, as manipulated by Mr. Ives, could gain socialprestige for her in the East. 

In every phase of his employment, the ex-medical student had gatheredcurious and valuable lore. In fact he was one of those acquisitivepersons who collect and hoard scandals, a miser of private and furtiveinformation. His was the zeal of the born collector; something of thegenius, too: he boasted a keen instinct. In his earlier and moreprecarious days he had formed the habit of watching for and collatingall possible advices concerning those whom he worked for or workedagainst and branching from them to others along radiating lines ofbusiness, social, or family relationships. To him New York was a hugeweb, of sinister and promising design, dim, involved, too oftenimpenetrable in the corners where the big spiders spin. He had twoguiding maxims: "It may come in handy some day, " and "They'll all bearwatching. " Before the prosperous time, he had been, in his devotion tohis guiding principles, a practitioner of the detective arts in some oftheir least savory phases; had haunted doorsteps, lurked upon corners, been rained upon, snowed upon, possibly spat upon, even arrested; all ofwhich he accepted, mournful but uncomplaining. One cannotwhole-heartedly serve an ideal and come off scatheless. He was adroit, well-spoken, smooth of surface, easy of purse, untiring, supple, and ofan inexhaustible good-humor. It was from the ex-medical student thatMarrineal had learned of Banneker's offer from the Syndicate, also ofhis over-prodigal hand in money matters. 

"He's got to have the cash, " was the expert's opinion upon Banneker. "There's your hold on him. . . . Quit? No danger. New York's in his blood. He's in love with life, puppy-love; his clubs, his theater first-nights, his invitations to big houses which he seldom accepts, big people comingto his House with Three Eyes. And, of course, his sense of power in thepaper. No; he won't quit. How could he? He'll compromise. "

"Do you figure him to be the compromising sort?" asked Marrinealdoubtfully. 

"He isn't the journalistic Puritan that he lets on to be. Look at thatHarvey Wheelwright editorial, " pointed out the acute Ives. "He don'tbelieve what he wrote about Wheelwright; just did it for his ownpurposes. Well, if the oracle can work himself for his own purposes, others can work him when the time comes, if it's properly managed. "

Marrineal shook his head. "If there's a weakness in him I haven't foundit. "

Ives put on a look of confidential assurance. "Be sure it's there. Onlyit isn't of the ordinary kind. Banneker is pretty big in his way. No, "he pursued thoughtfully; "it isn't women, and it isn't Wall Street, andit isn't drink; it isn't even money, in the usual sense. But it'ssomething. By the way, did I tell you that I'd found an acquaintancefrom the desert where Banneker hails from?"

"No. " Marrineal's tone subtly indicated that he should have been told atonce. That sort of thing was, indeed, the basis on which Ives drew aconsiderable stipend from his patron's private purse, as "personalrepresentative of Mr. Marrineal" for purposes unspecified. 

"A railroad man. From what he tells me there was some sort oflove-affair there. A girl who materialized from nowhere and spent twoweeks, mostly with the romantic station-agent. Might have been aprincess in exile, by my informant, who saw her twice. More likely somecheap little skate of a movie actress on a bust. "

"A station-agent's taste in women friends--" began Marrineal, andforbore unnecessarily to finish. 

"Possibly it has improved. Or--well, at any rate, there was somethingthere. My railroad man thinks the affair drove Banneker out of his job. The fact of his being woman-proof here points to its having beenserious. "

"There was a girl out there about that time visiting Camilla VanArsdale, " remarked Marrineal carelessly; "a New York girl. One of thesame general set. Miss Van Arsdale used to be a New Yorker and rather adistinguished one. "

Too much master of his devious craft to betray discomfiture overanother's superior knowledge of a subject which he had tried to make hisown, Ely Ives remarked:

"Then she was probably the real thing. The princess on vacation. Youdon't know who she was, I suppose, " he added tentatively. 

Marrineal did not answer, thereby giving his factotum uncomfortably toreflect that he really must not expect payment for information and theinformation also. 

"I guess he'll bear watching. " Ives wound up with his favoritephilosophy. 

It was a few days after this that, by a special interposition of kindlychance, Ives, having returned from a trip out of town, saw Banneker andIo breakfasting in the station restaurant. To Marrineal he said nothingof this at the time; nor, indeed, to any one else. But later he took itto a very private market of his own, the breakfast-room of a sunny andsecluded house far uptown, where lived, in an aroma of the domesticvirtues, a benevolent-looking old gentleman who combined the attributesof the ferret, the leech, and the vulture in his capacity as editor ofthat famous weekly publication, The Searchlight. Ives did not sell inthat mart; he traded for other information. This time he wantedsomething about Judge Willis Enderby, for he was far enough on theinside politically to see in him a looming figure which might stand inthe way of certain projects, unannounced as yet, but tenderly nurturedin the ambitious breast of Tertius C. Marrineal. From the gently smilingpatriarch he received as much of the unwritten records as that authoritydeemed it expedient to give him, together with an admonition, thrown infor good measure. 

"Dangerous, my young friend! Dangerous!"

The passionate and patient collector thought it highly probable thatWillis Enderby would be dangerous game. Certainly he did not intend tohunt in those fields, unless he could contrive a weapon of overwhelmingcaliber. 

Ely Ives's analysis of Banneker's situation was in a measure responsiblefor Marrineal's proposition of the new deal to his editor. 

"He has accepted it, " the owner told his purveyor of information. "Butthe real fight is to come. "

"Over the policy of the editorial page, " opined Ives. 

"Yes. This is only a truce. "

As a truce Banneker also regarded it. He had no desire to break it. Nor, after it was established, did Marrineal make any overt attempt tointerfere with his conduct of his column. 

After awaiting gage of battle from his employer, in vain, Bannekerdecided to leave the issue to chance. Surely he was not surrendering anyprinciple, since he continued to write as he chose upon whatever topicshe selected. Time enough to fight when there should be urged upon himeither one of the cardinal sins of journalism, the _suppressio veri_ orthe _suggestio falsi_, which he had more than once excoriated in otherpapers, to the pious horror of the hush-birds of the craft who hadchattered and cheeped accusations of "fouling one's own nest. "

Opportunity was not lacking to Marrineal for objections to a policywhich made powerful enemies for the paper; Banneker, once assured of hisfollowing, had hit out right and left. From being a weak-kneed andrather apologetic defender of the "common people, " The Patriot hadbecome, logically, under Banneker's vigorous and outspoken policy, aproponent of the side of labor against capital. It had hotly supportedtwo important and righteous local strikes and been the chief agent inwinning one. With equal fervor it had advocated a third strike whosejustice was at best dubious and had made itself anathema, though thestrike was lost, to an industrial group which was honestly striving tolive up to honorable standards. It had offended a powerful ring ofbankers and for a time embarrassed Marrineal in his loans. It hadthreatened editorial reprisals upon a combination of those feared andarrogant advertisers, the department stores, for endeavoring, withsignal lack of success, to procure the suppression of certain marketnews. It became known as independent, honest, unafraid, radical (in WallStreet circles "socialistic" or even "anarchistic"), and, to theprofession, as dangerous to provoke. Advertisers were, from time totime, alienated; public men, often of The Patriot's own trend ofthought, opposed. Commercial associations even passed resolutions, untilBanneker took to publishing them with such comment as seemed to him goodand appropriate. Marrineal uttered no protest, though the unlucky Haringbeat his elegantly waistcoated breast and uttered profane if subduedthreats of resigning, which were for effect only; for The Patriot'scirculation continued to grow and the fact to which every advertisingexpert clings as to the one solid hope in a vaporous calling, is thatadvertising follows circulation. 

Seldom did Banneker see his employer in the office, but Marrineal oftencame to the Saturday nights of The House With Three Eyes, which hadalready attained the fame of a local institution. As the numbers drawnto it increased, it closed its welcoming orbs earlier and earlier, and, once they were darkened, there was admittance only for the chosen few. 

It was a first Saturday in October, New York's homing month for itsindigenous social birds and butterflies, when The House triply blinkeditself into darkness at the untimely hour of eleven-forty-five. Therewas the usual heterogeneous crowd there, alike in one particular alone, that every guest represented, if not necessarily distinction, at leastachievement in his own line. Judge Willis Enderby, many times invited, had for the first time come. At five minutes after midnight, theincorruptible doorkeeper sent an urgent message requesting Mr. Banneker's personal attention to a party who declined politely butfirmly to be turned away. The host, answering the summons, found Io. Sheheld out both hands to him. 

"Say you're glad to see me, " she said imperatively. 

"Light up the three eyes, " Banneker ordered the doorman. "Are youanswered?" he said to Io. 

"Ah, that's very pretty, " she approved. "It means 'welcome, ' doesn'tit?"

"Welcome, " he assented. 

"Then Herbert and Esther can come in, can't they? They're waiting in thecar for me to be rejected in disgrace. They've even bet on it. "

"They lose, " answered Banneker with finality. 

"And you forgive me for cajoling your big, black Cerberus, because it'smy first visit this year, and if I'm not nicely treated I'll never comeagain. "

"Your welcome includes full amnesty. "

"Then if you'll let me have one of my hands back--it doesn't matterwhich one, really--I'll signal the others to come in. "

Which, accordingly, she did. Banneker greeted Esther Forbes and Cressey, and waited for the trio until they came down. There was a stir as theyentered. There was usually a stir in any room which Io entered. She hadthat quality of sending waves across the most placid of social pools. Willis Enderby was one of the first to greet her, a quick irradiation ofpleasure relieving the austere beauty of his face. 

"I thought the castle was closed, " he wondered. "How did you cross theinviolable barriers?"

"I had the magic password, " smiled Io. 

"Youth? Beauty? Or just audacity?"

"Your Honor is pleased to flatter, " she returned, drooping her eyes athim with a purposefully artificial effect. From the time when she was achild of four she had carried on a violent and highly appreciatedflirtation with "Cousin Billy, " being the only person in the world whoemployed the diminutive of his name. 

"You knew Banneker before? But, of course. Everybody knows Banneker. "

"It's quite wonderful, isn't it! He never makes an effort, I'm told. People just come to him. Where did you meet him?"

Enderby told her. "We're allies, in a way. Though sometimes he isagainst us. He's doing yeoman work in this reform mayoralty campaign. Ifwe elect Robert Laird, as I think we shall, it will be chiefly due toThe Patriot's editorials. "

"Then you have confidence in Mr. Banneker?" she asked quickly. 

"Well--in a way, I have, " he returned hesitantly. 

"But with reservations, " she interpreted. "What are they?"

"One, only, but a big one. The Patriot itself. You see, Io, The Patriotis another matter. "

"Why is it another matter?"

"Well, there's Marrineal, for example. "

"I don't know Mr. Marrineal. Evidently you don't trust him. "

"I trust nobody, " disclosed the lawyer, a little sternly, "who isrepresented by what The Patriot is and does, whether it be Marrineal, Banneker, or another. " His glance, wandering about the room, fell onRussell Edmonds, seated in a corner talking with the Great Gaines. "Unless it be Edmonds over there, " he qualified. "All his life he hasfought me as a corporation lawyer; yet I have the queer feeling that Icould trust the inmost secret of my life to his honor. Probably I'm anold fool, eh?"

Io devoted a moment's study to the lined and worn face of the veteran. "No. I think you're right, " she pronounced. 

"In any case, he isn't responsible for The Patriot. He can't help it. "

"Don't be so cryptic, Cousin Billy. Can't help what? What is wrong withthe paper?"

"You wouldn't understand. "

"But I want to understand, " said imperious Io. 

"As a basis to understanding, you'd have to read the paper. "

"I have. Everyday. All of it. "

He gave her a quick, reckoning look which she sustained with a slightdeepening of color. "The advertisements, too?" She nodded. "What do youthink of them?"

"Some of them are too disgusting to discuss. "

"Did it occur to you to compare them with the lofty standards of ouryoung friend's editorials?"

"What has he to do with the advertisements?" she countered. 

"Assume, for the sake of the argument, that he has nothing to do withthem. You may have noticed a recent editorial against race-trackgambling, with the suicide of a young bank messenger who had robbed hisemployer to pay his losses as text. "

"Well? Surely that kind of editorial makes for good. "

"Being counsel for that bank, I happen to know the circumstances of thesuicide. The boy had pinned his faith to one of the race-track tipsterswho advertise in The Patriot to furnish a list of sure winners for somuch a week. "

"Do you suppose that Mr. Banneker knew that?"

"Probably not. But he knows that his paper takes money for publishingthose vicious advertisements. "

"Suppose he couldn't help it?"

"Probably he can't. "

"Well, what would you have him do? Stop writing the editorials? I thinkit is evidence of his courage that he should dare to attack the evilswhich his own paper fosters. "

"That's one view of it, certainly, " replied Enderby dryly. "A convenientview. But there are other details. Banneker is an ardent advocate ofabstinence, 'Down with the Demon Rum!' The columns of The Patriot reekwith whiskey ads. The same with tobacco. "

"But, Cousin Billy, you don't believe that a newspaper should shut outliquor and tobacco advertisements, do you?"

The lawyer smiled patiently. "Come back on the track, Io, " he invited. "That isn't the point. If a newspaper preaches the harm in these habits, it shouldn't accept money for exploiting them. Look further. What of theloan-shark offers, and the blue-sky stock propositions, and the damnablepromises of the consumption and cancer quacks? You can't turn a page ofThe Patriot without stumbling on them. There's a smell of death aboutthat money. "

"Don't all the newspapers publish the same kind of advertisements?"argued the girl. 

"Certainly not. Some won't publish an advertisement without beingsatisfied of its good faith. Others discriminate less carefully. Butthere are few as bad as The Patriot. "

"If Mr. Banneker were your client, would you advise him to resign?" sheasked shrewdly. 

Enderby winced and chuckled simultaneously. "Probably not. It isdoubtful whether he could find another rostrum of equal influence. Andhis influence is mainly for good. But since you seem to be interested innewspapers, Io"--he gave her another of his keen glances--"from ThePatriot you can make a diagnosis of the disease from which modernjournalism is suffering. A deep-seated, pervasive insincerity. At itsworst, it is open, shameless hypocrisy. The public feels it, but is toolacking in analytical sense to comprehend it. Hence the unformulated, instinctive, universal distrust of the press. 'I never believe anythingI read in the papers. ' Of course, that is both false and silly. But thefeeling is there; and it has to be reckoned with one day. From thisarises an injustice, that the few papers which are really upright, honest, and faithful to their own standards, are tainted in the publicmind with the double-dealing of the others. Such as The Patriot. "

"You use The Patriot for your purposes, " Io pointed out. 

"When it stands for what I believe right. I only wish I could trust it. "

"Then you _really_ feel that you can't trust Mr. Banneker?"

"Ah; we're back to that!" thought Enderby with uneasiness. Aloud hesaid: "It's a very pretty problem whether a writer who shares theprofits of a hypocritical and dishonest policy can maintain his ownprofessional independence and virtue. I gravely doubt it. "

"I don't, " said Io, and there was pride in her avowal. 

"My dear, " said the Judge gravely, "what does it all mean? Are youletting yourself become interested in Errol Banneker?"

Io raised clear and steady eyes to the concerned regard of her oldfriend. "If I ever marry again, I shall marry him. "

"You're not going to divorce poor Delavan?" asked the other quickly. 

"No. I shall play the game through, " was the quiet reply. 

For a space Willis Enderby sat thinking. "Does Banneker know your--yourintentions?"

"No. "

"You mustn't let him, Io. "

"He won't know the intention. He may know the--the feeling back of it. "A slow and glorious flush rose in her face, making her eyes starry. "Idon't know that I can keep it from him, Cousin Billy. I don't even knowthat I want to. I'm an honest sort of idiot, you know. "

"God grant that he may prove as honest!" he half whispered. 

Presently Banneker, bearing a glass of champagne and some pâtésandwiches for Io, supplanted the lawyer. 

"Are you the devotee of toil that common report believes, Ban?" sheasked him lazily. "They say that you write editorials with one hand andwelcome your guests with the other. "

"Not quite that, " he answered. "To-night I'm not thinking of work. I'mnot thinking of anything but you. It's very wonderful, your being here. "

"But I want you to think of work. I want to see you in the very act. Won't you write an editorial for me?"

He shook his head. "This late? That would be cruelty to my secretary. "

"I'll take it down for you. I'm fairly fast on the typewriter. "

"Will you give me the subject, too?"

"No more than fair, " she admitted. "What shall it be? It ought to besomething with memories in it. Books? Poetry?" she groped. "I've got it!Your oldest, favorite book. Have you forgotten?"

"The Sears-Roebuck catalogue? I get a copy every season, to renew theold thrill. "

"What a romanticist you are!" said she softly. "Couldn't you write aneditorial about it?"

"Couldn't I? Try me. Come up to the den. "

He led the way to the remote austerities of the work-room. From a shelfhe took down the fat, ornate pamphlet, now much increased in bulk overits prototype of the earlier years. With random finger he parted theleaves, here, there, again and still again, seeking auguries. 

"Ready?" he said. "Now, I shut my eyes--and we're in the shackagain--the clean air of desert spaces--the click of the transmitter inthe office that I won't answer, being more importantly engaged--thefaint fragrance of _you_ permeating everything--youth--the unknownsplendor of life--Now! Go!"

Of that editorial, composed upon the unpromising theme of mail-ordermerchandising, the Great Gaines afterward said that it was akaleidoscopic panorama set moving to the harmonic undertones of a songof winds and waters, of passion and the inner meanings of life, as ifShelley had rhapsodized a catalogue into poetic being and glorioussignificance. He said it was foolish to edit a magazine when onecouldn't trust a cheap newspaper not to come flaming forth intoliterature which turned one's most conscientious and aspiring effortsinto tinsel. He also said "Damn!"

Io Welland (for it was Io Welland and not Io Eyre whom the soothsayersaw before him as he declaimed), instrument and inspiration of theachievement, said no word of direct praise. But as she wrote, herfingers felt as if they were dripping electric sparks. When, at theclose, he asked, quite humbly, "Is that what you wanted?" she caught herbreath on something like a sob. 

"I'll give you a title, " she said, recovering herself. "Call it 'Ifthere were Dreams to Sell. '"

"Ah, that's good!" he cried. "My readers won't get it. Pinheads! Theyget nothing that isn't plain as the nose on their silly faces. Nevermind. It's good for 'em to be puzzled once in a while. Teaches 'em theirplace. . . . I'll tell you who will understand it, though, " he continued, and laughed queerly. 

"All the people who really matter will. "

"Some who matter a lot to The Patriot will. The local merchants whoadvertise with us. They'll be wild. "

"Why?"

"They hate the mail-order houses with a deadly fear, because thecataloguers undersell them in a lot of lines. Won't Rome howl the dayafter this appears!"

"Tell me about the relation between advertising and policy, Ban, "invited Io, and summarized Willis Enderby's views. 

Banneker had formulated for his own use and comfort the fallacy whichhas since become standard for all journalists unwilling or unable toface the issue of their own responsibility to the public. He now gave itforth confidently. 

"A newspaper, Io, is like a billboard. Any one has a right to hire itfor purposes of exploiting and selling whatever he has to sell. Inaccepting the advertisement, provided it is legal and decent, thepublisher accepts no more responsibility than the owner of the land onwhich a billboard stands. Advertising space is a free forum. "

"But when it affects the editorial attitude--"

"That's the test, " he put in quickly. "That's why I'm glad to print thiseditorial of ours. It's a declaration of independence. "

"Yes, " she acquiesced eagerly. 

"If ever I use the power of my editorials for any cause that I don'tbelieve in--yes, or for my own advantage or the advantage of myemployer--that will be the beginning of surrender. But as long as I keepa free pen and speak as I believe for what I hold as right and againstwhat I hold as wrong, I can afford to leave the advertising policy tothose who control it. It isn't my responsibility. . . . It's an omen, Io; Iwas waiting for it. Marrineal and I are at a deadlock on the question ofmy control of the editorial page. This ought to furnish a fightingissue. I'm glad it came from you. "

"Oh, but if it's going to make trouble for you, I shall be sorry. And Iwas going to propose that we write one every Saturday. "

"Io!" he cried. "Does that mean--"

"It means that I shall become a regular attendant at Mr. ErrolBanneker's famous Saturday nights. Don't ask me what more it means. " Sherose and delivered the typed sheets into his hands. "I--I don't know, myself. Take me back to the others, Ban. "

To Banneker, wakened next morning to a life of new vigor and sweetness, the outcome of the mail-order editorial was worth not one troubledthought. All his mind was centered on Io. 

CHAPTER VII

Explosions of a powerful and resonant nature followed the publication ofthe fantastic, imaginative, and delightful mail-order catalogueeditorial. In none of these senses, except the first, did it appeal tothe advertising managers of the various department stores. They lookedupon it as an outrage, an affront, a deliberate slap in the face for anestablished, vested, and prodigal support of the newspaper press. Whatthe devil did The Patriot mean by it; The Patriot which sorely neededjust their class of reputable patronage, and, after sundry contortionsof rate-cutting, truckling, and offers of news items to back theadvertising, was beginning to get it? They asked themselves, and, failing of any satisfactory answer, they asked The Patriot in nouncertain terms. Receiving vague and pained replies, they even went tothe length of holding a meeting and sending a committee to wait upon thedesperate Haring, passing over the advertising manager who was a merefigurehead in The Patriot office. 

Then began one of those scenes of bullying and browbeating to whichevery newspaper, not at once powerful and honest enough to command thefear and respect of its advertisers, is at some time subjected. Haring, the victim personifying the offending organ, was stretched upon the rackand put to the question. What explanation had he to offer of ThePatriot's breach of faith?

He had none, had the miserable business manager. No one could regret itmore than he. But, really, gentlemen, to call it a breach of faith--

What else was it? Wasn't the paper turning on its own advertisers?

Well; in a sense. But not--

But nothing! Wasn't it trying to undermine their legitimate business?

Not intentionally, Mr. Haring was (piteously) sure. 

Intentionally be damned! Did he expect to carry their advertising on onepage and ruin their business on another? Did he think they were puttingmoney into The Patriot--a doubtful medium for their business, atbest--to cut their own throats? They'd put it to him reasonably, now;who, after all, paid for the getting out of The Patriot? Wasn't it theadvertisers?

Certainly, certainly, gentlemen. Granted. 

Could the paper run a month, a fortnight, a week without advertising?

No; no! It couldn't. No newspaper could. 

Then if the advertisers paid the paper's way, weren't they entitled tosome say about it? Didn't it have a right to give 'em at least a fairshow?

Indeed, gentlemen, if he, Haring, were in control of the paper--

Then, why; why the _hell_ was a cub of an editor allowed to cut looseand jump their game that way? They could find other places to spendtheir money; yes, and get a better return for it. They'd see ThePatriot, and so on, and so forth. 

Mr. Haring understood their feelings, sympathized, even shared them. Unfortunately the editorial page was quite out of his province. 

Whose province was it, then? Mr. Banneker's, eh? And to whom was Mr. Banneker responsible? Mr. Marrineal, alone? All right! They would seeMr. Marrineal. 

Mr. Haring was sorry, but Mr. Marrineal was out of town. (Fiction. )

Well, in that case, Banneker. They'd trust themselves to show him whichfoot he got off on. They'd teach (two of them, in their stress ofemotion, said "learn"; they were performing this in chorus) Banneker--

Oh, Mr. Banneker wasn't there, either. (Haring, very terrified, andhaving built up an early conception of the Wild West Banneker from theclean-up of the dock gang, beheld in his imagination dejected members ofthe committee issuing piecemeal from the doors and windows of theeditorial office, the process being followed by an even more regrettableexodus of advertising from the pages of The Patriot. )

Striving to be at once explanatory and propitiatory to all and sundry, Haring was reduced to inarticulate, choking interjections and paralyticmotions of the hands, when a member of the delegation, hitherto silent, spoke up. 

He was the representative of McLean & Swazey, a college graduate of atype then new, though now much commoner, in the developing profession ofadvertising. He had read the peccant editorial with a genuine relish ofits charm and skill, and had justly estimated it for what it was, anintellectual _jeu d'esprit_, the expression of a passing fancy for atempting subject, not of a policy to be further pursued. 

"Enough has been said, I think, to define our position, " said he. "Allthat we need is some assurance that Mr. Banneker's wit and skill willnot be turned again to the profit of our competitors who, by the way, do_not_ advertise in The Patriot. "

Haring eagerly gave the assurance. He would have given assurance ofBanneker's head on a salver to be rid of these persecuting autocrats. They withdrew, leaving behind an atmosphere of threat and disaster, dark, inglorious clouds of which Haring trailed behind him when heentered the office of the owner with his countenance of woe. Hispostulate was that Mr. Marrineal should go to his marplot editor andduly to him lay down the law; no more offending of the valuabledepartment-store advertisers. No; nor of any others. Or he, Haring(greatly daring), would do it himself. 

Beside the sweating and agonizing business manager, Marrineal lookedvery cool and tolerant and mildly amused. 

"If you did that, Mr. Haring, do you appreciate what the result wouldbe? We should have another editorial worse than the first, as soon asMr. Banneker could think it out. No; you leave this to me. I'll manageit. "

His management took the negative form of a profound silence upon theexplicit point. But on the following morning Banneker found upon hisdesk a complete analytical table showing the advertising revenue of thepaper by classes, with a star over the department-store list, indicatinga dated withdrawal of twenty-two thousand dollars a year. The date wasof that day. Thus was Banneker enabled to figure out, by a simpleprocess, the loss to himself of any class of advertising, or even smallgroup in a class, dropping out of the paper. It was clever of Marrineal, he admitted to himself, and, in a way, disappointing. His proffered gageof battle had been refused, almost ignored. The issue was not to bejoined when he was ready, but when Marrineal was ready, and onMarrineal's own ground. Very well, Banneker could be a good waiter. Meantime he had at least asserted his independence. 

Io called him up by 'phone, avid of news of the editorial, and he waspermitted to take her to luncheon and tell her all about it. In heropinion he had won a victory; established a position. Banneker was farless sanguine; he had come to entertain a considerable respect forMarrineal's capacity. And he had another and more immediate complicationon his mind, which fact his companion, by some occult exercise ofdivination, perceived. 

"What else is worrying you, Ban?" she asked. 

Banneker did not want to talk about that. He wanted to talk about Io, about themselves. He said so. She shook her head. 

"Tell me about the paper. "

"Oh, just the usual complications. There's nothing to interest you inthem. "

"Everything, " she maintained ardently. 

Banneker caught his breath. Had she given him her lips, it could hardlyhave meant more--perhaps not meant so much as this tranquil assumptionof her right to share in the major concerns of his life. 

"If you've been reading the paper, " he began, and waited for her silentnod before going on, "you know our attitude toward organized labor. "

"Yes. You are for it when it is right and not always against it when itis wrong. "

"One can't split hairs in a matter of editorial policy. I've made ThePatriot practically the mouthpiece of labor in this city; much more sothan the official organ, which has no influence and a small following. Just now I'm specially anxious to hold them in line for the mayoraltycampaign. We've got to elect Robert Laird. Otherwise we'll have such anorgy of graft and rottenness as the city has never seen. "

"Isn't the labor element for Laird?"

"It isn't against him, except that he is naturally regarded as asilk-stocking. The difficulty isn't politics. There's some new influencein local labor circles that is working against me; against The Patriot. I think it's a fellow named McClintick, a new man from the West. "

"Perhaps he wants to be bought off. "

"You're thinking of the old style of labor leader, " returned Banneker. "It isn't as simple as that. No; from what I hear, he's a fanatic. Andhe has great influence. "

"Get hold of him and talk it out with him, " advised Io. 

"I intend to. " He brooded for a moment. "There isn't a man in New York, "he said fretfully, "that has stood for the interests of the masses andagainst the power of money as I have. Why, Io, before we cut loose inThe Patriot, a banker or a railroad president was sacrosanct. His wordswere received with awe. Wall Street was the holy of holies, not to beprofaned by the slightest hint of impiety. Well, we've changed all that!Not I, alone. Our cartoons have done more than the editorials. Everyother paper in town has had to follow our lead. Even The Ledger. "

"I like The Ledger, " declared Io. 

"Why?"

"I don't know. It has a sort of dignity; the dignity of self-respect. "

"Hasn't The Patriot?" demanded the jealous Banneker. 

"Not a bit, " she answered frankly, "except for your editorials. Theyhave the dignity of good workmanship, and honesty, and courage, evenwhen you're wrong. "

"Are we so often wrong, Io?" he said wistfully. 

"Dear boy, you can't expect a girl, brought up as I have been, tobelieve that society is upside down, and would be better if it weretipped over the other way and run by a lot of hod-carriers andditch-diggers and cooks. Can you, now?"

"Of course not. Nor is that what I advocate. I'm for the under dog. Forfair play. So are you, aren't you? I saw your name on the Committee Listof the Consumers' League, dealing with conditions in the departmentstores. "

"That's different, " she said. "Those girls haven't a chance in some ofthe shops. They're brutalized. The stores don't even pretend to obey thelaws. We are trying to work out some sort of organization, now, forthem. "

"Yet you're hostile to organized labor! Who shall ever understand thefeminine mind! Some day you'll be coming to us for help. "

"Very likely. It must be a curious sensation, Ban, to have theconsciousness of the power that you wield, and to be responsible tonobody on earth. "

"To the public that reads us, " he corrected. 

"Not a real responsibility. There is no authority over you; no appealfrom your judgments. Hasn't that something to do with people's dislikeand distrust of the newspapers; the sense that so much irresponsiblepower is wrong?"

"Yet, " he said, "any kind of censorship is worse than the evil itremedies. I've never shown you my creed, have I?"

His manner was half jocular; there was a smile on his lips, but his eyesseemed to look beyond the petty troubles and problems of his craft to afinal and firm verity. 

"Tell me, " she bade him. 

He drew his watch out and opened the back. For a moment she thought, with confused emotions, that she would see there a picture of herself ofwhich he might have possessed himself somewhere. She closed her eyesmomentarily against the fear of that anti-climax. When she opened them, it was to read, in a clear, fine print those high and sure words ofMilton's noblest message:

And though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon theearth, so truth be in the field, we do injuriously, by licensing andprohibiting, to misdoubt her strength. Let her and falsehood grapple; whoever knew truth put to the worse, in a free and open encounter? Herconfuting is the best and surest suppressing. 

Twice she read the pregnant message. 

"I have it, " said she gravely. "To keep--for always. "

"Some day I'll put it at the head of The Patriot. "

"Why not now?"

"Not ready. I want to be surer; absolutely sure. "

"I'm sure, " she declared superbly; "of you. "

"You make me sure of myself, Io. But there's Marrineal. "

"Yes; there's Marrineal. You must have a paper of your own, mustn't you, Ban, eventually?"

"Perhaps. If I ever get enough money to own it absolutely. "

"Only four years ago, " she murmured, with apparent irrelevancy. "Andnow--"

"When shall I see you again?" he asked anxiously as she rose. "Are youcoming Saturday night?"

"Of course, " said Io. 

Through the agency of Russell Edmonds, McClintick, the labor leader, came to see Banneker. He was a stooping giant with a deep, melancholyvoice, and his attitude toward The Patriot was one of distrustfulreticence. Genuine ardor has, however, a warming influence. McClintick'ssilence melted by degrees, not into confidence but, surprisingly, intoindignation, directed upon all the "capitalistic press" in general, butin particular against The Patriot. Why single out The Patriot, specially, Banneker asked. 

"Hypocrite, " muttered the giant. 

At length the reason came out, under pressure: The Patriot had been (inthe words of the labor man) making a big row over the arrest of certainlabor organizers, in one of the recurrent outbreaks against the SteelTrust, opposed by that organization's systematic and tyrannous method ofoppression. So far, so good. But why hadn't the paper said a word aboutthe murder of strikers' wives and children out at the Veridian LumberCompany's mills in Oregon; an outrage far surpassing anything ever laidto the account of the Steel Trust? Simple reason, answered Banneker;there had been no news of it over the wires. No; of course there hadn't. The Amalgamated Wire Association (another tool of capitalism) hadsuppressed it; wouldn't let any strike stuff get on the wires that itcould keep off. Then how, asked Banneker, could it be expected--?McClintick interrupted in his voice of controlled passion; had Mr. Banneker ever heard of the Chicago Transcript (naming the leadingmorning paper); had he ever read it? Well, The Transcript--which, he, McClintick, hated strongly as an organ of money--nevertheless didhonestly gather and publish news, as he was constrained huskily toadmit. It had the Veridian story; was still running it from time totime. Therefore, if Mr. Banneker was interested, on behalf of ThePatriot--

Certainly, The Patriot was interested; would obtain and publish thestory in full, if it was as Mr. McClintick represented, with dueeditorial comment. 

"Will it?" grumbled McClintick, gave his hat a look of mingled hope andskepticism, put it on, and went away. 

"Now, what's wrong with that chap's mental digestion?" Banneker inquiredof Edmonds, who had sat quiet throughout the interview. "What is heholding back?"

"Plenty, " returned the veteran in a tone which might have served forecho of the labor man's gloom. 

"Do you know the Veridian story?"

"Yes. I've just checked it up. "

"What's the milk in that cocoanut?"

"Sour!" said Edmonds with such energy that Banneker turned to look athim direct. "The principal owner of Veridian is named Marrineal. . . . Where you going, Ban?"

"To see the principal owner of the name, " said Banneker grimly. 

The quest took him to the big house on upper Fifth Avenue. Marrinealheard his editorial writer with impassive face. 

"So the story has got here, " he remarked. 

"Yes. Do you own Veridian?"

"No. "

Hope rose within Banneker. "You don't?"

"My mother does. She's in Europe. A rather innocent old person. Theinnocence of age, perhaps. Quite old. " All of this in a perfectlytranquil voice. 

"Have you seen The Chicago Transcript? It's an ugly story. "

"Very. I've sent a man out to the camp. There won't be any moreshootings. "

"It comes rather late. I've told McClintick, the labor man who comesfrom Wyoming, that we'll carry the story, if we verify it. "

Marrineal raised his eyes slowly to Banneker's stern face. "Have you?"he said coolly. "Now, as to the mayoralty campaign; what do you think ofrunning a page feature of Laird's reforms, as President of the Board, tracing each one down to its effect and showing what any backward stepwould mean? By the way, Laird is going to be pretty heavily obligated toThe Patriot if he's elected. "

For half an hour they talked politics, nothing else. 

At the office Edmonds was making a dossier of the Veridian reports. Itwas ready when Banneker returned. 

"Let it wait, " said Banneker. 

Prudence ordained that he should throw the troublous stuff into thewaste-basket. He wondered if he was becoming prudent, as another manmight wonder whether he was becoming old. At any rate, he would make nodecision until he had talked it over with Io. Not only did he feelinstinctive confidence in her sense of fair play; but also thisrelationship of interest in his affairs, established by her, was theopportunity of his closest approach; an intimacy of spirit assured andsubtle. He hoped that she would come early on Saturday evening. 

But she did not. Some dinner party had claimed her, and it was aftereleven when she arrived with Archie Densmore. At once Banneker took heraside and laid before her the whole matter. 

"Poor Ban!" she said softly. "It isn't so simple, having power to playwith, is it?"

"But how am I to handle this?"

"The mills belong to Mr. Marrineal's mother, you said?"

"Practically they do. "

"And she is--?"

"A silly and vain old fool. "

"Is that his opinion of her?"

"Necessarily. But he's fond of her. "

"Will he really try to remedy conditions, do you think?"

"Oh, yes. So far as that goes. "

"Then I'd drop it. "

"Print nothing at all?"

"Not a word. "

"That isn't what I expected from you. Why do you advise it?"

"Loyalty. "

"The paralytic virtue, " said Banneker with such bitterness of convictionthat Io answered:

"I suppose you don't mean that to be simply clever. "

"It's true, isn't it?"

"There's a measure of truth in it. But, Ban, you can't use Mr. Marrineal's own paper to expose conditions in Mr. Marrineal's mother'smills. If he'd even directed you to hold off--"

"That's his infernal cleverness. I'd have told him to go to the devil. "

"And resigned?"

"Of course. "

"You can resign now, " she pointed out. "But I think you'd be foolish. You can do such big things. You _are_ doing such big things with ThePatriot. Cousin Billy Enderby says that if Laird is elected it will beyour doing. Where else could you find such opportunity?"

"Tell me this, Io, " he said, after a moment of heavy-browed broodingvery unlike his usual blithe certainty of bearing. "Suppose that lumberproperty were my own, and this thing had broken out. "

"Oh, I'd say to print it, every word, " she answered promptly. "Or"--shespoke very slowly and with a tremor of color flickering in hercheeks--"if it were mine, I'd tell you to print it. "

He looked up with a transfigured face. His hand fell on hers, in thecovert of the little shelter of plants behind which they sat. "Do yourealize what that implies?" he questioned. 

"Perfectly, " she answered in her clear undertone. 

He bent over to her hand, which turned, soft palm up, to meet his lips. She whispered a warning and he raised his head quickly. Ely Ives hadpassed near by. 

"Marrineal's familiar, " said Banneker. "I wonder how he got here. Certainly I didn't ask him. . . . Very well, Io. I'll compromise. But . . . Idon't think I'll put that quotation from the Areopagitica at the head ofmy column. That will have to wait. Perhaps it will have to wait untilI--we get a paper of our own. "

"Poor Ban!" whispered Io. 

CHAPTER VIII

Once a month Marrineal gave a bachelor dinner of Lucullan repute. Thecompany, though much smaller than the gatherings at The House With ThreeEyes, covered a broader and looser social range. Having declined severalof his employer's invitations in succession on the well-justified pleaof work, Banneker felt it incumbent upon him to attend one of theseevents, and accordingly found himself in a private dining-room of thechoicest of restaurants, tabled with a curiously assorted group offinanciers, editors, actors, a small selection of the more raffishmembers of The Retreat including Delavan Eyre; Ely Ives; an elderlyJewish lawyer of unsavory reputation, enormous income, and real anddelicate scholarship; Herbert Cressey, a pair of the season'sracing-kings, an eminent art connoisseur, and a smattering ofmen-about-town. Seated between the lawyer and one of the racing-men, Banneker, as the dinner progressed, found himself watching Delavan Eyre, opposite, who was drinking with sustained intensity, but withoutapparent effect upon his debonair bearing. Banneker thought to read ahaunting fear in his eyes, and was cogitating upon what it mightportend, when his attention was distracted by Ely Ives, who had beenrequested (as he announced) to exhibit his small skill at some minorsleight-of-hand tricks. The skill, far from justifying its possessor'smodest estimate, was so unusual as to provoke expressions of admirationfrom Mr. Stecklin, the lawyer on Banneker's right. 

"Oh, yes; hypnotism too, " said Ely Ives briskly, after twenty minutes oflegerdemain. "Child's play. "

"Now, who suggested hypnotism?" murmured Stecklin in his limpid andconfidential undertone, close to Banneker's ear. "You? I? No! No one, _I_ think. "

So Banneker thought, and was the more interested in Ives's procedure. Though the drinking had been heavy at his end of the table, he seemedquite unaffected, was now tripping from man to man, peering into theeyes of each, "to find an appropriate subject, " as he said. Delavan Eyreroused himself out of a semi-torpor as the wiry little prowler stareddown at him. 

"What's the special idea?" he demanded. 

"Just a bit of mesmerism, " explained the other. "I'll try you for asubject. If you'll stand up, feet apart, eyes closed, I'll hypnotize youso that you'll fall over at a movement. "

"You can't do it, " retorted Eyre. 

"For a bet, " Ives came back. 

"A hundred?"

"Double it if you like. "

"You're on. " Eyre, slowly swallowing the last of a brandy-and-soda, rose, reaching into his pocket. 

"Not necessary, between gentlemen, " said Ely Ives with a gesture just alittle too suave. 

"Ah, yes, " muttered the lawyer at Banneker's side. "Between gentlemen. Eck-xactly. "

Pursuant to instructions, Eyre stood with his feet a few inches apartand his eyes closed. "At the word, you bring your heels together. Click!And you keep your balance. If you can. For the two hundred. Any one elsewant in?. . . No?. . . Ready, Mr. Eyre. Now! _Hep_!"

The heels clicked, but with a stuttering, weak impact. Eyre, bulky andpowerful, staggered, toppled to the left. 

"Hold up there!" His neighbor propped him, and was clutched in hisgrasp. 

"Hands off!" said Eyre thickly. "Sorry, Banks! Let me try that again. Oh, the bet's yours, Mr. Ives, " he added, as that keen gambler began toenter a protest. "Send you a check in the morning--if that'll be allright. "

Herbert Cressey, hand in pocket, was at his side instantly. "Pay himnow, Del, " he said in a tone which did not conceal his contemptuousestimate of Ives. "Here's money, if you haven't it. "

"No; no! A check will be _quite_ all right, " protested Ives. "At yourconvenience. "

Others gathered about, curious and interested. Banneker, puzzled by avague suspicion which he sought to formulate, was aware of a low runnelof commentary at his ear. 

"Very curious. Shrewd; yes. A clever fellow. . . . Sad, too. "

"Sad?" He turned sharply on the lawyer of unsavory suits. "What is sadabout it? A fool and his money! Is that tragedy?"

"Comedy, my friend. Always comedy. This also, perhaps. But grim. . . . Ourfriend there who is so clever of hand and eye; he is not perhaps amedical man?"

"Yes; he is. What connection--Good God!" he cried, as a flood of memorysuddenly poured light upon a dark spot in some of his forgotten reading. 

"Ah? You know? Yes; I have had such a case in my legal practice. Died ofan--an error. He made a mistake--in a bottle, which he purchased forthat purpose. But this one--he elects to live and face it--"

"Does he know it?"

"Obviously. One can see the dread in his eyes. Some of his friends knowit--and his family, I am told. But he does not know this interestinglittle experiment of our friend. Profitable, too, eh? One wonders how hecame to suspect. A medical man, though; a keen eye. Of course. "

"Damn him, " said Banneker quietly. "General paralysis?"

"Eck-xactly. Twelve, maybe fifteen years ago, a little recklessness. Alittle overheating of the blood. Perhaps after a dinner like this. Thepoison lies dormant; a snake asleep. Harms no one. Not himself; notanother. Until--something here"--he tapped the thick black curls overthe base of his brain. "All that ruddy strength, that lusty good-humorpassing on courageously--for he is a brave man, Eyre--to slow tortureand--and the end. Grim, eh?"

Banneker reached for a drink. "How long?" he asked. 

"As for that, he is very strong. It might be slow. One prays not. "

"At any rate, that little reptile, Ives, shan't have his profit of it. "Banneker rose and, disdaining even the diplomacy of an excuse, drew ElyIves aside. 

"That bet of yours was a joke, Ives, " he prescribed. 

Ives studied him in silence, wishing that he had watched, through thedinner, how much drink he took. 

"A joke?" he asked coolly. "I don't understand you. "

"Try, " advised Banneker with earnestness. "I happen to have read thatluetic diagnosis, myself. A joke, Ives, so far as the two hundred goes. "

"What do you expect me to do?" asked the other. 

"Tear up the check, when it comes. Make what explanation your ingenuitycan devise. That's your affair. But don't cash that check, Ives. For ifyou do--I dislike to threaten--"

"You don't need to threaten me, Mr. Banneker, " interrupted Ives eagerly. "If you think it wasn't a fair bet, your word is enough for me. Thatgoes. It's off. I think just that of you. I'm a friend of yours, as Ihope to prove to you some day. I don't lay this up against you; not fora minute. "

Not trusting himself to make answer to this proffer, Banneker turnedaway to find his host and make his adieus. As he left, he saw DelavanEyre, flushed but composed, sipping a liqueur and listening withcourteous appearance of appreciation to a vapid and slobbering story ofone of the racing magnates. A debauchee, a cumberer of the earth, useless, selfish, scandalous of life--and Banneker, looking at him withpitiful eyes, paid his unstinted tribute to the calm and high courage ofthe man. 

Walking slowly home in the cool air, Banneker gave thanks for adrink-proof head. He had need of it; he wanted to think and thinkclearly. How did this shocking revelation about Eyre affect his ownhopes of Io? That she would stand by her husband through his ordealBanneker never doubted for an instant. Her pride of fair play wouldcompel her to that. It came to his mind that this was her other andsecret reason for not divorcing Eyre; for maintaining still the outwardform of a marriage which had ceased to exist long before. For a lesserwoman, he realized with a thrill, it would have been a reason fordivorcing him. . . . Well, here was a barrier, indeed, against which he washelpless. Opposed by a loyalty such as Io's he could only be silent andwait. 

In the next few weeks she was very good to him. Not only did she lunchwith him several times, but she came to the Saturday nights of The HouseWith Three Eyes, sometimes with Archie Densmore alone, more often with agroup of her own set, after a dinner or a theater party. Always she madeopportunity for a little talk apart with her host; talks which any onemight have heard, for they were concerned almost exclusively with theaffairs of The Patriot, especially in its relation to the mayoraltycampaign now coming to a close. Yet, impersonal though the discussionsmight be, Banneker took from them a sense of ever-increasing intimacyand communion, if it were only from a sudden, betraying quiver in hervoice, an involuntary, unconscious look from the shadowed eyes. Whateverof resentment he had cherished for her earlier desertion was nowdissipated; he was wholly hers, content, despite all his passionatelonging for her, with what she chose to give. In her own time she wouldbe generous, as she was brave and honorable. . . . 

She was warmly interested in the election of Robert Laird to themayoralty, partly because she knew him personally, partly because theyounger element of society had rather "gone in for politics" that year, on the reform side. Banneker had to admit to her, as the day drew close, that the issue was doubtful. Though The Patriot's fervid support hadbeen a great asset to the cause, it was now, for the moment, a liabilityto the extent that it was being fiercely denounced in the Socialistorgan, The Summons, as treasonable to the interests of theworking-classes. The Summons charged hypocrisy, citing the case of theVeridian strike. 

"That is McClintick?" asked Io. 

"He's back of it, naturally. But The Summons has been waiting itschance. Jealous of our influence in the field it's trying to cultivate. "

"McClintick is right, " remarked Io thoughtfully. 

Banneker laughed. "Oh, Io! It's such a relief to get a clear view and anhonest one from some one else. There's no one in the office exceptRussell Edmonds, and he's away now. . . . You think McClintick is right? Sodo I. "

"But so are you. You had to do as you did about the story. If any one isto blame, it is Mr. Marrineal. Yet how can one blame him? He had toprotect his mother. It's a fearfully complicated phenomenon, anewspaper, isn't it, Ban?"

"Io, the soul of man is simple and clear compared with the soul of anewspaper. "

"If it has a soul. "

"Of course it has. It's got to have. Otherwise what is it but amachine?"

"Which is The Patriot's; yours or Mr. Marrineal's? I can't, " said Ioquaintly, "quite see them coalescing. "

"I wonder if Marrineal has a soul, " mused Banneker. 

"If he hasn't one of his own, let him keep his hands off yours!" said Ioin a flash of feminine jealousy. "He's done enough already with hiswretched mills. What shall you do about the attack in The Summons?"

"Ignore it. It would be difficult to answer. Besides, people easilyforget. "

"A dangerous creed, Ban. And a cynical one. I don't want you to becynical. "

"I never shall be again, unless--"

"Unless?" she prompted. 

"It rests with you, Io, " he said quietly. 

At once she took flight. "Am I to be keeper of your spirit?" sheprotested. "It's bad enough to be your professional adviser. Why don'tyou invite a crowd of us down to get the election returns?" shesuggested. 

"Make up your party, " assented Banneker. "Keep it small; say a dozen, and we can use my office. "

On the fateful evening there duly appeared Io with a group of a dozenfriends. From the first, it was a time of triumph. Laird took the leadand kept it. By midnight, the result was a certainty. In a balconyspeech from his headquarters the victor had given generous recognitionfor his success to The Patriot, mentioning Banneker by name. When thereport reached them Esther Forbes solemnly crowned the host with awreath composed of the "flimsy" on which the rescript of the speech hadcome in. 

"Skoal to Ban!" she cried. "Maker of kings and mayors and things. Skoal!As you're a viking or something of the sort, the Norse salutation isappropriate. "

"It ought to be Danish to be accurate, " he smiled. 

"Well, that's a hardy, seafaring race, " she chattered. "And that remindsme. Come on out to the South Seas with us. "

"Charmed, " he returned. "When do we start? To-morrow?"

"Oh, I'm not joking. You've certainly earned a vacation. And of courseyou needn't enlist for the whole six months if that is too long. Dad haslet me have the yacht. There'll only be a dozen. Io's going along. "

Banneker shot one startled, incredulous look at Io Eyre, and instantlycommanded himself, to the point of controlling his voice to gayety as hereplied:

"And who would tell the new mayor how he should run the city, if Ideserted him? No, Esther, I'm afraid I'm chained to this desk. Ask mesometime when you're cruising as far as Coney Island. "

Io sat silent, and with a set smile, listening to Herbert Cressey'saccount of an election row in the district where he was volunteerwatcher. When the party broke up, she went home with Densmore withoutgiving Banneker the chance of a word with her. It seemed to him thatthere was a mute plea for pardon in her face as she bade him good-night. 

At noon next day she called him on the 'phone. 

"Just to tell you that I'm coming as usual Saturday evening, " she said. 

"When do you leave on your cruise?" he asked. 

"Not until next week. I'll tell you when I see you. Good-bye. "

Never had Banneker seen Io in such difficult mood as she exhibited onthe Saturday. She had come early to The House With Three Eyes, accompanied by Densmore who looked in just for one drink before going toa much-touted boxing-match in Jersey. Through the evening shedeliberately avoided seeing Banneker alone for so much as the space of aquery put and answered, dividing her attention between an enrapturedmaster of the violin who had come after his concert, and an aged andbewildered inventor who, in a long career of secluded toil, had neverbeheld anything like this brilliant creature with her intelligent andquickening interest in what he had to tell her. Rivalry between the twogeniuses inspired the musician to make an offer which he would hardlyhave granted to royalty itself. 

"After a time, when zese chatterers are gon-away, I shall play for you. Is zere some one here who can accompany properly?"

Necessarily Io sent for Banneker to find out. Yes; young Mackey wascoming a little later; he was a brilliant amateur and would be flatteredat the opportunity. With a direct insistence difficult to deny, Bannekerdrew Io aside for a moment. Her eyes glinted dangerously as she facedhim, alone for the moment, with the question that was the salute beforethe crossing of blades. 

"Well?"

"Are you really going, Io?"

"Certainly. Why shouldn't I?"

"Say that, for one reason"--he smiled faintly, but resolutely--"ThePatriot needs your guiding inspiration. "

"All The Patriot's troubles are over. It's plain sailing now. "

"What of The Patriot's editor?"

"Quite able to take care of himself. "

Into his voice there suffused the first ring of anger that she had everheard from him; cold and formidable. "That won't do, Io. Why?"

"Because I choose. "

"A child's answer. Why?"

"Do you want to be flattered?" She raised to his, eyes that danced withan impish and perverse light. "Call it escape, if you wish. "

"From me?"

"Or from myself. Wouldn't you like to think that I'm afraid of you?"

"I shouldn't like to think that you're afraid of anything. "

"I'm not. " But her tone was that of the defiance which seeks toencourage itself. 

"I'd call it a desertion, " he said steadily. 

"Oh, no! You're secure. You need nothing but what you've got. Power, reputation, position, success. What more can heart desire?" she taunted. 

"You. "

She quivered under the blunt word, but rallied to say lightly: "Sixmonths isn't long. Though I may stretch it to a year. "

"It's too long for endurance. "

"Oh, you'll do very well without me, Ban. "

"Shall I? When am I to see you again before you go?"

Her raised eyebrows were like an affront. "Are we to see each otheragain? Of course, it would be polite of you to come to the train. "

There was a controlled and dangerous gravity in his next question. "Io, have we quarreled?"

"How absurd! Of course not. "

"Then--"

"If you knew how I dislike fruitless explanations!"

He rose at once. Io's strong and beautiful hands, which had been lyingin her lap, suddenly interlocked, clenching close together. But her facedisclosed nothing. The virtuoso, who had been hopefully hovering in theoffing, bore down to take the vacated chair. He would have found thelovely young Mrs. Eyre distrait and irresponsive had he not been toohappy babbling of his own triumphs to notice. 

"Soon zey haf growed thin, zis crowd, " said the violinist, who tookpride in his mastery of idiom. "Zen, when zere remains but a small few, I play for you. You sit _zere_, in ze leetle garden of flowers. " Heindicated the secluded seat near the stairway, where she had sat withBan on the occasion of her first visit to The House With Three Eyes. "Not too far; not too near. From zere you shall not see; but you shallthink you hear ze stars make for you harmonies of ze high places. "

Young Mackey, having arrived, commended himself to the condescendingmaster by a meekly worshipful attitude. Barely a score of peopleremained in the great room. The word went about that they were in forone of those occasional treats which made The House With Three Eyesunique. The fortunate lingerers disposed themselves about the room. Ioslipped into the nook designated for her. Banneker was somewhere in thebackground; her veiled glance could not discover where. The music began. 

They played Tschaikowsky first, the tender and passionate "Melodie";then a lilting measure from Debussy's "Faun, " followed by a solemnlylovely Brahms arrangement devised by the virtuoso himself. At thedying-out of the applause, the violinist addressed himself to the nookwhere Io was no more than a vague, faërie figure to his eyes, mistythrough interlaced bloom and leafage. 

"Now, Madame, I play you somezing of a American. Ver' beautiful, it is. Not for violin. For voice, contralto. I sing it to you--on ze G-string, which weep when it sing; weep for lost dreams. It is called 'Illusion, 'ze song. "

He raised his bow, and at the first bar Io's heart gave a quick, thicksob within her breast. It was the music which Camilla Van Arsdale hadplayed that night when winds and forest leaves murmured the overtones;when earth and heaven were hushed to hear. 

"Oh, Ban!" cried Io's spirit. 

Noiseless and swift, Banneker, answering the call, bent over her. Shewhispered, softly, passionately, her lips hardly stirring themelody-thrilled air. 

"How could I hurt you so! I'm going because I must; because I daren'tstay. You can understand, Ban!"

The music died. "Yes, " said Banneker. Then, "Don't go, Io!"

"I must. I'll--I'll see you before. When we're ourselves. We can't talknow. Not with this terrible music in our blood. "

She rose and went forward to thank the player with such a light in hereyes and such a fervor in her words that he mentally added another tohis list of conquests. 

The party broke up. After that magic music, people wanted to be out ofthe light and the stir; to carry its pure passion forth into the darkplaces, to cherish and dream it over again. . . . Banneker sat before thebroad fireplace in the laxity of a still grief. Io was going away fromhim. For a six-month. For a year. For an eternity. Going away from him, bearing his whole heart with her, as she had left him after the night onthe river, left him to the searing memory of that mad, sweet cleavage ofher lips to his, the passionate offer of her awakened womanhood inuttermost surrender of life at the roaring gates of death. . . . 

Footsteps, light, firm, unhesitant, approached across the broad floorfrom the hallway. Banneker sat rigid, incredulous, afraid to stir, asthe sleeper fears to break the spell of a tenuous and lovely dream, until Io's voice spoke his name. He would have jumped to his feet, butthe strong pressure of her hands on his shoulders restrained him. 

"No. Stay as you are. "

"I thought you had gone, " he said thickly. 

A great log toppled in the fireplace, showering its sparks in prodigaldisplay. 

"Do you remember our fire, on the river-bank?" said the voice of thegirl, Io, across the years. 

"While I live. "

"Just you and I. Man and woman. Alone in the world. Sometimes I think ithas always been so with us. "

"We have no world of our own, Io, " he said sadly. 

"Heresy, Ban; heresy! Of course we have. An inner world. If we couldforget--everything outside. "

"I am not good at forgetting. "

He felt her fingers, languid and tremulous, at his throat, her heart'sstrong throb against his shoulder as she bent, the sweet breath of herwhisper stirring the hair at his temple:

"Try, Ban. "

Her mouth closed down upon his, flower-sweet, petal-light, and waswithdrawn. She leaned back, gazing at him from half-closed, inscrutableeyes. 

"That's for good-bye, Io?" With all his self-control, he could not keephis voice steady. 

"There have been too many good-byes between us, " she murmured. 

He lifted his head, attentive to a stir at the door, which immediatelypassed. 

"I thought that was Archie, come after you. "

"Archie isn't coming. "

"Then I'll send for the car and take you home. "

"Won't you understand, Ban? I'm not going home. "

CHAPTER IX

Io Eyre was one of those women before whom Scandal seems to lose itsteeth if not its tongue. She had always assumed the superb attitudetoward the world in which she moved. "They say?--What do they say?--Letthem say!" might have been her device, too genuinely expressive of herto be consciously contemptuous. Where another might have suffered inreputation by constant companionship with a man as brilliant, asconspicuous, as phenomenal of career as Errol Banneker, Io passed on herchosen way, serene and scatheless. 

Tongues wagged, indeed; whispers spread; that was inevitable. But tothis Io was impervious. When Banneker, troubled lest any breath shouldsully her reputation who was herself unsullied, in his mind, would haveadvocated caution, she refused to consent. 

"Why should I skulk?" she said. "I'm not ashamed. "

So they met and lunched or dined at the most conspicuous restaurants, defying Scandal, whereupon Scandal began to wonder whether, all thingsconsidered, there were anything more to it than one of those flirtationswhich, after a time of faithful adherence, become standardized intorespectability and a sort of tolerant recognition. What, after all, isrespectability but the brand of the formalist upon standardization?

With the distaste and effort which Ban always felt in mentioning herhusband's name to Io, he asked her one day about any possible dangerfrom Eyre. 

"No, " she said with assurance. "I owe Del nothing. That is understoodbetween us. "

"But if the tittle-tattle that must be going the rounds should come tohis ears--"

"If the truth should come to his ears, " she replied tranquilly, "itwould make no difference. "

Ban looked at her, hesitant to be convinced. 

"Yes; it's so, " she asseverated, nodding, "After his outbreak inParis--it was on our wedding trip--I gave him a choice. I would eitherdivorce him, or I would hold myself absolutely free of him so far as anyclaim, actual or moral, went. The one thing I undertook was that I wouldnever involve his name in any open scandal. "

"He hasn't been so particular, " said Ban gloomily. 

"Of late he has. Since I had Cousin Billy Enderby go to him about thedancer. I won't say he's run absolutely straight since. Poor Del! Hecan't, I suppose. But, at least, he's respected the bargain to theextent of being prudent. I shall respect mine to the same extent. "

"Io, " he burst out passionately, "there's only one thing in the world Ireally want; for you to be free of him absolutely. "

She shook her head. "Oh, Ban' Can't you be content--with me? I've toldyou I am free of him. I'm not really his wife. "

"No; you're mine, " he declared with jealous intensity. 

"Yes; I'm yours. " Her voice trembled, thrilled. "You don't know yet howwholly I'm yours. Oh, it isn't _that_ alone, Ban. But in spirit andthought. In the world of shadowed and lovely things that we made forourselves long ago. "

"But to have to endure this atmosphere of secrecy, of stealth, of dangerto you, " he fretted. "You could get your divorce. "

"No; I can't. You don't understand. "

"Perhaps I do understand, " he said gently. 

"About Del?" She drew a quick breath. "How could you?"

"Wholly through an accident. A medical man, a slimy little reptile, surprised his secret and inadvertently passed it on. "

She leaned forward to him from her corner of the settee, all courage andtruth. "I'm glad that you know, though I couldn't tell you, myself. You'll see now that I couldn't leave him to face it alone. "

"No. You couldn't. If you did, it wouldn't be Io. "

"Ah, and I love you for that, too, " she whispered, her voice and eyesone caress to him. "I wonder how I ever made myself believe that I couldget over loving you! Now, I've got to pay for my mistake. Ban, do youremember the 'Babbling Babson'? The imbecile who saw me from the trainthat day?"

"I remember every smallest thing in any way connected with you. "

"I love to hear you say that. It makes up for the bad times, in between. The Babbler has turned up. He's been living abroad for a few years. Isaw him at a tea last week. "

"Did he say anything?"

"Yes. He tried to be coy and facetious. I snubbed him soundly. Perhapsit wasn't wise. "

"Why shouldn't it be?"

"Well he used to have the reputation of writing on the sly for TheSearchlight. "

"That sewer-sheet! You don't think he'd dare do anything of the sortabout us? Why, what would he have to go on?"

"What does The Searchlight have to go on in most of its lies, and hints, and innuendoes?"

"But, Io, even if it did publish--"

"It mustn't, " she said. "Ban, if it did--it would make it impossible forus to go on as we have been. Don't you see that it would?"

He turned sallow under his ruddy skin. "Then I'll stop it, one way oranother. I'll put the fear of God into that filthy old worm that runsthe blackmail shop. The first thing is to find out, though, whetherthere's anything in it. I did hear a hint. . . . " He lost himself inmusings, trying to recall an occult remark which the obsequious Ely Iveshad made to him sometime before. "And I know where I can do it, " heended. 

To go to Ives for anything was heartily distasteful to him. But this wasa necessity. He cautiously questioned the unofficial factotum of hisemployer. Had Ives heard anything of a projected attack on him in TheSearchlight? Why, yes; Ives had (naturally, since it was he and notBabson who had furnished the material). In fact, he had an undergroundwire into the office of that weekly of spice and scurrility which mightbe tapped to oblige a friend. 

Banneker winced at the characterization, but confessed that he would beappreciative of any information. In three days a galley proof of theparagraph was in his hands. It confirmed his angriest fears. Publicationof it would smear Io's name with scandal, and, by consequence, directthe leering gaze of the world upon their love. 

"What is this; blackmail?" he asked Ives. 

"Might be. "

"Who wrote it?"

"Reads like the old buzzard's own style. "

"I'll go and see him, " said Banneker, half to himself. 

"You can go, but I don't think you'll see him. " Ives set forth in detailthe venerable editor's procedure as to troublesome callers. It wasspecific and curious. Foreseeing that he would probably have to fightwith his opponent's weapons, Banneker sought out Russell Edmonds andasked for all the information regarding The Searchlight and itsproprietor-editor in the veteran's possession. Edmonds had a fund of it. 

"But it won't smoke him out, " he said. "That skunk lives in a deephole. "

"If I can't smoke him out, I'll blast him out, " declared Banneker, andset himself to the composition of an editorial which consumed theremainder of the working day. 

With a typed copy in his pocket, he called, a little before noon, at theoffice of The Searchlight and sent in his card to Major Bussey. TheMajor was not in. When was he expected? As for that, there was notelling; he was quite irregular. Very well, Mr. Banneker would wait. Oh, that was quite useless; was it about something in the magazine; wouldn'tone of the other editors do? Without awaiting an answer, the anemic andshrewd-faced office girl who put the questions disappeared, andpresently returned, followed by a tailor-made woman of thirty-odd, witha delicate, secret-keeping mouth and heavy-lidded, deep-hued eyes, altogether a seductive figure. She smiled confidently up at Banneker. 

"I've always wanted so much to meet you, " she disclosed, giving him aquick, gentle hand pressure. "So has Major Bussey. Too bad he's out oftown. Did you want to see him personally?"

"Quite personally. " Banneker returned her smile with one even morefriendly and confiding. 

"Wouldn't I do? Come into my office, won't you? I represent him in somethings. "

"Not in this one, I hope, " he replied, following her to an inner room. "It is about a paragraph not yet published, which might bemisconstrued. "

"Oh, I don't think any one could possibly misconstrue it, " she retorted, with a flash of wicked mirth. 

"You know the paragraph to which I refer, then. "

"I wrote it. "

Banneker regarded her with grave and appreciative urbanity. All wasgoing precisely as Ely Ives had prognosticated; the denial of thepresence of the editor; the appearance of this alluring brunette aswhipping-girl to assume the burden of his offenses with the calmimpunity of her sex and charm. 

"Congratulations, " he said. "It is very clever. "

"It's quite true, isn't it?" she returned innocently. 

"As authentic, let us say, as your authorship of the paragraph. "

"You don't think I wrote it? What object should I have in trying todeceive you?"

"What, indeed! By the way, what is Major Bussey's price?"

"Oh, Mr. Banneker!" Was it sheer delight in deviltry, or amusement athis direct and unstrategic method that sparkled in her face. "You surelydon't credit the silly stories of--well, blackmail, about us!"

"It might be money, " he reflected. "But, on the whole, I think it'ssomething else. Something he wants from The Patriot, perhaps. Immunity?Would that be it? Not that I mean, necessarily, to deal. "

"What is your proposition?" she asked confidentially. 

"How can I advance one when I don't know what your principal wants?"

"The paragraph was written in good faith, " she asserted. 

"And could be withdrawn in equal good faith?"

Her laugh was silvery clear. "Very possibly. Under properrepresentations. "

"Then don't you think I'd better deal direct with the Major?"

She studied his face. "Yes, " she began, and instantly refuted herself. "No. I don't trust you. There's trouble under that smooth smile ofyours. "

"But _you're_ not afraid of me, surely, " said Banneker. He had found outone important point; her manner when she said "Yes" indicated that theproprietor was in the building. Now he continued: "Are you?"

"I don't know. I think I am. " There was a little catch in her breath. "Ithink you'd be dangerous to any woman. "

Banneker, his eyes fixed on hers, played for time and a further leadwith a banality. "You're pleased to flatter me. "

"Aren't you pleased to be flattered?" she returned provocatively. 

He put his hand on her wrist. She swayed to him with a slow, facileyielding. He caught her other wrist, and the grip of his two handsseemed to bite into the bone. 

"So you're _that_ kind, too, are you!" he sneered, holding her eyes ascruelly as he had clutched her wrists. "Keep quiet! Now, you're to do asI tell you. "

(Ely Ives, in describing the watchwoman at the portals of scandal, hadtold him that she was susceptible to a properly timed bluff. "A womanshe had slandered once stabbed her; since then you can get her nerve bya quick attack. Treat her rough. ")

She stared at him, fearfully, half-hypnotized. 

"Is that the door leading to Bussey's office? Don't speak! Nod. "

Dumb and stricken, she obeyed. 

"I'm going there. Don't you dare make a movement or a noise. If youdo--I'll come back. "

Shifting his grasp, he caught her up and with easy power tossed her upona broad divan. From its springy surface she shot up, as it seemed tohim, halfway to the ceiling, rigid and staring, a ludicrous simulacrumof a glassy-eyed doll. He heard the protesting "ping!" and "berr-rr-rr"of a broken spring as she fell back. The traverse of a narrow hallwayand a turn through a half-open door took him into the presence ofbearded benevolence making notes at a desk. 

"How did you get here? And who the devil are you?" demanded the guidinggenius of The Searchlight, looking up irritably. He raised his voice. "Con!" he called. 

From a side room appeared a thick, heavy-shouldered man with a feralcountenance, who slouched aggressively forward, as the intruderannounced himself. 

"My name is Banneker. "

"Cheest!" hissed the thick bouncer in tones of dismay, and stoppedshort. 

Turning, Banneker recognized him as one of the policemen whom hisevidence had retired from the force in the wharf-gang investigation. 

"Oh! Banneker, " muttered the editor. His right hand moved slowly, stealthily, toward a lower drawer. 

"Cut it, Major!" implored Con in acute anguish. "Canche' see he'sgotche' covered through his pocket!"

The stealthy hand returned to the sight of all men and fussed among somepapers on the desk-top. Major Bussey said peevishly:

"What do you want with me?"

"Kill that paragraph. "

"What par--"

"Don't fence with me, " struck in Banneker sharply. "You know what one. "

Major Bussey swept his gaze around the room for help or inspiration. Thesight of the burly ex-policeman, stricken and shifting his weight fromone foot to the other, disconcerted him sadly; but he plucked up courageto say:

"The facts are well authent--"

Again Banneker cut him short. "Facts! There isn't the semblance of afact in the whole thing. Hints, slurs, innuendoes. "

"Libel does not exist when--" feebly began the editor, and stoppedbecause Banneker was laughing at him. 

"Suppose you read that, " said the visitor, contemptuously tossing thetyped script of his new-wrought editorial on the desk. "_That's_libellous, if you choose. But I don't think you would sue. "

Major Bussey read the caption, a typical Banneker eye-catcher, "TheRattlesnake Dies Out; But the Pen-Viper is Still With Us. " "I don't careto indulge myself with your literary efforts at present, Mr. Banneker, "he said languidly. "Is this the answer to our paragraph?"

"Only the beginning. I propose to drive you out of town and suppress'The Searchlight. '"

"A fair challenge. I'll accept it. "

"I was prepared to have you take that attitude. "

"Really, Mr. Banneker; you could hardly expect to come here andblackmail me by threats--"

"Now for my alternative, " proceeded the visitor calmly. "You areproposing to publish a slur on the reputation of an innocent womanwho--"

"Innocent!" murmured the Major with malign relish. 

"Look out, Major!" implored Con, the body-guard. "He's a killer, he is. "

"I don't know that I'm particularly afraid of you, after all, " declaredthe exponent of The Searchlight, and Banneker felt a twinge of dismaylest he might have derived, somewhence, an access of courage. "A WildWest shooting is one thing, and cold-blooded, premeditated murder isanother. You'd go to the chair. "

"Cheerfully, " assented Banneker. 

Bussey, lifting the typed sheets before him, began to read. Presentlyhis face flushed. 

"Why, if you print this sort of thing, you'd have my office mobbed, " hecried indignantly. 

"It's possible. "

"It's outrageous! And this--if this isn't an incitement to lynching--Youwouldn't dare publish this!"

"Try me. "

Major Bussey's wizened and philanthropic face took on the cast ofcareful thought. At length he spoke with the manner of an elderbestowing wisdom upon youth. 

"A controversy such as this would do nobody any good. I have always beenopposed to journalistic backbitings. Therefore we will let this matterlie. I will kill the paragraph. Not that I'm afraid of your threats; norof your pen, for that matter. But in the best interests of our commonprofession--"

"Good-day, " said Banneker, and walked out, leaving the Major strandedupon the ebb tide of his platitudes. 

Banneker retailed the episode to Edmonds, for his opinion. 

"He's afraid of your gun, a little, " pronounced the expert; "and more ofyour pen. I think he'll keep faith in this. "

"As long as I hold over him the threat of The Patriot. "

"Yes. "

"And no longer?"

"No longer. It's a vengeful kind of vermin, Ban. "

"Pop, am I a common, ordinary blackmailer? Or am I not?"

The other shook his head, grayed by a quarter-century of struggles andproblems. "It's a strange game, the newspaper game, " he opined. 

CHAPTER X

All had worked out, in the matter of The Searchlight, quite as much toMr. Ely Ives's satisfaction as to that of Banneker. From his boasted andactual underground wire into that culture-bed of spiced sewage (at thefarther end of which was the facile brunette whom the visiting editorhad so harshly treated), he had learned the main details of theinterview and reported them to Mr. Marrineal. 

"Will Banneker now be good?" rhetorically queried Ives, pursing up hissmall face into an expression of judicious appreciation. "He _will_ begood!"

Marrineal gave the subject his habitual calm and impersonalconsideration. "He hasn't been lately, " he observed. "Several of hiseditorials have had quite the air of challenge. "

"That was before he turned blackmailer. Blackmail, " philosophized theastute Ives, "is a gun that you've got to keep pointed all the time. "

"I see. So long as he has Bussey covered by the muzzle of The Patriot, The Searchlight behaves itself. "

"It does. But if ever he laid down his gun, Bussey would make hash ofhim and his lady-love. "

"What about her?" interrogated Marrineal. "Do you really think--" Hisuplifted brows, sparse on his broad and candid forehead, consummated thequestion. 

For reply the factotum gave him a succinct if distorted version of theromance in the desert. 

"She dished him for Eyre, " he concluded, "and now she's dishing Eyre forhim. "

"Bussey's got all this?" inquired Marrineal, and upon the other'scareless "I suppose so, " added, "It must grind his soul not to be ableto use it. "

"Or not to get paid for suppressing it, " grinned Ives. 

"But does Banneker understand that it's fear of his pen, and not ofbeing killed, that binds Bussey?"

Ives nodded. "I've taken care to rub that in. Told him of other caseswhere the old Major was threatened with all sorts of manhandling; scaredout of his wits at first, but always got over it and came back in TheSearchlight, taking his chance of being killed. The old vulture reallyisn't a coward, though he's a wary bird. "

"Would Banneker really kill him, do you think?"

"I wouldn't insure his life for five cents, " returned the other withconviction. "Your editor is crazy-mad over this Mrs. Eyre. So there youhave him delivered, shorn and helpless, and Delilah doesn't even suspectthat she's acting as our agent. "

Marrineal's eyes fixed themselves in a lifeless sort of stare upon a farcorner of the ceiling. Recognizing this as a sign of inward cogitation, the vizier of his more private interests sat waiting. Without changingthe direction of his gaze, the proprietor indicated a check in hisratiocination by saying incompletely:

"Now, if she divorced Eyre and married Banneker--"

Ives completed it for him. "That would spike The Searchlight's guns, youthink? Perhaps. But if she were going to divorce Eyre, she'd have doneit long ago, wouldn't she? I think she'll wait. He won't last long. "

"Then our hold on Banneker, through his ability to intimidate TheSearchlight, depends on the life of a paretic. "

"Paretic is too strong a word--yet. But it comes to about that. Except--he'll want a lot of money to marry Io Eyre. "

"He wants a lot, anyway, " smiled Marrineal. 

"He'll want more. She's an expensive luxury. "

"He can get more. Any time when he chooses to handle The Patriot so thatit attracts instead of offends the big advertisers. "

"Why don't you put the screws on him now, Mr. Marrineal?" smirked Iveswith thin-lipped malignancy. 

Marrineal frowned. His cold blood inclined him to be deliberate; theophidian habit, slow-moving until ready to strike. He saw no reason forrisking a venture which became safer the further it progressed. Furthermore, he disliked direct, unsolicited advice. Ignoring Ives'sremark he asked:

"How are his investments going?"

Ives grinned again. "Down. Who put him into United Thread? Do you know, sir?"

"Horace Vanney. He has been tipping it off quietly to the club lot. Wants to get out from under, himself. "

"There's one thing about it, though, that puzzles me. If he took oldVanney's tip to buy for a rise, why did he go after the Sippiac Millswith those savage editorials? They're mainly responsible for thelegislative investigation that knocked eight points off of UnitedThread. "

"Probably to prove his editorial independence. "

"To whom? You?"

"To himself, " said Marrineal with an acumen quite above the shrewdnessof an Ives to grasp. 

But the latter nodded intelligently, and remarked: "If he's money-crazyyou've got him, anyway, sooner or later. And now that he's woman-crazy, too--"

"You'll never understand just how sane Mr. Banneker is, " broke inMarrineal coldly. He was a very sane man, himself. 

"Well, a lot of the sane ones get stung on the Street, " moralized Ives. "I guess the only way to beat that game is to get crazy and take all thechances. Mr. Banneker stands to drop half a year's salary in U. T. Aloneunless there's a turn. "

Marrineal delivered another well-thought-out bit of wisdom. "If I'm anyjudge, he wants a paper of his own. Well . . . Give me three years more ofhim and he can have it. But I don't think it'll make much headwayagainst The Patriot, then. "

"Three years? Bussey and The Searchlight ought to hold him that long. Unless, of course, he gets over his infatuation in the meantime. "

"In that case, " surmised Marrineal, eyeing him with distaste, "I supposeyou think that he would equally lose interest in protecting her from TheSearchlight. "

"Well, what's a woman to expect!" said Ives blandly, and took hisdismissal for the day. 

It was only recently that Ives had taken to coming to The Patriotoffice. No small interest and conjecture were aroused among theeditorial staff as to his exact status, stimulus to gossip beingafforded by the rumor that he had been, from Marrineal's privy purse, shifted to the office payroll. Russell Edmonds solved and imparted thesecret to Banneker. 

"Ives? Oh, he's the office sandbag. "

"Translate, Pop. I don't understand. "

"It's an invention of Marrineal's. Very ingenious. It was devised as aweapon against libel suits. Suppose some local correspondent fromHohokus or Painted Post sends in a story on the Honorable AminadabQuince that looks to be O. K. , but is actually full of bad breaks. TheHonorable Aminadab smells money in it and likes the smell. Starts alibel suit. On the facts, he's got us: the fellow that got pickled andbroke up the Methodist revival wasn't Aminadab at all, but his toughbrother. If it gets into court we're stung. Well, up goes littleWeaselfoot Ives to Hohokus. Sniffs around and spooks around and is agood fellow at the hotel, and possibly spends a little money where it'smost needed, and one day turns up at the Quince mansion. 'Senator, Irepresent The Patriot. ' 'Don't want to see you at all. Talk to mylawyer. ' 'But he might not understand my errand. It relates to anindictment handed down in 1884 for malversasion of school funds. ' 'Youngman, do you dare to intimate--' and so forth and so on; bluster andbluff and threat. Says Ives, very cool: 'Let me have your denial inwriting and we'll print it opposite the certified copy of theindictment. ' The old boy begins to whimper; 'That's outlawed. It was allwrong, anyway. ' Ives is sympathetic, but stands pat. Drop the suit andThe Patriot will be considerate and settle the legal fees. Aminadabdrops, ten times out of ten. The sandbag has put him away. "

"But there must be an eleventh case where there's nothing on the manthat's suing. "

"Say a ninety-ninth. One libel suit in a hundred may be brought in goodfaith. But we never settle until after Ives has done his little prowl. "

"It sounds bad, Pop. But is it so bad, after all? We've got to protectourselves against a hold-up. "

"Dirty work, but somebody's got to do it: ay--yes? I agree with you. Asa means of self-defense it is excusable. But the operations of thesandbag have gone far beyond libel in Ives's hands. "

"Have they? To what extent?"

"Any. His little private detective agency--he's got a couple of ourporch-climbing, keyhole reporters secretly assigned to him at call for'special work'--looks after any man we've got or are likely to havetrouble with; advertisers who don't come across properly, city officialswho play in with the other papers too much, politicians--"

"But that's rank blackmail!" exclaimed Banneker. 

"Carried far enough it is. So far it's only private information for theprivate archives. "

"Marrineal's?"

"Yes. He and his private counsel, old Mark Stecklin, are the keepers ofthem. Now, suppose Judge Enderby runs afoul of our interests, as he isbound to do sooner or later. Little Weaselfoot gets on histrail--probably is on it already--and he'll spend a year if necessarywatching, waiting, sniffing out something that he can use as a threat ora bludgeon or a bargain. "

"What quarrel have we got with Enderby?" inquired Banneker with livelyinterest. 

"None, now. But we'll be after him hot and heavy within a year. "

"Not the editorial page, " declared Banneker. 

"Well, I hope not. It would be rather a right-about, wouldn't it? ButMarrineal isn't afraid of a right-about. You know his creed as to hisreaders: 'The public never remembers. ' Of course, you realize whatMarrineal is after, politically. "

"No. He's never said a word to me. "

"Nor to me. But others have. The mayoralty. "

"For himself?"

"Of course. He's quietly building up his machine. "

"But Laird will run for reelection. "

"He'll knife Laird. "

"It's true Laird hasn't treated us very well, in the matter of backingour policies, " admitted Banneker thoughtfully. "The Combined StreetRailway franchise, for instance. "

"He was right in that and you were wrong, Ban. He had to follow thecomptroller there. "

"Is that where our split with Enderby is going to come? Over theelection?"

"Yes. Enderby is the brains and character back of the Lairdadministration. He represents the clean government crowd, with itsfinancial power. "

Banneker stirred fretfully in his chair. "Damn it!" he growled. "I wishwe could run this paper _as_ a newspaper and not as a chestnut rake. "

"How sweet and simple life would be!" mocked the veteran. "Still, youknow, if you're going to use The Patriot as a blunderbuss to point atthe heads of your own enemies, you can't blame the owner if he--"

"You think Marrineal knows?" interposed Banneker sharply. 

"About The Searchlight matter? You can bet on one thing, Ban. Everythingthat Ely Ives knows, Tertius Marrineal knows. So far as Ives thinks itadvisable for him to know, that is. Over and above which Tertius is nofool, himself. You may have noticed that. "

"It's bothered me from time to time, " admitted the other dryly. 

"It'll bother both of us more, presently, " prophesied Edmonds. 

"Then I've been playing direct into Marrineal's hands in attacking Lairdon the franchise matter. "

"Yes. Keep on. "

"Strange advice from you, Pop. You think my position on that is wrong. "

"What of that? You think it's right. Therefore, go ahead. Why quit aline of policy just because it obliges your employes? Don't beover-conscientious, son. "

"I've suspected for some time that the political news was being adroitlymanipulated against the administration. Has Marrineal tried to ring youin on that?"

"No; and he won't. "

"Why not?"

"He knows that, in the main, I'm a Laird man. Laird is giving us what weasked for, an honest administration. "

"Suppose, when Marrineal develops his plans, he comes to you, whichwould be his natural course, to handle the news end of the anti-Lairdcampaign. What would you do?"

"Quit. "

Banneker sighed. "It's so easy for you. "

"Not so easy as you think, son. Even though there's a lot of stuff beingput over in the news columns that makes me sore and sick. Marrineal'slittle theory of using news as a lever is being put into practice prettywidely. Also we're selling it. "

"Selling our news columns?"

"Some of 'em. For advertising. You're well out of any responsibility forthat department. I'd resign to-morrow if it weren't for the fact thatMarrineal still wants to cocker up the labor crowd for his politicalpurposes, and so gives me a free hand in my own special line. By theway, he's got the Veridian matter all nicely smoothed out. Oh, my, yes!Fired the general manager, put in all sorts of reforms, recognized theunion, the whole programme! That's to spike McClintick's guns if hetries to trot out Veridian again as proof that Marrineal is, at heart, anti-labor. "

"Is he?"

"He's anti-anything that's anti-Marrineal, and pro-anything that'spro-Marrineal. Haven't you measured him yet? All policy, no principle;there's Mr. Tertius Marrineal for you. . . . Ban, it's really you thatholds me to this shop. " Through convolutions of smoke from his tinypipe, the old stager regarded the young star of journalism with a quaintand placid affection. "Whatever rotten stuff is going on in the businessand news department, your page goes straight and speaks clear. . . . Iwonder how long Marrineal will stand for it . . . I wonder what he intendsfor the next campaign. "

"If my proprietor runs for office, I can't very well not support him, "said Banneker, troubled. 

"Not very well. The pinch will come as to what you're going to do aboutLaird. According to my private information, he's coming back at ThePatriot. "

"For my editorials on the Combined franchise?"

"Hardly. He's too straight to resent honest criticism. No; for some ofthe crooked stuff that we're running in our political news. Besides, some suspicious and informed soul in the administration has read betweenour political lines, and got a peep of the aspiring Tertius girdinghimself for contest. Result, the city advertising is to be taken fromThe Patriot. "

It needed no more than a mechanical reckoning of percentages to tellBanneker that this implied a serious diminution of his own income. Further, such a procedure would be in effect a repudiation of ThePatriot and its editorial support. 

"That's a rotten deal!" he exclaimed. 

"No. Just politics. Justifiable, too, I should say, as politics go. Idoubt whether Laird would do it of his own motion; he plays a highergame than that. But it isn't strictly within his province either toeffect or prevent. Anyhow, it's going to be done. "

"If he wants to fight us--" began Banneker with gloom in his eyes. 

"He doesn't want to fight anybody, " cut in the expert. "He wants to bemayor and run the city for what seems to him the city's best good. If hethought Marrineal would carry on his work as mayor, I doubt if he'doppose him. But our shrewd old friend, Enderby, isn't of that mind. Enderby understands Marrineal. He'll fight to the finish. "

Edmonds left his friend in a glum perturbation of mind. Enderbyunderstood Marrineal, did he? Banneker wished that he himself did. If hecould have come to grips with his employer, he would at least have knownnow where to take his stand. But Marrineal was elusive. No, not evenelusive; quiescent. He waited. 

As time passed, Banneker's editorial and personal involvements grew morecomplex. At what moment might a pressure from above close down on hispen, and with what demand? How should he act in the crisis thus forced, at Marrineal's slow pleasure? Take Edmonds's Gordian recourse; resign?But he was on the verge of debt. His investments had gone badly; heprided himself on the thought that it was partly through his ownimmovable uprightness. Now, this threat to his badly needed percentages!Surely The Patriot ought to be making a greater profit than it showed, on its steadily waxing circulation. Why had he ever let himself bewrenched from his first and impregnable system of a straight payment onincrease of circulation? Would it be possible to force Marrineal backinto that agreement? No income was too great, surely, to recompense forsuch trouble of soul as The Patriot inflicted upon its editorialmouthpiece. . . . Through the murk of thoughts shot, golden-rayed, thevision of Io. 

No world could be other than glorious in which she lived and loved himand was his. 

CHAPTER XI

Sheltered beneath the powerful pen of Banneker, his idyll, fulfilled, lengthened out over radiant months. Io was to him all that dreams hadever promised or portrayed. Their association, flowering to the fullamidst the rush and turmoil of the city, was the antithesis to itsbudding in the desert peace. To see the more of his mistress, Bannekerbecame an active participant in that class of social functions which getthemselves chronicled in the papers. Wise in her day and her protectiveinstinct of love, Io pointed out that the more he was identified withher set, the less occasion would there be for comment upon their beingseen together. And they were seen together much. 

She lunched with him at his downtown club, dined with him at Sherry's, met him at The Retreat and was driven back home in his car, sometimeswith Archie Densmore for a third, not infrequently alone. Consideratehostesses seated them next each other at dinners: it was deemed anevidence of being "in the know" thus to accommodate them. The opennessof their intimacy went far to rob calumny of its sting. And Banneker'singrained circumspection of the man trained in the open, applied to _lesconvenances_, was a protection in itself. Moreover, there was in hisdevotion, conspicuous though it was, an air of chivalry, a breath offragrance from a world of higher romance, which rendered women inparticular charitable of judgment toward the pair. 

Sometimes in the late afternoon Banneker's private numbered telephonerang, and an impersonal voice delivered a formal message. And thatevening Banneker (called out of town, no matter how pressing anengagement he might have had) sat in The House With Three Eyes, nowdarkened of vision, thrilling and longing for her step in the dim sidepassage. There was risk of disaster. But Io willed to take it; was proudto take it for her lover. 

Immersed in a happiness and a hope which vivified every motion of hislife, Banneker was nevertheless under a continuous strain ofwatchfulness; the _qui vive_ of the knight who guards his lady withleveled lance from a never-ceasing threat. At the point of his weaponcowered and crouched the dragon of The Searchlight, with envenomed fangsof scandal. 

As the months rounded out to a year, he grew, not less careful, indeed, but more confident. Eyre had quietly dropped out of the world. Huntingbig game in some wild corner of Nowhere, said rumor. 

Io had revealed to Banneker the truth; her husband was in a sanitariumnot far from Philadelphia. As she told him, her eyes were dim. Swift, with the apprehension of the lover to read the loved one's face, she sawa smothered jealousy in his. 

"Ah, but you must pity him, too! He has been so game. "

"Has been?"

"Yes. This is nearly the end. I shall go down there to be near him. "

"It's a long way, Philadelphia, " he said moodily. 

"What a child! Two hours in your car from The Retreat. "

"Then I may come down?"

"May? You must!"

He was still unappeased. "But you'll be very far away from me most ofthe time. "

She gleamed on him, her face all joyous for his incessant want of her. "Stupid! We shall see almost as much of each other as before. I'll becoming over to New York two or three times a week. "

Wherewith, and a promised daily telephone call, he must be content. 

Not at that meeting did he broach the subject nearest his heart. He feltthat he must give Io time to adjust herself to the new-developed statusof her husband, as of one already passed out of the world. A fortnightlater he spoke out. He had gone down to The Retreat for the week-end andshe had come up from Philadelphia to meet him, for dinner. He found herin a secluded alcove off the main dining-porch, alone. She rose and cameto him, after that one swift, sweet, precautionary glance about her withwhich a woman in love assures herself of safety before she gives herlips; tender and passionate to the yearning need of her that sprang inhis face. 

"Ban, I've been undergoing a solemn preachment. "

"From whom?"

"Archie. "

"Is Densmore here?"

"No; he came over to Philadelphia to deliver it. "

"About us?"

She nodded. "Don't take it so gloomily. It was to be expected. "

He frowned. "It's on my mind all the time; the danger to you. "

"Would you end it?" she said softly. 

"Yes. "

Too confident to misconstrue his reply, she let her hand fall on his, waiting. 

"Io, how long will it be, with Eyre? Before--"

"Oh; that!" The brilliance faded from her eager loveliness. "I don'tknow. Perhaps a year. He suffers abominably, poor fellow. "

"And after--after _that_, how long before you can marry me?"

She twinkled at him mischievously. "So, after all these years, my lovermakes me an offer of marriage. Why didn't you ask me at Manzanita?"

"Good God! Would it possibly--"

"No; no! I shouldn't have said it. I was teasing. "

"You know that there's never been a moment when the one thing worthliving and fighting and striving for wasn't you. "

"And success?" she taunted, but with tenderness. 

"Another name for you. I wanted it only as the reflex of your wish forme. "

"Even when I'd left you?"

"Even when you'd left me. "

"Poor Ban!" she breathed, and for a moment her fingers fluttered at hischeek. "Have I made it up to you?"

He bent over the long, low chair in which she half reclined. "A thousandtimes! Every day that I see you; every day that I think of you; with thelightest touch of your hand; the sound of your voice; the turn of yourface toward me. I'm jealous of it and fearful of it. Can you wonder thatI live in a torment of dread lest something happen to bring it all toruin?"

She shook her head. "Nothing could. Unless--No. I won't say it. I wantyou to want to marry me, Ban. But--I wonder. "

As they talked, the little light of late afternoon had dwindled, untilin their nook they could see each other only as vague forms. 

"Isn't there a table-lamp there?" she asked. "Turn it on. "

He found and pulled the chain. The glow, softly shaded, irradiated Io'slineaments, showing her thoughtful, somber, even a little apprehensive. She lifted the shade and turned it to throw the direct rays uponBanneker. He blinked. 

"Do you mind?" she asked softly. Even more softly, she added, "Do youremember?"

His mind veered back across the years, full of struggle, of triumph, ofemptiness, of fulfillment, to a night in another world; a world ofdreams, magic associations, high and peaceful ambitions, into which hadbroken a voice and an appeal from the darkness. He had turned the lightupon himself then that she might see him for what he was and have nofear. So he held it now, lifting it above his forehead. Hypnotized bythe compulsion of memory, she said, as she had said to the unknownhelper in the desert shack:

"I don't know you. Do I?"

"Io!"

"Ah! I didn't mean to say that. It came back to me, Ban. Perhaps it'strue. _Do_ I know you?"

As in the long ago he answered her: "Are you afraid of me?"

"Of everything. Of the future. Of what I don't know in you. "

"There's nothing of me that you don't know, " he averred. 

"Isn't there?" She was infinitely wistful; avid of reassurance. Beforehe could answer she continued: "That night in the rain when I first sawyou, under the flash, as I see you now--Ban, dear, how little you'vechanged, how wonderfully little, to the eye!--the instant I saw you, Itrusted you. "

"Do you trust me now?" he asked for the delight of hearing her declareit. 

Instead he heard, incredulously, the doubt in her tone. "Do I? I wantto--so much! I did then. At first sight. "

He set down the lamp. She could hear him breathing quick andstressfully. He did not speak. 

"At first sight, " she repeated. "And--I think--I loved you from thatminute. Though of course I didn't know. Not for days. Then, when I'dgone, I found what I'd never dreamed of; how much I could love. "

"And now?" he whispered. 

"Ah, more than then!" The low cry leapt from her lips. "A thousand timesmore. "

"But you don't trust me?"

"Why don't I, Ban?" she pleaded. "What have you done? How have youchanged?"

He shook his head. "Yet you've given me your love. Do you trustyourself?"

"Yes, " she answered with a startling quietude of certainty. "In that Ido. Absolutely. "

"Then I'll chance the rest. You're upset to-night, aren't you, Io?You've let your imagination run away with you. "

"This isn't a new thing to me. It began--I don't know when it began. Yes; I do. Before I ever knew or thought of you. Oh, long before! When Iwas no more than a baby. "

"Rede me your riddle, love, " he said lightly. 

"It's so silly. You mustn't laugh; no, you wouldn't laugh. But youmustn't be angry with me for being a fool. Childhood impressions areterribly lasting things, Ban. . . . Yes, I'm going to tell you. It was anurse I had when I was only four, I think; such a pretty, dainty Irishcreature, the pink-and-black type. She used to cry over me and say--Idon't suppose she thought I would ever understand or remember--'Bewarethe brown-eyed boys, darlin'. False an' foul they are, the brown ones. They take a girl's poor heart an' witch it away an' twitch it away, an'toss it back all crushed an' spoilt. ' Then she would hug me and sob. Sheleft soon after; but the warning has haunted me like a superstition. . . . Could you kiss it away, Ban? Tell me I'm a little fool!"

Approaching footsteps broke in upon them. The square bulk of JimMaitland appeared in the doorway. 

"What ho! you two. Ban, you're scampin' your polo practice shamefully. You'll be crabbin' the team if you don't look out. Dinin' here?"

"Yes, " said Io. "Is Marie down?"

"Comin' presently. How about a couple of rubbers after dinner?"

To assent seemed the part of tact. Io and Ban went to their cornertable, reserved for three, the third, Archie Densmore, being a prudentfiction. People drifted over to them, chatted awhile, were carried onand away by uncharted but normal social currents. It was a tribute tothe accepted status between them that no one settled into the thirdchair. The Retreat is the dwelling-place of tact. All theconversationalists having come and gone, Io reverted over the coffee tothe talk of their hearts. 

"I can't expect you to understand me, can I? Especially as I don'tunderstand myself. Don't sulk, Ban, dearest. You're so un-pretty whenyou pout. "

He refused to accept the change to a lighter tone. "I understand this, Io; that you have begun unaccountably to mistrust me. That hurts. "

"I don't want to hurt you. I'd rather hurt myself; a thousand timesrather. Oh, I will marry you, of course, when the time comes! And yet--"

"Yet?"

"Isn't it strange, that deep-seated misgiving! I suppose it's my woman'sdread of any change. It's been so perfect between us, Ban. " Her speechdropped to its lowest breath of pure music:

"'This test for love:--in every kiss, sealed fastTo feel the first kiss and forebode the last'--

So it has been with us; hasn't it, my lover?"

"So it shall always be, " he answered, low and deep. 

Her eyes dreamed. "How could any man feel what he put in those lines?"she murmured. 

"Some woman taught him, " said Banneker. 

She threw him a fairy kiss. "Why haven't we 'The Voices' here! Youshould read to me. . . . Do you ever wish we were back in the desert?"

"We shall be, some day. "

She shuddered a little, involuntarily. "There's a sense of recall, isn'tthere! Do you still love it?"

"It's the beginning of the Road to Happiness, " he said. "The place whereI first saw you. "

"You don't care for many things, though, Ban. "

"Not many. Only two, vitally. You and the paper. "

She made a curious reply pregnant of meanings which were to come backupon him afterward. "I shan't be jealous of that. Not as long as you'retrue to it. But I don't think you care for The Patriot, for itself. "

"Oh, don't I!"

"If you do, it's only because it's part of you; your voice; your power. Because it belongs to you. I wonder if you love me mostly for the samereason. "

"Say, the reverse reason. Because I belong so entirely to you thatnothing outside really matters except as it contributes to you. Can'tyou realize and believe?"

"No; I shouldn't be jealous of the paper, " she mused, ignoring hisappeal. Then, with a sudden transition: "I like your Russell Edmonds. AmI wrong or is there a kind of nobility of mind in him?"

"Of mind and soul. You would be the one to see it. 

'. . . . . . . . . . . . . The nobleness that liesSleeping but never dead in other men, Will rise in majesty to meet thine own'"--

he quoted, smiling into her eyes. 

"Do you ever talk over your editorials with him?"

"Often. He's my main and only reliance, politically. "

"Only politically? Does he ever comment on other editorials? The one onHarvey Wheelwright, for instance?"

Banneker was faintly surprised. "No. Why should he? Did you discuss thatwith him?"

"Indeed not! I wouldn't discuss that particular editorial with any onebut you. "

He moved uneasily. "Aren't you attaching undue importance to a verytrivial subject? You know that was half a joke, anyway. "

"Was it?" she murmured. "Probably I take it too seriously. But--butHarvey Wheelwright came into one of our early talks, almost our firstabout real things. When I began to discover you; when 'The Voices' firstsang to us. And he wasn't one of the Voices, exactly, was he?"

"He? He's a bray! But neither was Sears-Roebuck one of the Voices. Yetyou liked my editorial on that. "

"I adored it! You believed what you were writing. So you made itbeautiful. "

"Nothing could make Harvey Wheelwright beautiful. But, at least, you'lladmit I made him--well, appetizing. " His face took on a shade. "Love'slabor lost, too, " he added. "We never did run the Wheelwright serial, you know. "

"Why?"

"Because the infernal idiot had to go and divorce a perfectlyrespectable, if plain and middle-aged wife, in order to marry a quitescandalous Chicago society flapper. "

"What connection has that with the serial?"

"Don't you see? Wheelwright is the arch-deacon of the eternalproprieties and pieties. Purity of morals. Hearth and home. Faithfulunto death, and so on. Under that sign he conquers--a million pious andsnuffy readers, per book. Well, when he gets himself spread in theAmalgamated Wire dispatches, by a quick divorce and a hair-triggermarriage, puff goes his piety--and his hold on his readers. We justquietly dropped him. "

"But his serial was just as good or as bad as before, wasn't it?"

"Certainly not! Not for our purposes. He was a dead wolf with hissheep's wool all smeared and spotted. You'll never quite understand thenewspaper game, I'm afraid, lady of my heart. "

"How brown your eyes are, Ban!" said Io. 

CHAPTER XII

Politics began to bubble in The Patriot office with promise of hotterupheavals to come. The Laird administration had shown its intention ofdiverting city advertising, and Marrineal had countered in the newscolumns by several minor but not ineffective exposures of weak spots inthe city government. Banneker, who had on the whole continued to supportthe administration in its reform plans, decided that a talk with WillisEnderby might clarify the position and accordingly made an eveningappointment with him at his house. Judge Enderby opened proceedings withtypical directness of attack. 

"When are _you_ going to turn on us, Banneker?"

"That's a cheerful question, " retorted the young man good-humoredly, "considering that it is you people who have gone back on The Patriot. "

"Were any pledges made on our part?" queried Enderby. 

Banneker replied with some spirit: "Am I talking with counsel underretainer or with a personal friend?"

"Quite right. I apologize, " said the imperturbable Enderby. "Go on. "

"It isn't the money loss that counts, so much as the slap in the face tothe paper. It's a direct repudiation. You must realize that. "

"I'm not wholly a novice in politics. "

"But I am, practically. "

"Not so much that you can't see what Marrineal would be at. "

"Mr. Marrineal has not confided in me. "

"Nor in me, " stated the lawyer grimly. "I don't need his confidence toperceive his plans. "

"What do you believe them to be?"

No glimmer of a smile appeared on the visage of Judge Enderby as hecountered, "Am I talking with a representative of The Patriot or--"

"All right, " laughed Banneker. "_Touché!_ Assume that Marrineal haspolitical ambitions. Surely that lies within the bounds of propriety. "

"Depends on how he pushes them. Do you read The Patriot, Banneker?"

The editor of The Patriot smiled. 

"Do you approve its methods in, let us say, the political articles?"

"I have no control over the news columns. "

"Don't answer my question, " said the lawyer with a fine effect ofpatience, long-suffering and milky-mild, "if it in any way discommodesyou. "

"It all comes to this, " disclosed Banneker. "If the mayor turns on us, we can't lie down under the whip and we won't. We'll hit back. "

"Of course. "

"Editorially, I mean. "

"I understand. At least the editorials will be a direct method ofattack, and an honest one. I may assume that much?"

"Have you ever seen anything in the editorial columns of The Patriotthat would lead you to assume otherwise?"

"Answering categorically I would have to say 'No. '

"Answer as you please. "

"Then I will say, " observed the other, speaking with markeddeliberation, "that on one occasion I have failed to see matter which Ithought might logically appear there and the absence of which affordedme food for thought. Do you know Peter McClintick?"

"Yes. Has he been talking to you about the Veridian killings?"

Enderby nodded. "One could not but contrast your silence on that subjectwith your eloquence against the Steel Trust persecutions, consisting, ifI recall, in putting agitators in jail for six months. Quite wrongly, Iconcede. But hardly as bad as shooting them down as they sleep, andtheir families with them. "

"Tell me what you would have done in my place, then. " Banneker statedthe case of the Veridian Mills strike simply and fairly. "Could I turnthe columns of his own paper on Marrineal for what was not even hisfault?"

"Impossible. Absurd, as well, " acknowledged the other

"Can you even criticize Marrineal?"

The jurist reared his gaunt, straight form up from his chair and walkedacross to the window, peering out into the darkness before he answeredwith a sort of restrained passion. 

"God o' mercies, Banneker! Do you ask me to judge other men's acts, outside the rules of law? Haven't I enough problems in reconciling myown conscience to conserving the interests of my clients, as I must, inhonor, do? No; no! Don't expect me to judge, in any matter of greaterresponsibilities. I'm answerable to a small handful of people. You--yourPatriot is answerable to a million. Everything you print, everything youwithhold, may have incalculable influence on the minds of men. You cancorrupt or enlighten them with a word. Think of it! Under such a weightAtlas would be crushed. There was a time long ago--about the time whenyou were born--when I thought that I might be a journalist; thought itlightly. To-day, knowing what I know, I should be terrified to attemptit for a week, a day! I tell you, Banneker, one who moulds the people'sbeliefs ought to have the wisdom of a sage and the inspiration of aprophet and the selflessness of a martyr. "

A somber depression veiled Banneker. "One must have the sense ofauthority, too, " he said at length with an effort. "If that isundermined, you lose everything. I'll fight for that. "

With an abrupt motion his host reached up and drew the window shade, asit might be to shut out a darkness too deep for human penetration. 

"What does your public care about whether The Patriot loses the cityadvertising; or even know about it?"

"Not the public. But the other newspapers. They'll know, and they'll useit against us. . . . Enderby, we can beat Bob Laird for reelection. "

"If that's a threat, " returned the lawyer equably, "it is made to thewrong person. I couldn't control Laird in this matter if I wanted to. He's an obstinate young mule--for which Heaven be praised!"

"No; it isn't a threat. It's a declaration of war, if you like. "

"You think you can beat us? With Marrineal?"

"Mr. Marrineal isn't an avowed candidate, is he?" evaded Banneker. 

"I fancy that you'll see some rapidly evolving activity in thatquarter. "

"Is it true that Laird has developed social tendencies, and is using themayoralty to climb?"

"A silly story of his enemies, " answered Enderby contemptuously. "Justthe sort of thing that Marrineal would naturally get hold of and use. Inso far as Laird has any social relations, they are and always have beenwith that element which your society reporters call 'the most exclusivecircles, ' because that is where he belongs by birth and association. "

"Russell Edmonds says that social ambition is the only road on which oneclimbs painfully downhill. "

The other paid the tribute of a controlled smile to this. "Edmonds? ASocialist. He has a gnarled mind. Good, hard-grained wood, though. Isuppose no man more thoroughly hates and despises what I represent--orwhat he thinks I represent, the conservative force of moneyedpower--than he does. Yet in any question of professional principles, Iwould trust him far; yes, and of professional perceptions, too, I think;which is more difficult. A crack-brained sage; but wise. Have you talkedover the Laird matter with him?"

"Yes. He's for Laird. "

"Stick to Edmonds, Banneker. You can't find a better guide. "

There was desultory talk until the caller got up to go. As they shookhands, Enderby said:

"Has any one been tracking you lately?"

"No. Not that I've noticed. "

"There was a fellow lurking suspiciously outside; heavy-set, darkclothes, soft hat. I thought that he might be watching you. "

For a man of Banneker's experience of the open, to detect the cleverestof trailing was easy. Although this watcher was sly and careful in hispursuit, which took him all the way to Chelsea Village, his every movewas clear to the quarry, until the door of The House With Three Eyesclosed upon its owner. Banneker went to bed very uneasy. On whose behoofwas he being shadowed? Should he warn Io?. . . In the morning there was notrace of the man, nor, though Banneker trained every sharpened facultyto watchfulness, did he see him again. . . . While he was mentallyengrossed in wholly alien considerations, the solution materialized outof nothing to his inner vision. It was Willis Enderby who was beingwatched, and, as a side issue, any caller upon him. That evening a taxi, occupied by a leisurely young man in evening clothes, drove through East68th Street, where stood the Enderby house, dim, proud, and stiff. Thetaxi stopped before a mansion not far away, and the young man addresseda heavy-bodied individual who stood, with vacant face uplifted to thehigh moon, as if about to bay it. Said the young man:

"Mr. Ives wishes you to report to him at once. "

"Huh?" ejaculated the other, lowering his gaze. 

"At the usual place, " pursued the young man. 

"Oh! Aw-right. "

His suspicions fully confirmed, Banneker drove away. It was now Ives'smove, he remarked to himself, smiling. Or perhaps Marrineal's. He wouldwait. Within a few days he had his opportunity. Returning to his officeafter luncheon, he found a penciled note from Ives on his desk, notifying him that Miss Raleigh had called him on the 'phone. 

Inquiring for the useful Ives, Banneker learned that he was closetedwith Marrineal. Such conferences were regarded in the office asinviolable; but Banneker was in uncompromising mood. He entered with nomore of preliminary than a knock. After giving his employer good-day headdressed Ives. 

"I found a note from you on my desk. "

"Yes. The message came half an hour ago. "

"Through the office?"

"No. On your 'phone. "

"How did you get into my room?"

"The door was open. "

Banneker reflected. This was possible, though usually he left his doorlocked. He decided to accept the explanation. Later he had occasion torevise it. 

"Much obliged. By the way, on whose authority did you put a shadow onJudge Enderby?"

"On mine, " interposed Marrineal. "Mr. Ives has full discretion in thesematters. "

"But what is the idea?"

Ives delivered himself of his pet theory. "They'll all bear watching. Itmay come in handy some day. "

"What may?"

"Anything we can get. "

"What on earth could any but an insane man expect to get on Enderby?"contemptuously asked Banneker. 

Shooting a covert look at his principal, Ives either received or assumeda permission. "Well, there was some kind of an old scandal, you know. "

"Was there?" Banneker's voice was negligent. "That would be hard tobelieve. "

"Hard to get hold of in any detail. I've dug some of it out through mySearchlight connection. Very useful line, that. "

Ives ventured a direct look at Banneker, but diverted it from the coldstare it encountered. 

"Some woman scrape, " he explicated with an effort at airiness. 

Banneker turned a humiliating back on him. "The Patriot is beginning toget a bad name on Park Row for this sort of thing, " he informedMarrineal. 

"This isn't a Patriot matter. It is private. "

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Banneker in disgust. "After all, it doesn't matter. You'll have your trouble for your pains, " he prophesied, and returned to'phone Betty Raleigh. 

What had become of Banneker, Betty's gay and pure-toned voice demandedover the wire. Had he eschewed the theater and all its works for good?Too busy? Was that a reason also for eschewing his friends? He'd nevermeant to do that? Let him prove it then by coming up to see her. . . . Yes;at once. Something special to be talked over. 

It was a genuine surprise to Banneker to find that he had not seen theactress for nearly two months. Certainly he had not specially missedher, yet it was keenly pleasurable to be brought into contact again withthat restless, vital, outgiving personality. She looked tired and alittle dispirited and--for she was of that rare type in which wearinessdoes not dim, but rather qualifies and differentiates its beauty--quiteas lovely as he had ever seen her. The query which gave him his clue toher special and immediate interest was:

"Why is Haslett leaving The Patriot?" Haslett was the Chicago critictransplanted to take Gurney's place. 

"Is he? I didn't know. You ought not to mourn his loss, Betty. "

"But I do. At least, I'm afraid I'm going to. Do you know who the newcritic is?"

"No. Do you? And how do you? Oh, I suppose I ought to understand that, though, " he added, annoyed that so important a change should have beenkept secret from him. 

With characteristic directness she replied, "You mean TertiusMarrineal?"

"Naturally. "

"That's all off. "

"Betty! Your engagement to him?"

"So far as there ever was any. "

"Is it really off? Or have you only quarreled?"

"Oh, no. I can't imagine myself quarreling with Tertius. He's tooimpersonal. For the same reason, and others, I can't see myself marryinghim. "

"But you must have considered it, for a time. "

"Not very profoundly. I don't want to marry a newspaper. Particularlysuch a newspaper as The Patriot. For that matter, I don't want to marryanybody, and I won't!"

"That being disposed of, what's the matter with The Patriot? It's beentreating you with distinguished courtesy ever since Marrineal took overcharge. "

"It has. That's part of his newspaperishness. "

"From our review of your new play I judge that it was written by theshade of Shakespeare in collaboration with the ghost of Molière, andthat your acting in it combines all the genius of Rachel, Kean, Booth, Mrs. Siddons, and the Divine Sarah. "

"This is no laughing matter, " she protested. "Have you seen the play?"

"No. I'll go to-night. "

"Don't. It's rotten. "

"Heavens!" he cried in mock dismay. "What does this mean? Our mostbrilliant young--"

"And I'm as bad as the play--almost. The part doesn't fit me. It's afool part. "

"Are you quarreling with The Patriot because it has tempered justicewith mercy in your case?"

"Mercy? With slush. Slathering slush. "

"Come to my aid, Memory! Was it not a certain Miss Raleigh who aforetimedenounced the ruffian Gurney for that he vented his wit upon a play inwhich she appeared. And now, because--"

"Yes; it was. I've no use for the smart-aleck school of criticism. But, at least, what Gurney wrote was his own. And Haslett, even if he is anold grouch, was honest. You couldn't buy their opinions over thecounter. "

Banneker frowned. "I think you'd better explain, Betty. "

"Do you know Gene Zucker?"

"Never heard of him. "

"He's a worm. A fat, wiggly, soft worm from Boston. But he's got anidea. "

"And that is?"

"I'll tell you in a moment. " She leaned forward fixing him with thehonest clarity of her eyes. "Ban, if I tell you that I'm really devotedto my art, that I believe in it as--as a mission, that the theater is asbig a thing to me as The Patriot is to you, you won't think me anaffected little prig, will you?"

"Of course not, Betty. I know you. "

"Yes. I think you do. But you don't know your own paper. Zucker's bigidea, which he sold to Tertius Marrineal together with his preciousself, is that the dramatic critic should be the same identical person asthe assistant advertising manager in charge of theater advertising, andthat Zucker should be both. "

"Hell!" snapped Banneker. "I beg your pardon, Betty. "

"Don't. I quite agree with you. Isn't it complete and perfect? Zuckergets his percentage of the advertising revenue which he brings in fromthe theaters. Therefore, will he be kind to those attractions whichadvertise liberally? And less kind to those which fail to appreciate ThePatriot as a medium? I know that he will! Pay your dollar and get yourpuff. Dramatic criticism strictly up to date. "

Banneker looked at her searchingly. "Is that why you broke withMarrineal, Betty?"

"Not exactly. No. This Zucker deal came afterward. But I think I hadbegun to see what sort of principles Tertius represented. You and Iaren't children, Ban: I can talk straight talk to you. Well, there'sprostitution on the stage, of course. Not so much of it as outsidersthink, but more than enough. I've kept myself free of any contact withit. That being so, I'm certainly not going to associate myself with thatsort of thing in another field. Ban, I've made the management refuseZucker admittance to the theater. And he gave the play a wonderfulsend-off, as you know. Of course, Tertius would have him do that. "

Rising, Banneker walked over and soberly shook the girl's hand. "Betty, you're a fine and straight and big little person. I'm proud to know you. And I'm ashamed of myself that I can do nothing. Not now, anyway. Later, perhaps. . . . "

"No, I suppose you can't, " she said listlessly. "But you'll beinterested in seeing how the Zucker system works out; a half-page ad. Inthe Sunday edition gets a special signed and illustrated featurearticle, a quarter-page only a column of ordinary press stuff. A fullpage--I don't know what he'll offer for that. An editorial by E. B. Perhaps. "

"Betty!"

"Forgive me, Ban. I'm sick at heart over it all. Of course, I know youwouldn't. "

Going back in his car, Banneker reflected with profound distaste thatthe plan upon which he was hired was not essentially different from theZucker scheme, in Marrineal's intent. He, too, was--if Marrineal's ideaworked out--to draw down a percentage varying in direct ratio to hissuppleness in accommodating his writings to "the best interests of thepaper. " He swore that he would see The Patriot and its proprietoreternally damned before he would again alter jot or tittle of hiseditorial expression with reference to any future benefit. 

It did not take long for Mr. Zucker to manifest his presence to Bannekerthrough a line asking for an interview, written in a neat, small handupon a card reading:

_The Patriot--Special Theatrical Features E. Zucker, Representative_. 

Mr. Zucker, being sent for, materialized as a buoyant little person, richly ornamented with his own initials in such carefully chosenlocations as his belt-buckle, his cane, and his cigarettes. He was, heexplained, injecting some new and profitable novelties into thedepartment of dramatic criticism. 

"Just a moment, " quoth Banneker. "I thought that Allan Haslett had comeon from Chicago to be our dramatic critic. "

"Oh, he and the business office didn't hit it off very well, " saidlittle Zucker carelessly. 

"Oh! And do you hit it off pretty well with the business office?"

"Naturally. It was Mr. Haring brought me on here; I'm a specialdepartmental manager in the advertising department. "

"Your card would hardly give the impression. It suggests the news ratherthan the advertising side. "

"I'm both, " stated Mr. Zucker, brightly beaming. "I handle the criticismand the feature stuff on salary, and solicit the advertising, on apercentage. It works out fine. "

"So one might suppose. " Banneker looked at him hard. "The idea being, ifI get it correctly, that a manager who gives you a good, big line ofadvertising can rely on considerate treatment in the dramatic column ofThe Patriot. "

"Well, there's no bargain to that effect. That wouldn't be classy for abig paper like ours, " replied the high-if somewhat naïve-minded Mr. Zucker. "Of course, the managers understand that one good turn deservesanother, and I ain't the man to roast a friend that helps me out. Istarted the scheme in Boston and doubled the theater revenue of my paperthere in a year. "

"I'm immensely interested, " confessed Banneker. "But what is your ideain coming to me about this?"

"Big stuff, Mr. Banneker, " answered the earnest Zucker. He laid ajeweled hand upon the other's knee, and removed it because some vestigeof self-protective instinct warned him that that was not the properplace for it. "You may have noticed that we've been running a lot ofspecial theater stuff in the Sunday. " Banneker nodded. "That's all perschedule, as worked out by me. An eighth of a page ad. Gets an article. A quarter page ad. Gets a signed special by me. Haffa page wins a grandlittle send-off by Bess Breezely with her own illustrations. Now, I'mfiguring on full pages. If I could go to a manager and say: 'Gimme afull-page ad. For next Sunday and I'll see if I can't get Mr. Bannekerto do an editorial on the show'--if I could say that, why, nothin' toit! Nothin' at-tall! Of course, " he added ruminatively, "I'd have topick the shows pretty careful. "

"Perhaps you'd like to write the editorials, too, " suggested Bannekerwith baleful mildness. 

"I thought of that, " admitted the other. "But I don't know as I couldget the swing of your style. You certainly got a style, Mr. Banneker. "

"Thank you. "

"Well, what do you say?"

"Why, this. I'll look over next Sunday's advertising, particularly thelarge ads. , and if there is a good subject in any of the shows, I'll tryto do something about it. "

"Fine!" enthused the unsuspecting pioneer of business-dramaticcriticism. "It's a pleasure to work with a gentleman like you, Mr. Banneker. "

Withdrawing, even more pleased with himself than was his wont, Mr. Zucker confided to Haring that the latter was totally mistaken inattributing a stand-offish attitude to Banneker. Why, you couldn't askfor a more reasonable man. Saw the point at once. 

"Don't you go making any fool promises on the strength of what Bannekersaid to you, " commented Haring. 

With malign relish, Banneker looked up in the Sunday advertising theleading theater display, went to the musical comedy there exploited, andpresently devoted a column to giving it a terrific and only half-meritedslashing for vapid and gratuitous indecency. The play, which had beengoing none too well, straightway sold out a fortnight in advance, thereby attesting the power of the press as well as the appeal ofpruriency to an eager and jaded public. Zucker left a note on theeditorial desk warmly thanking his confrère for this evidence ofcoöperation. 

Life was practicing its lesser ironies upon Banneker whilst maturing itsgreater ones. 

CHAPTER XIII

In the regular course of political events, Laird was renominated on afusion ticket. Thereupon the old ring, which had so long battened on thecorruption or local government, put up a sleek and presentablefigurehead. Marrineal nominated himself amidst the Homeric laughter ofthe professional politicians. How's he goin' to get anywhere, theydemanded with great relish of the joke, when he ain't got anyorganization at-tall! Presently the savor oozed out of that joke. Marrineal, it appeared, did have an organization, of sorts; worse, hehad gathered to him, by methods not peculiarly his own, the support ofthe lesser East-Side foreign language press, which may or may not havebelieved in his protestations of fealty to the Common People, butcertainly did appreciate the liberality of his political advertisingappropriation, advertising, in this sense, to be accorded its freestinterpretation. Worst of all, he had Banneker. 

Banneker's editorials, not upon Marrineal himself (for he was too shrewdfor that), but upon the cause of which Marrineal was standard-bearer, were persuasive, ingenious, forceful, and, to the average mind, convincing. Was Banneker himself convinced? It was a question which heresolutely refused to follow to its logical conclusion. Of the justiceof the creed which The Patriot upheld, he was perfectly confident. Butdid Marrineal represent that creed? Did he represent anything butMarrineal? Stifling his misgivings, Banneker flung himself the moredeterminedly into the fight. It became apparent that he was going toswing an important fraction of the labor vote, despite the opposition ofsuch clear-eyed leaders as McClintick. To this extent he menaced the oldring rather than the forces of reform, led by Laird and managed byEnderby. On the other hand, he was drawing from Laird, in so far as hestill influenced the voters who had followed The Patriot in its originalsupport of the reform movement. That Marrineal could not be elected, both of his opponents firmly believed; and in this belief, notwithstanding his claims of forthcoming victory, the independentcandidate privately concurred. It would be enough, for the time, todefeat decisively whichever rival he turned his heaviest guns upon inthe final onset; that would insure his future political prestige. Thusfar, in his speeches, he had hit out impartially at both sides, denouncing the old ring for its corruption, girding at Laird as a fakereformer secretly committed to Wall Street through Judge Enderby, corporation lawyer, as intermediary. 

Herein Banneker had refrained from following him. Ever the cat at thehole's mouth, the patient lurker, the hopeful waiter upon the event, theproprietor of The Patriot forbore to press his editorial chief. He stillmistrusted the strength of his hold upon Banneker; feared a defiancewhen he could ill afford to meet it. What he most hoped was somedevelopment which would turn Banneker's heavy guns upon Laird so that, with the defeat of the fusion ticket candidate, the public would say, "The Patriot made him and The Patriot broke him. "

Laird played into Marrineal's hands. Indignant at what he regarded as adesertion of principles by The Patriot, the fusion nominee, in one ofhis most important addresses, devoted a stinging ten minutes to aconsideration of that paper, its proprietor, and its editorial writer, in its chosen role of "friend of labor. " His text was the Veridianstrike, his information the version which McClintick furnished him; hecited Banneker by name, and challenged him as a prostituted mind and acorrupted pen. Though Laird had spoken as he honestly believed, he didnot have the whole story; McClintick, in his account, had ignored theimportant fact that Marrineal, upon being informed of conditions, hadactually (no matter what his motive) remedied them. Banneker, believingthat Laird was fully apprised, as he knew Enderby to be, was outraged. This alleged reformer, this purist in politics, this apostle of honorand truth, was holding him up to contumely, through half-truths, for acourse which any decent man must, in conscience, have followed. Hecomposed a seething editorial, tore it up, substituted another whereinhe made reply to the charges, in a spirit of ingenuity rather thaningenuousness, for The Patriot case, while sound, was one which couldnot well be thrown open to The Patriot's public; and planned vengeancewhen the time should come. 

Io, on a brief trip from Philadelphia, lunched with him that week, andfound him distrait. 

"It's only politics, " he said. "You're not interested in politics, " and, as usual, "Let's talk about you. "

She gave him that look which was like a smile deep in the shadows of hereyes. "Ban, do you know the famous saying of Terence?"

He quoted the "Homo sum. " "That one?" he asked. 

She nodded. "Now, hear my version: 'I am a woman; nothing that touches_my_ man is alien to my interests. '"

He laughed. But there was a note of gratitude in his voice, almosthumble, as he said: "You're the only woman in the world, Io, who canquote the classics and not seem a prig. "

"That's because I'm beautiful, " she retorted impudently. "_Tell_ me I'mbeautiful, Ban!"

"You're the loveliest witch in the world, " he cried. 

"So much for flattery. Now--politics. "

He recounted the Laird charges. 

"No; that wasn't fair, " she agreed. "It was most unfair. But I don'tbelieve Bob Laird knew the whole story. Did you ask him?"

"Ask him? I certainly did not. You don't understand much about politics, dearest. "

"I was thinking of it from the point of view of the newspaper. If you'regoing to answer him in The Patriot, I should think you'd want to knowjust what his basis was. Besides, if he's wrong, I believe he'd take itback. "

"After all the damage has been done. He won't get the chance. "Banneker's jaw set firm. 

"What shall you do now?"

"Wait my chance, load my pen, and shoot to kill. "

"Let me see the editorial before you print it. "

"All right, Miss Meddlesome. But you won't let your ideas of fair playrun away with you and betray me to the enemy? You're a Laird man, aren'tyou?"

Her voice fell to a caressing half-note. "I'm a Banneker woman--ineverything. Won't you ever remember that?"

"No. You'll never be that. You'll always be Io; yourself; remote andunattainable in the deeper sense. "

"Do _you_ say that?" she answered. 

"Oh, don't think that I complain. You've made life a living glory forme. Yet"--his face grew wistful--"I suppose--I don't know how to sayit--I'm like the shepherd in the poem, 'Still nursing the unconquerable hope, Still clutching the inviolable shade. '

Io, why do I always think in poetry, when I'm with you?"

"I want you always to, " she said, which was a more than sufficientanswer. 

Io had been back in Philadelphia several days, and had 'phoned Bannekerthat she was coming over on the following Tuesday, when, having workedat the office until early evening, he ran around the corner to Katie'sfor dinner. At the big table "Bunny" Fitch of The Record was holdingforth. 

Fitch was that invaluable type of the political hack-writer, a lackey ofthe mind, instinctively subservient to his paper's slightest opinion, hating what it hates, loving what it loves, with the servile adherenceof a medieval churchman. As The Record was bitter upon reform, itsproprietor having been sadly disillusioned in youth by a lofty butabortive experiment in perfecting human nature from which he neverrecovered, Bunny lost no opportunity to damn all reformers. 

"Can't you imagine the dirty little snob, " he was saying, as Bannekerentered, "creeping and fawning and cringing for their favors? Up formembership at The Retreat. Dines with Poultney Masters, Jr. , at hisclub. Can't you hear him running home to wifie all het up and puffedlike a toad, and telling her about it?"

"Who's all this, Bunny?" inquired Banneker, who had taken in only thelast few words. 

"Our best little society climber, the Honorable Robert Laird, " returnedthe speaker, and reverted to his inspirational pen-picture: "Runs hometo wifie and crows, 'What do you think, my dear! Junior Masters calledme 'Bob' to-day!"

In a flash, the murderous quality of the thing bit into Banneker'ssensitive brain. "Junior Masters called me 'Bob' to-day. " The apotheosisof snobbery! Swift and sure poison for the enemy if properly compoundedwith printer's ink. How pat it fitted in with the carefully fosteredconception, insisted upon in every speech by Marrineal, of the mayor asa Wall Street and Fifth Avenue tool and toady!

But what exactly had Bunny Fitch said? Was he actually quoting Laird? Ifso, direct or from hearsay? Or was he merely paraphrasing or perhapsonly characterizing? There was a dim ring in Banneker's cerebral ear ofprevious words, half taken in, which would indicate the latter--and ruinthe deadly plan, strike the poison-dose from his hand. Should he askFitch? Pin him down to the details?

The character-sketcher was now upon the subject of Judge Enderby. "Slyold wolf! Wants to be senator one of these days. Or maybe governor. A'receptive' candidate! Wah! Pulls every wire he can lay hand on, andthen waits for the honor to be forced upon him. . . . Good Lord! It's eighto'clock. I'm late. "

Dropping a bill on the table he hurried out. Half-minded to stop him, Banneker took a second thought. Why should he? His statement had beendefinite. Anyway, he could be called up on the morrow. Dining hastilyand in deep, period-building thought, Banneker returned to the office, locked himself in, and with his own hand drafted the editorial built onthat phrase of petty and terrific import: "Junior Masters called me'Bob' to-day. "

After it was written he would not for the world have called up Fitch toverify the central fact. He couldn't risk it. He scheduled the broadsidefor the second morning following. . . . But there was Io! He had promised. Well, he was to meet her at a dinner party at the Forbes's. She couldsee it then, if she hadn't forgotten. . . . No; that, too, was a subterfugehope. Io never forgot. 

As if to assure the resumption of their debate, the talk of the Forbesdinner table turned to the mayoralty fight. Shrewd judges of events andtendencies were there; Thatcher Forbes, himself, not the least of them;it was the express opinion that Laird stood a very good chance ofvictory. 

"Unless they can definitely pin the Wall Street label on him, " suggestedsome one. 

"That might beat him; it's the only thing that could, " another opined. 

Hugging his withering phrase to his heart, Banneker felt a growingexultation. 

"Nobody but The Patriot--" began Mrs. Forbes contemptuously, when sheabruptly recalled who was at her table. "The newspapers are doing theirworst, but I think they won't make people believe much of it, " sheamended. 

"Is Laird really the Wall Street candidate?" inquired Esther Forbes. 

Parley Welland, Io's cousin, himself an amateur politician, answeredher: "He is or he isn't, according as you look at it. Masters and hiscrowd are mildly for him, because they haven't any objection to adecent, straight city government, at present. Sometimes they have. "

"On that principle, Horace Vanney must have, " remarked Jim Maitland. "He's fighting Laird, tooth and nail, and certainly he represents onephase of Wall Street activity. "

"My revered uncle, " drawled Herbert Cressey, "considers that the presentadministration is too tender of the working-man--or, rather, working-woman--when she strikes. Don't let 'em strike; or, if they dostrike, have the police bat 'em on the head. "

"What's this administration got to do with Vanney's mills? I thoughtthey were in Jersey, " another diner asked. 

"So they are, the main ones. But he's backing some of the local clothingmanufacturers, the sweat-shop lot. They've been having strikes. Thatinterferes with profits. Uncle wants the good old days of thenight-stick and the hurry-up wagon back. He's even willing to spend alittle money on the good cause. "

Io, seated on Banneker's left, turned to him. "Is that true, Ban?"

"I've heard rumors to that effect, " he replied evasively. 

"Won't it put The Patriot in a queer position, to be making common causewith an enemy of labor?"

"It isn't a question of Horace Vanney, at all, " he declared. "He's justan incident. "

"When are you going to write your Laird editorial?"

"All written. I've got a proof in my pocket. "

She made as if to hold out her hand; but withdrew it. "After dinner, "she said. "The little enclosed porch off the conservatory. "

Amused and confirmatory glances followed them as they withdrew together. But there was no ill-natured commentary. So habituated was their ownspecial set to the status between them that it was accepted withtolerance, even with the good-humored approval with which human natureregards a logical inter-attraction. 

"Are you sure that you want to plunge into politics, Io?" Bannekerasked, looking down at her as she seated herself in the cushioned_chaise longue_. 

Her mouth smiled assent, but her eyes were intent and serious. Hedropped the proof into her lap, bending over and kissing her lips as hedid so. For a moment her fingers interlaced over his neck. 

"I'll understand it, " she breathed, interpreting into his caress aquality of pleading. 

Before she had read halfway down the column, she raised to him astartled face. "Are you sure, Ban?" she interrogated. 

"Read the rest, " he suggested. 

She complied. "What a terrible power little things have, " she sighed. "That would make me despise Laird. "

"A million other people will feel the same way to-morrow. "

"To-morrow? Is it to be published so soon?"

"In the morning's issue. "

"Ban; is it true? Did he say that?"

"I have it from a man I've known ever since I came to New York. He'sreliable. "

"But it's so unlike Bob Laird. "

"Why is it unlike him?" he challenged with a tinge of impatience. "Hasn't he been playing about lately with the Junior Masters?"

"Do you happen to know, " she replied quietly, "that Junior and Bob Lairdwere classmates and clubmates at college, and that they probably alwayshave called each other by their first names?"

"No. Have you ever heard them?" Angry regret beset him the instant thequestion had passed his lips. If she replied in the affirmative--

"No; I've never happened to hear them, " she admitted; and he breathedmore freely. 

"Then my evidence is certainly more direct than yours, " he pointed out. 

"Ban; that charge once made public is going to be unanswerable, isn'tit? Just because the thing itself is so cheap and petty?"

"Yes. You've got the true journalistic sense, Io. "

"Then there's the more reason why you shouldn't print it unless you knowit to be true. "

"But it _is_ true. " Almost he had persuaded himself that it was; that itmust be. 

"The Olneys are having the Junior Masters to dine this evening. I knowbecause I was asked; but of course I wanted to be here, where you are. Let me call Junior on the 'phone and ask him. "

Banneker flushed. "You can't do that, Io. "

"Why not?"

"Why, it isn't the sort of thing that one can very well do, " he saidlamely. 

"Not ask Junior if he and Bob Laird are old chums and call each other bytheir first names?"

"How silly it would sound!" He tried to laugh the proposal away. "In anycase, it wouldn't be conclusive. Besides, it's too late by this time. "

"Too late?"

"Yes. The forms are closed. "

"You couldn't change it?"

"Why, I suppose I could, in an extreme emergency. But, dearest, it's allright. Why be so difficult?"

"It isn't playing the game, Ban. "

"Indeed, it is. It's playing the game as Laird has elected to play it. Did he make inquiries before he attacked us on the Veridian strike?"

"That's true, " she conceded. 

"And my evidence for this is direct. You'll have to trust me and myprofessional judgment, Io. "

She sighed, but accepted this, saying, "If he _is_ that kind of a snobit ought to be published. Suppose he sues for libel?"

"He'd be laughed out of court. Why, what is there libelous in sayingthat a man claims to have been called by his first name by another man?"Banneker chuckled. 

"Well, it ought to be libelous if it isn't true, " asserted Io warmly. "It isn't fair or decent that a newspaper can hold a man up as aboot-licker and toady, if he isn't one, and yet not be held responsiblefor it. "

"Well, dearest, I didn't make the libel laws. They're hard enough as itis. " His thought turned momentarily to Ely Ives, the journalisticsandbag, and he felt a momentary qualm. "I don't pretend to likeeverything about my job. One of these days I'll have a newspaper of myown, and you shall censor every word that goes in it. "

"Help! Help!" she laughed. "I shouldn't have the time for anything else;not even for being in love with the proprietor. Ban, " she addedwistfully, "does it cost a very great deal to start a new paper?"

"Yes. Or to buy an old one. "

"I have money of my own, you know, " she ventured. 

He fondled her hand. "That isn't even a temptation, " he replied. 

But it was. For a paper of his own was farther away from him than it hadever been. That morning he had received his statement from his broker. To date his losses on Union Thread were close to ninety thousanddollars. 

Who shall measure the spreading and seeding potentialities of athistle-down or a catchy phrase? Within twenty-four hours after theappearance of Banneker's editorial, the apocryphal boast of Mayor Lairdto his wife had become current political history. Current? Rampant, rather. Messenger boys greeted each other with "Dearie, Mr. Masterscalls me Bob. " Brokers on 'Change shouted across a slow day's bidding, "What's your cute little pet name? Mine's Bobbie. " Huge buttons appearedwith miraculous celerity in the hands of the street venders inscribed, "Call me Bob but Vote for Marrineal"

Vainly did Judge Enderby come out with a statement to the press, declaring the whole matter a cheap and nasty fabrication, andchallenging The Patriot to cite its authority. The damage already donewas irreparable. Sighting Banneker at luncheon a few days later, HoraceVanney went so far as to cross the room to greet and congratulate him. 

"A master-stroke, " he said, pressing Banneker's hand with his soft palm. "We're glad to have you with us. Won't you call me up and lunch with mesoon?"

At The Retreat, after polo, that Saturday, the senior Masters metBanneker face to face in a hallway, and held him up. 

"Politics is politics. Eh?" he grunted. 

"It's a great game, " returned the journalist. 

"Think up that 'call-me-Bob' business yourself?"

"I got it from a reliable source. "

"Damn lie, " remarked Poultney Masters equably. "Did the work, though. Banneker, why didn't you let me know you were in the market?"

"In the stock-market? What has that--"

"_You_ know what market I mean, " retorted the great man with unconcealedcontempt. "What you don't know is your own game. Always seek the highestbidder before you sell, my boy. "

"I'll take that from no man--" began Banneker hotly. 

Immediately he was sensible of a phenomenon. His angry eyes, lifted toPoultney Masters's glistening little beads, were unable to endure thevicious amusement which he read therein. For the first time in his lifehe was stared down. He passed on, followed by a low and scornful hoot. 

Meeting Willis Enderby while charge and counter-charge still rilled theair, Io put the direct query to him:

"Cousin Billy, what is the truth about the Laird-Masters story?"

"Made up out of whole cloth, " responded Enderby. 

"Who made it up?"

Comprehension and pity were in his intonation as he replied: "NotBanneker, I understand. It was passed on to him. "

"Then you don't think him to blame?" she cried eagerly. 

"I can't exculpate him as readily as that. Such a story, considering itsinevitable--I may say its intended--consequences, should never have beenpublished without the fullest investigation. "

"Suppose"--she hesitated--"he had it on what he considered goodauthority?"

"He has never even cited his authority. "

"Couldn't it have been confidential?" she pleaded. 

"Io, do you know his authority? Has he told you?"

"No. "

Enderby's voice was very gentle as he put his next question. "Do youtrust Banneker, my dear?"

She met his regard, unflinchingly, but there was a piteous quiver aboutthe lips which formed the answer. "I have trusted him. Absolutely. "

"Ah; well! I've seen too much good and bad too inextricably mingled inhuman nature, to judge on part information. "

Election day came and passed. On the evening of it the streets wereribald with crowds gleefully shrieking! "Call me Dennis, wifie. I'mstung!" Laird had been badly beaten, running far behind Marrineal. Halloran, the ring candidate, was elected. Banneker did it. 

As he looked back on the incidents of the campaign and its culminatingevent with a sense of self-doubt poisoning his triumph, that which mostsickened him of his own course was not the overt insult from thefinancial emperor, but the soft-palmed gratulation of Horace Vanney. 

CHAPTER XIV

Ambition is the most conservative of influences upon a radical mind. Nosooner had Tertius Marrineal formulated his political hopes than therewere manifested in the conduct of The Patriot strange symptoms of ahankering after respectability. Essentially Marrineal was notrespectable, any more than he was radical. He was simply and singlyselfish. But, having mapped out for himself a career which did not stopshort of a stately and deep-porticoed edifice in Washington'sPennsylvania Avenue (for his conception of the potential leverage of agreat newspaper increased with The Patriot's circulation), he deemed itadvisable to moderate some of the more blatant features, on the sameprinciple which had induced him to reform the Veridian lumber millabuses, lest they be brought up to his political detriment later. Along-distance thinker, Tertius Marrineal. 

Operating through invisible channels and by a method which neitherBanneker nor Edmonds ever succeeded in fathoming, his influence nowbegan to be felt for the better tone of the news columns. They becameless glaringly sensational. Yet the quality of the news upon which thepaper specialized was the same; it was the handling which was insensiblyaltered. That this was achieved without adversely affecting circulationwas another proof, added to those already accumulated, of Marrineal'sreally eminent journalistic capacities. The change was the less obvious, because The Patriot's competitors in the Great Three-Ringed Circus ofSensation had found themselves being conducted, under that leadership, farther along the primrose path of stimulation and salaciousness thanthey had realized, and had already modified their policies. 

Even under the new policy, however, The Patriot would hardly haveproven, upon careful analysis, more decent or self-respecting. But itwas less obvious; cleverer in avoiding the openly offensive. Capron hadbeen curbed in his pictorial orgies. The copy-readers had been suppliedwith a list of words and terms tabooed from the captions. But theinfluence of Severance was still potent in the make-up of the news. While Banneker was relieved at the change, he suspected its impermanencyshould it prove unsuccessful. To neither his chief editorial writer norRussell Edmonds had the proprietor so much as hinted at the modificationof scheme. His silence to these two was part of his developing policy ofseparating more widely the different departments of the paper in orderthat he might be the more quietly and directly authoritative over all. 

The three men were lunching late at Delmonico's, and talking politics, when Edmonds leaned forward in his seat to look toward the entrance. 

"There's Severance, " said he. "What's the matter with him?"

The professional infuser of excitements approached walking carefullyamong the tables. His eyes burned in a white face. 

"On one of his sprees, " diagnosed Banneker. "Oh, Severance! Sit downhere. "

"I beg your p-p-pardon. " Severance spoke with marked deliberation anddelicacy, but with a faint stammer. "These not b-being office hours, Ihave not the p-pleasure of your acquaintance. "

Marrineal smiled. 

"The p-pale rictus of the damned, " observed Severance. "As one damnedsoul to another, I c-confess a longing for companionship of m-my ownsort. Therefore I accept your invitation. Waiter, a Scotch h-highball. "

"We were talking of--" began Banneker, when the newcomer broke in:

"Talk of m-me. Of me and m-my work. I exult in my w-work. L-like Mr. Whitman, I celebrate myself. I p-point with pride. What think you, gentlemen, of to-day's paper in honor of which I have t-taken my fewdrinks?"

"If you mean the Territon story, " growled Edmonds, "it's rotten. "

"Precisely. I thank you for your g-golden opinion. Rotten. Exactly asintended. "

"Put a woman's good name on trial and sentence it on hearsay withoutappeal or recourse. "

"There is always the danger of going too far along those lines, " pointedout Marrineal judicially. 

"Pardon me, all-wise Proprietor. The d-danger lies in not going farenough. The frightful p-peril of being found dull. "

"The Territon story assays too thin in facts, as we've put it out. IfMrs. Territon doesn't leave her husband now for McLaurin, " opinedMarrineal, "we are in a difficult position. I happen to know her and Ivery much doubt--"

"Doubt not at all, d-doubting Tertius. The very fact of our publishingthe story will force her hand. It's an achievement, that story. No otherp-paper has a line of it. "

"Not more than one other would touch it, in its present form, " saidBanneker. "It's too raw. "

"The more virtue to us. I r-regard that story as an inspiration. Nobodycould have brought it off b-but me. 'A god, a god their Severanceruled, '" punned the owner of the name. 

"Beelzebub, god of filth and maggots, " snarled Edmonds. 

"Bacchus, god of all true inspiration!" cried Severance. "Waiter, slaveof B-Bacchus, where is my Scotch?"

"Severance, you're going too far along your chosen line, " declaredBanneker bluntly. 

"Yes; we must tone down a little, " agreed Marrineal. 

The sensationalist lifted calmly luminous eyes to his chief. "Why?" hequeried softly. "Are you meditating a change? Does the journalisticl-lady of easy virtue begin to yearn f-for the paths of respectability?"

"Steady, Severance, " warned Edmonds. 

At the touch of the curb the other flamed into still, white wrath. "Ifyou're going to be a whore, " he said deliberately, "play the whore'sgame. I'm one and I know it. Banneker's one, but hasn't the courage toface it. You're one, Edmonds--no, you're not; not even that. You're thehallboy that f-fetches the drinks--"

Marrineal had risen. Severance turned upon him. 

"I salute you, Madam of our high-class establishment. When you take yourp-price, you at least look the business in the face. No illusions forM-Madam Marrineal. . . . By the w-way, I resign from the house. "

"Are you coming, Mr. Edmonds?" said Marrineal. "You'll sign the checkfor me, will you, Mr. Banneker?"

Left alone with the disciple of Bacchus and Beelzebub, the editor said:

"Better get home, Severance. Come in to-morrow, will you?"

"No. I'm q-quite in earnest about resigning. No further use for thedamned j-job now. "

"I never could see why you had any use for it in the first place. Was itmoney?"

"Of course. "

"Oh, I see. "

"You d-don't see at all. I wanted the m-money for a purpose. The purposewas a woman. I w-wanted to keep pace with her and her s-set. It was theset to which I rightly belonged, but I'd dropped out. I thought Ip-preferred drink. I didn't after she got hold of me. I d-don't know whythe d-devil I'm telling you all this. "

"I'm sorry, Severance, " said Banneker honestly. 

The other raised his glass. "Here's to her, " he said. He drank. "I wishher nothing w-worse than she's got. Her name is--"

"Wait a moment, Severance, " cut in Banneker sharply. "Don't say anythingthat you'll regret. Naming of names--"

"Oh, there's no harm in this, n-now, " said Severance wearily. "Hers issmeared in filth all over our third page. It is Maud Territon. What doyou think of P-Patriotic journalism, anyway, Banneker?"

CHAPTER XV

With the accession to political control of Halloran and the old ring, the influence of Horace Vanney and those whom he represented, became aspotent as it was secret. "Salutary measures" had been adopted toward thegarment-workers; a "firm hand" on the part of the police had succeededin holding down the strike through the fall and winter; but in the earlyspring it was revived and spread throughout the city, even to the doorsof the shopping district. In another sense than the geographical it wasnearing the great department stores, for quiet efforts were being madeby some of the strike leaders to organize and unionize the underpaidsalesmen and saleswomen of the shops. Inevitably this drew into activehostility to the strikers the whole power of the stores with theirimmense advertising influence. 

Very little news of the strike got into the papers except where someclash with the police was of too great magnitude to be ignored; then thetrend of the articles was generally hostile to the strikers. The Spherepublished the facts briefly, as a matter of journalistic principle; TheLedger published them with violent bias, as a matter of journalistichabit; the other papers, including The Patriot, suppressed or minimizedto as great an extent as they deemed feasible. 

That the troubles of some thousands of sweated wage-earners, employedupon classes of machine-made clothing which would never come within theken of the delicately clad women of her world, could in any manneraffect Io Eyre, was most improbable. But the minor fate who manipulatesimprobabilities elected that she should be in a downtown store at themoment when a squad of mounted police charged a crowd of girl-strikers. Hearing the scream of panic, she ran out, saw ignorant, wild-eyed girls, hardly more than children, beaten down, trampled, hurried hither andthither, seized upon and thrown into patrol wagons, and when she reachedher car, sick and furious, found an eighteen-year-old Lithuanian blondeflopping against the rear fender in a dead faint. Strong as a youngpanther, Io picked up the derelict in her arms, hoisted her into thetonneau, and bade the disgusted chauffeur, "Home. " What she heard fromthe revived girl, in the talk which followed, sent her, hot-hearted, tothe police court where the arrests would be brought up for primaryjudgment. 

The first person that she met there was Willis Enderby. 

"If you're on this strike case, Cousin Billy, " she said, "I'm againstyou, and I'm ashamed of you. "

"You probably aren't the former, and you needn't be the latter, " hereplied. 

"Aren't you Mr. Vanney's lawyer? And isn't he interested in the strike?"

"Not openly. It happens that I'm here for the strikers. "

Io stared, incredulous. "For the strikers? You mean that they'veretained you?"

"Oh, no. I'm really here in my capacity as President of the LawEnforcement Society; to see that these women get the full protection ofthe law, to which they are entitled. There is reason to believe thatthey haven't had it. And you?"

Io told him. 

"Are you willing to go on the stand?"

"Certainly; if it will do any good. "

"Not much, so far as the case goes. But it will force it into thenewspapers. 'Society Leader Takes Part of Working-Girls, ' and so-on. Thepublicity will be useful. "

The magistrate on the bench was lenient; dismissed most of the prisonerswith a warning against picketing; fined a few; sent two to jail. Heseemed surprised and not a little impressed by the distinguished Mrs. Delavan Eyre's appearance in the proceedings, and sent word out to thereporters' room, thereby breaking up a game of pinochle at its point ofhighest interest. There was a man there from The Patriot. 

With eager expectation Io, back in her Philadelphia apartment, sent outfor a copy of the New York Patriot. Greatly to her disgust she foundherself headlined, half-toned, described; but with very little about theoccasion of her testimony, a mere mention of the strike and nothingwhatsoever regarding the police brutalities which had so stirred herwrath. Io discovered that she had lost her taste for publicity, in agreater interest. Her first thought was to write Banneker indignantly;her second to ask explanations when he called her on the 'phone as henow did every noon; her third to let the matter stand until she went toNew York and saw him. On her arrival, several days later, she wentdirect to his office. Banneker's chief interest, next to hisever-thrilling delight in seeing her, was in the part played by WillisEnderby. 

"What is he doing in that galley?" he wondered. 

To her explanation he shook his head. Something more than that, he wassure. Asking Io's permission he sent for Russell Edmonds. 

"Isn't this a new role for Enderby?" he asked. 

"Not at all. He's been doing this sort of thing always. Usually on thequiet. "

"The fact that this is far from being on the quiet suggests politics, doesn't it? Making up to the labor vote?"

"What on earth should Cousin Billy care for the labor vote?" demandedIo. "Mr. Laird is dead politically, isn't he?"

"But Judge Enderby isn't. Mr. Edmonds will tell you that much. "

"True enough. Enderby is a man to be reckoned with. Particularly if--"Edmonds paused, hesitant. 

"If--" prompted Banneker. "Fire ahead, Pop. "

"If Marrineal should declare in on the race for the governorship, nextfall. "

"Without any state organization? Is that probable?" asked Banneker. 

"Only in case he should make a combination with the old ring crowd, whoare, naturally, grateful for his aid in putting over Halloran for them. It's quite within the possibilities. "

"After the way The Patriot and Mr. Marrineal himself have flayed thering?" exclaimed Io. "It isn't possible. How could he so go back onhimself?"

Edmonds turned his fine and serious smile upon her. "Mr. Marrineal'sguiding principle of politics _and_ journalism is that the public neverremembers. If he persuades the ring to nominate him, Enderby is thelogical candidate against him. In my belief he's the only man who couldbeat him. "

"Do you really think, Mr. Edmonds, that Judge Enderby's help to thearrested women is a political move?"

"That's the way it would be interpreted by all the politicians. Personally, I don't believe it. "

"His sympathies, professional and personal, are naturally on the otherside, " pointed out Banneker. 

"But not yours, surely Ban!" cried Io. "Yours ought to be with them. Ifyou could have seen them as I did, helpless and panic-stricken, with thehorses pressing in on them--"

"Of course I'm with them, " warmly retorted Banneker. "If I controlledthe news columns of the paper, I'd make another Sippiac Mills story ofthis. " No sooner had he said it than he foresaw to what reply he hadinevitably laid himself open. It came from Io's lips. 

"You control the editorial column, Ban. "

"It's a subject to be handled in the news, not the editorials, " he saidhastily. 

The silence that fell was presently relieved by Edmonds. "It's alsobeing handled in the advertising columns. Have you seen the series ofannouncements by the Garment Manufacturers' Association? There are fourof 'em now in proof. "

"No. I haven't seen them, " answered Banneker. 

"They're able. But on the whole they aren't as able as the strikers'declaration in rebuttal, offered us to-day, one-third of a page atregular advertising rates, same as the manufacturers'. "

"Enderby?" queried Banneker quickly. 

"I seem to detect his fine legal hand in it. "

Banneker's face became moody. "I suppose Haring refused to publish it. "

"No. Haring's for taking it. "

"How is that?" said the editor, astonished. "I thought Haring--"

"You think of Haring as if Haring thought as you and I think. That isn'tfair, " declared Edmonds. "Haring's got a business mind, straight withinits limitations. He accepts this strike stuff just as he acceptsblue-sky mine fakes and cancer cures in which he has no belief, becausehe considers that a newspaper is justified in taking any ad. That isoffered--and let the reader beware. Besides, it goes against his grainto turn down real money. "

"Will it appear in to-morrow's paper?" questioned Io. 

"Probably, if it appears at all. "

"Why the 'if'?" said Banneker. "Since Haring has passed it--"

"There is also Marrineal. "

"Haring sent it to him?"

"Not at all. The useful and ubiquitous Ives, snooping as usual, cameupon it. Hence it is now in Marrineal's hands. Likely to remain there, Ishould think. "

"Mr. Marrineal won't let it be published?" asked Io. 

"That's my guess, " returned the veteran. 

"And mine, " added Banneker. 

He felt her eyes of mute appeal fixed on him and read her meaning. 

"All right, Io, " he promised quietly. "If Mr. Marrineal won't print itin advertising, I'll print it as editorial. "

"When?" Io and Edmonds spoke in one breath. 

"Day after to-morrow. "

"That's war, " said Edmonds. 

"In a good cause, " declared Io proudly. 

"The cause of the independence of Errol Banneker, " said the veteran. "Itwas bound to come. Go in and win, son. I'll get you a proof of the ad. "

"Ban!" said Io with brightened regard. 

"Well?"

"Will you put something at the head of your column for me, if thateditorial appears?"

"What? Wait! I know. The quotation from the Areopagitica. Is that it?"

"Yes. "

"Fine! I'll do it. "

On the following morning The Patriot appeared as usual. The first of theManufacturers' Association arguments to the public was conspicuouslydisplayed. Of the strikers' reply--not a syllable. Banneker went toHaring's office; found the business manager gloomy, but resigned. 

"Mr. Marrineal turned it down. He's got the right. That's all there isto it, " was his version. 

"Not quite, " remarked Banneker, and went home to prove it. 

Into the editorial which was to constitute the declaration of ErrolBanneker's independence went much thinking, and little writing. Thepronunciamento of the strikers, prefaced by a few words of explanation, and followed by some ringing sentences as to the universal right to afair field, was enough. At the top of the column the words of Milton, insmall, bold print. Across the completed copy he wrote "Thursday. Must. "

Never had Banneker felt in finer fettle for war than when he awoke thatThursday morning. Contrary to his usual custom, he did not even look atthe copy of The Patriot brought to his breakfast table; he wanted tohave that editorial fresh to eye and mind when Marrineal called him toaccount for it. For this was a challenge which Marrineal could notignore. He breakfasted with a copy of "The Undying Voices" proppedbehind his coffee cup, refreshing himself before battle with thedelights of allusive memory, bringing back the days when he and lo hadread and discovered together. It was noon when he reached the office. 

From the boy at the entrance he learned that Mr. Marrineal had come in. Doubtless he would find a summons on his desk. None was there. PerhapsMarrineal would come to him. He waited. Nothing. Taking up the routineof the day, he turned to his proofs, with a view to laying out hisschedule. 

The top one was his editorial on the strikers' cause. 

Across it was blue-penciled the word "Killed. "

Banneker snatched up the morning's issue. The editorial was not there. In its place he read, from the top of the column: "And though all thewinds of doctrine blow"--and so on, to the close of Milton's proudchallenge, followed by:

"Would You Let Your Baby Drink Carbolic?"

For the strike editorial had been substituted one of Banneker's typical"mother-fetchers, " as he termed them, very useful in their way, andhighly approved by the local health authorities. This one was on thesubject of pure milk. Its association with the excerpt from theAreopagitica (which, having been set for a standing head, was not cutout by the "Killed") set the final touch of irony upon the matter. Evenin his fury Banneker laughed. 

He next considered the handwriting of the blue-penciled monosyllable. Itwas not Marrineal's blunt, backhand script. Whose was it? Haring's?Trailing the proof in his hand he went to the business manager's room. 

"Did you kill this?"

"Yes. " Haring got to his feet, white and shaking. "For God's sake, Mr. Banneker--"

"I'm not going to hurt you--yet. By what right did you do it?"

"Orders. "

"Marrineal's?"

"Yes. "

With no further word, Banneker strode to the owner's office, pushed openthe door, and entered. Marrineal looked up, slightly frowning. 

"Did you kill this editorial?"

Marrineal's frown changed to a smile. "Sit down, Mr. Banneker. "

"Marrineal, did you kill my editorial?"

"Isn't your tone a trifle peremptory, for an employee?"

"It won't take more than five seconds for me to cease to be anemployee, " said Banneker grimly. 

"Ah? I trust you're not thinking of resigning. By the way, some reportercalled on me last week to confirm a rumor that you were about to resign. Let me see; what paper? Ah; yes; it wasn't a newspaper, at least, notexactly. The Searchlight. I told her--it happened to be a woman--thatthe story was quite absurd. "

Something in the nature of a cold trickle seemed to be flowing betweenBanneker's brain and his tongue. He said with effort, "Will you be goodenough to answer my question?"

"Certainly. Mr. Banneker, that was an ill-advised editorial. Or, rather, an ill-timed one. I didn't wish it published until we had time to talkit over. "

"We could have talked it over yesterday. "

"But I understood that you were busy with callers yesterday. Thatcharming Mrs. Eyre, who, by the way, is interested in the strikers, isn't she? Or was it the day before yesterday that she was here?"

The Searchlight! And now Io Eyre! No doubt of what Marrineal meant. Thecold trickle had passed down Banneker's spine, and settled at his kneesmaking them quite unreliable. Inexplicably it still remained to paralyzehis tongue. 

"We're reasonable men, you and I, Mr. Banneker, " pursued Marrineal inhis quiet, detached tones. "This is the first time I have everinterfered. You must do me the justice to admit that. Probably it willbe the last. But in this case it was really necessary. Shall we talk itover later?"

"Yes, " said Banneker listlessly. 

In the hallway he ran into somebody, who cursed him, and then said, oh, he hadn't noticed who it was; Pop Edmonds. Edmonds disappeared intoMarrineal's office. Banneker regained his desk and sat staring at thekilled proof. He thought vaguely that he could appreciate the sensationof a man caught by an octopus. Yet Marrineal didn't look like anoctopus. . . . What did he look like? What was that subtle resemblancewhich had eluded him in the first days of their acquaintanceship? Thatemanation of chill quietude; those stagnant eyes?

He had it now! It dated back to his boyhood days. A crawlingterror which, having escaped from a menagerie, had taken refugein a pool, and there fixed its grip upon an unfortunate calf, anddragged--dragged--dragged the shrieking creature, until it went under. A crocodile. 

His reverie was broken by the irruption of Russell Edmonds. An inch ofthe stem of the veteran's dainty little pipe was clenched firmly betweenhis teeth; but there was no bowl. 

"Where's the rest of your pipe?" asked Banneker, stupefied by thisphenomenon. 

"I've resigned, " said Edmonds. 

"God! I wish I could, " muttered Banneker. 

CHAPTER XVI

Explanations were now due to two people, Io and Willis Enderby. As toIo, Banneker felt an inner conviction of strength. Hopeless though hewas of making his course appear in any other light than that ofsurrender, nevertheless he could tell himself that it was really donefor her, to protect her name. But he could not tell her this. He knewtoo well what the answer of that high and proud spirit of hers would be;that if their anomalous relationship was hampering his freedom, dividinghis conscience, the only course of honor was for them to stop seeingeach other at no matter what cost of suffering; let Banneker resign, ifthat were his rightful course, and tell The Searchlight to do its worst. Yes; such would be Io's idea of playing the game. He could not force it. He must argue with her, if at all, on the plea of expediency. And to herforthright and uncompromising fearlessness, expediency was in itself thepoorest of expedients. At the last, there was her love for him to appealto. But would Io love where she could not trust?. . . He turned from thatthought. 

As an alternative subject for consideration, Willis Enderby was hardlymore assuring and even more perplexing. True, Banneker owed noexplanation to him; but for his own satisfaction of mind he must have itout with the lawyer. He had a profound admiration for Enderby and knewthat this was in a measure reciprocated by a patent and almost wistfulliking, curious in a person as reserved as Enderby. He cherished a vagueimpression that somehow Enderby would understand. Or, at least, that hewould want to understand. Consequently he was not surprised when thelawyer called him up and asked him to come that evening to the Enderbyhouse. He went at once to the point. 

"Banneker, do you know anything of an advertisement by the strikinggarment-workers, which The Patriot first accepted and afterward refusedto print?"

"Yes. "

"Are you at liberty to tell me why?"

"In confidence. "

"That is implied. "

"Mr. Marrineal ordered it killed. "

"Ah! It was Marrineal himself. The advocate of the Common People! Thefriend of Labor!"

"Admirable campaign material, " observed Banneker composedly, "if it werepossible to use it. "

"Which, of course, it isn't; being confidential, " Enderby capped thethought. "I hear that Russell Edmonds has resigned. "

"That is true. "

"In consequence of the rejected advertisement?"

Banneker sat silent so long that his host began: "Perhaps I shouldn'thave asked that--"

"I'm going to tell you exactly what occurred, " said Banneker quietly, and outlined the episode of the editorial, suppressing, however, Marrineal's covert threat as to Io and The Searchlight. "And _I_ haven'tresigned. So you see what manner of man I am, " he concluded defiantly. 

"You mean a coward? I don't think it. "

"I wish I were sure!" burst out Banneker. 

"Ah? That's hard, when the soul doesn't know itself. Is it money?" Thecrisp, clear voice had softened to a great kindliness. "Are you in debt, my boy?"

"No. Yes; I am. I'd forgotten. That doesn't matter. "

"Apparently not. " The lawyer's heavy brows went up, "More serious thanmoney, " he commented. 

Banneker recognized the light of suspicion, comprehension, confirmationin the keen and fine visage turned upon him. Enderby continued:

"Well, there are matters that can be talked of and other matters thatcan't be talked of. But if you ever feel that you want the advice of aman who has seen human nature on a good many sides, and has learned notto judge too harshly of it, come to me. The only counsel I ever givegratis to those who can pay for it"--he smiled faintly--"is the kindthat may be too valuable to sell. "

"But I'd like to know, " said Banneker slowly, "why you don't think me ayellow dog for not resigning. "

"Because, in your heart you don't think yourself one. Speaking of thatinteresting species, I suppose you know that your principal is workingfor the governorship. "

"Will he get the nomination?"

"Quite possibly. Unless I can beat him for it. I'll tell you privately Imay be the opposing candidate. Not that the party loves me any too much;but I'm at least respectable, fairly strong up-State, and they'll takewhat they have to in order to beat Marrineal, who is forcing himselfdown their throats. "

"A pleasant prospect for me, " gloomed Banneker. "I'll have to fightyou. "

"Go ahead and fight, " returned the other heartily. "It won't be thefirst time. "

"At least, I want you to know that it'll be fair fight. "

"No 'Junior-called-me-Bob' trick this time?" smiled Enderby. 

Banneker flushed and winced. "No, " he answered. "Next time I'll be sureof my facts. Good-night and good luck. I hope you beat us. "

As he turned the corner into Fifth Avenue a thought struck him. He madethe round of the block, came up the side of the street opposite, and meta stroller having all the ear-marks of the private detective. To thinkof a man of Judge Enderby's character being continuously "spotted" forthe mean design of an Ely Ives filled Banneker with a sick fury. Hisfirst thought was to return and tell Enderby. But to what purpose? Afterall, what possible harm could Ives's plotting and sneaking do to a manof the lawyer's rectitude? Banneker returned to The House With ThreeEyes and his unceasing work. 

The interview with Enderby had lightened his spirit. The older man'scandor, his tolerance, his clear charity of judgment, his sympatheticcomprehension were soothing and reassuring. But there was anothertrouble yet to be faced. It was three days since the editorial appearedand he had heard no word from Io. Each noon when he called on thelong-distance 'phone, she had been out, an unprecedented change from hereager waiting to hear the daily voice on the wire. Should he write? No;it was too difficult and dangerous for that. He must talk it out withher, face to face, when the time came. 

Meantime there was Russell Edmonds. He found the veteran cleaning outhis desk preparatory to departure. 

"You can't know how it hurts to see you go, Pop, " he said sadly. "What'syour next step?"

"The Sphere. They want me to do a special series, out around thecountry. "

"Aren't they pretty conservative for your ideas?"

Edmonds, ruminating over a pipe even smaller and more fragile than theone sacrificed to his rage and disgust, the day of his resignation, gaveutterance to a profound truth:

"What's the difference whether a newspaper is radical or conservative, Ban, if it tells the truth? That's the whole test and touchstone; togive news honestly. The rest will take care of itself. Compared to usThe Sphere crowd are conservative. But they're honest. And they're notafraid. "

"Yes. They're honest, and not afraid--because they don't have to be, "said Banneker, in a tone so somber that his friend said quickly:

"I didn't mean that for you, son. "

"Well, if I've gone wrong, I've got my punishment before me, " pursuedthe other with increased gloom. "Having to work for Marrineal andfurther his plans, after knowing him as I know him now--that's a refinedspecies of retribution, Pop. "

"I know; I know. You've got to stick and wait your chance, and hold yourfollowing until you can get your own newspaper. Then, " said RussellEdmonds with the glory of an inspired vision shining in his weary eyes, "you can tell 'em all to go to hell. Oh, for a paper of our own kindthat's really independent; that don't care a hoot for anything except toget the news and get it straight, and interpret it straight; that don'thave to be afraid of anything but not being honest!"

"Pop, " said Banneker, spiritlessly, "what's the use? How do we know wearen't chasing a rainbow? How do we know people _want_ an honest paperor would know one if they saw it?"

"My God, son! Don't talk like that, " implored the veteran. "That's theone heresy for which men in our game are eternally damned--and deserveit. "

"All right. I know it. I don't mean it, Pop. I'm not adoptingMarrineal's creed. Not just yet. "

"By the way, Marrineal was asking for you this morning. "

"Was he? I'll look him up. Perhaps he's going to fire me. I wish hewould. "

"Catch him!" grunted the other, reverting to his task. "More likelygoing to raise your salary. "

As between the two surmises, Edmonds's was the nearer the truth. Urbaneas always, the proprietor of The Patriot waved his editor to a seat, remarking, "I hope you'll sit down this time, " the slightly ironicaltinge to the final words being, in the course of the interview, his onlyreference to their previous encounter. Wondering dully whether Marrinealcould have any idea of the murderous hatred which he inspired, Bannekertook the nearest chair and waited. After some discussion as to thepolicy of the paper in respect to the strike, which was on the point ofsettlement by compromise, Marrineal set his delicate fingers point topoint and said:

"I want to talk to you about the future. "

"I'm listening, " returned Banneker uncompromisingly. 

"Your ultimate ambition is to own and control a newspaper of your own, isn't it?"

"Why do you think that?"

Marrineal's slow, sparse smile hardly moved his lips. "It's in characterthat you should. What else is there for you?"

"Well?"

"Have you ever thought of The Patriot?"

Involuntarily Banneker straightened in his chair. "Is The Patriot in themarket?"

"Hardly. That isn't what I have in mind. "

"Will you kindly be more explicit?"

"Mr. Banneker, I intend to be the next governor of this State. "

"I might quote a proverb on that point, " returned the editorunpleasantly. 

"Yes; and I might cap your cup-and-lip proverb with another as to theeffect of money as a stimulus in a horse-race. "

"I have no doubts as to your financial capacity. "

"My organization is building up through the State. I've got the countrynewspapers in a friendly, not to say expectant, mood. There's just oneman I'm afraid of. "

"Judge Enderby?"

"Exactly. "

"I should think he would be an admirable nominee. "

"As an individual you are at liberty to hold such opinions as youplease. As editor of The Patriot--"

"I am to support The Patriot candidate and owner. Did you send for me totell me that, Mr. Marrineal? I'm not altogether an idiot, pleaseremember. "

"You are a friend of Judge Enderby. "

"If I am, that is a personal, not a political matter. No matter how muchI might prefer to see him the candidate of the party"--Banneker spokewith cold deliberation--"I should not stultify myself or the paper bysupporting him against the paper's owner. "

"That is satisfactory. " Marrineal swallowed the affront without a gulp. "To continue. If I am elected governor, nothing on earth can prevent mybeing the presidential nominee two years later. "

Equally appalled and amused by the enormous egotism of the man thussuddenly revealed, Banneker studied him in silence. 

"Nothing in the world, " repeated the other. "I have the political gamefigured out to an exact science. I know how to shape my policies, how toget the money backing I need, how to handle the farmer and labor. It maybe news to you to know that I now control eight of the leading farmjournals of the country and half a dozen labor organs. However, this isbeside the question. My point with you is this. With my election asgovernor, my chief interest in The Patriot ceases. The paper will haveset me on the road; I'll do the rest. Reserving only the right todetermine certain very broad policies, I purpose to turn over thecontrol of The Patriot to you. "

"To me!" said Banneker, thunderstruck. 

"Provided I am elected governor, " said Marrineal. "Which dependslargely--yes, almost entirely--on the elimination of Judge Enderby. "

"What are you asking me to do?" demanded Banneker, genuinely puzzled. 

"Absolutely nothing. As my right-hand man on the paper, you are entitledto know my plans, particularly as they affect you. I can add that when Ireach the White House"--this with sublime confidence--"the paper will befor sale and you may have the option on it. "

Banneker's brain seemed filled with flashes of light, as he returned tohis desk. He sat there, deep-slumped in his chair, thinking, planning, suspecting, plumbing for the depths of Marrineal's design, and above allfilled with an elate ambition. Not that he believed for a moment inMarrineal's absurd and megalomaniacal visions of the presidency. But thegovernorship; that indeed was possible enough; and that would mean afree hand for Banneker for the term. What might he not do with ThePatriot in that time!. . . An insistent and obtrusive disturbance to hisprofound cogitation troubled him. What was it that seemed to be settingforth a claim to divide his attention? Ah, the telephone. He thrust itaside, but it would not be silenced. Well . . . What. . . . The discreetvoice of his man said that a telegram had come for him. All right (withimpatience); read it over the wire. The message, thus delivered inmechanical tones, struck from his mind the lesser considerations which amoment before had glowed with such shifting and troublous glory. 

D. Died this morning. Will write. I. 

CHAPTER XVII

Work, incessant and of savage ardor, now filled Banneker's life. Oncemore he immersed himself in it as assuagement to the emptiness of longdays and the yearning of longer nights. For, in the three months sinceDelavan Eyre's death, Banneker had seen Io but once, and then verybriefly. Instead of subduing her loveliness, the mourning garb enhancedand enriched it, like a jet setting to a glowing jewel. Moreirresistibly than ever she was

". . . . . . . . . . . . That Lady Beauty in whose praiseThe voice and hand shake still"--

but there was something about her withdrawn, aloof of spirit, which hedared not override or even challenge. She spoke briefly of Eyre, withoutany pretense of great sorrow, dwelling with a kindled eye on that whichshe had found admirable in him; his high and steadfast courage throughatrocious suffering until darkness settled down on his mind. Her ownplans were definite; she was going away with the elder Mrs. Eyre to arest resort. Of The Patriot and its progress she talked with interest, but her questions were general and did not touch upon the matter of thesurrendered editorial. Was she purposely avoiding it or had it passedfrom her mind in the stress of more personal events? Banneker would haveliked to know, but deemed it better not to ask. Once he tried to elicitfrom her some indication of when she would marry him; but from thisdecision she exhibited a covert and inexplicable shrinking. This hemight attribute, if he chose, to that innate and sound formalism whichwould always lead her to observe the rules of the game; if from nospecial respect for them as such, then out of deference to theprejudices of others. Nevertheless, he experienced a gnawinguncertainty, amounting to a half-confessed dread. 

Yet, at the moment of parting, she came to his arms, clung to him, gavehim her lips passionately, longingly; bade him write, for his letterswould be all that there was to keep life radiant for her. . . . 

Through some perverse kink in his mental processes, he found itdifficult to write to Io, in the succeeding weeks and months, duringwhich she devotedly accompanied the failing Mrs. Eyre from rest cure tosanitarium, about his work on The Patriot. That interplay of interestbetween them in his editorial plans and purposes, which had sostimulated and inspired him, was checked. The mutual current had ceasedto flash; at least, so he felt. Had the wretched affair of his forfeitedpromise in the matter of the strike announcement destroyed one bondbetween them? Even were this true, there were other bonds, of the spiritand therefore irrefragable, to hold her to him; thus he comforted hisanxious hopes. 

Because their community of interest in his work had lapsed, Bannekerfound the savor oozing out of his toil. Monotony sang its dispiritingdrone in his ears. He flung himself into polo with reawakened vim, androused the hopes of The Retreat for the coming season, until an unluckyspill broke two ribs and dislocated a shoulder. Restless in the physicalidleness of his mending days, he took to drifting about in the whirlsand ripples and backwaters of the city life, out of which wanderingsgrew a new series of the "Vagrancies, " more quaint and delicate andtrenchant than the originals because done with a pen under perfectedmastery, without losing anything of the earlier simplicity and sympathy. In this work, Banneker found relief; and in Io's delight in it, areflected joy that lent fresh impetus to his special genius. The GreatGaines enthusiastically accepted the new sketches for his magazine. 

Whatever ebbing of fervor from his daily task Banneker might feel, hispublic was conscious of no change for the worse. Letters ofcommendation, objection, denunciation, and hysteria, most convincingevidence of an editor's sway over the public mind, increased weekly. So, also, did the circulation of The Patriot, and its advertising revenue. Its course in the garment strike had satisfied the heavy localadvertisers of its responsibility and repentance for sins past; theytestified, by material support, to their appreciation. Banneker'sstrongly pro-labor editorials they read with the mental commentary thatprobably The Patriot had to do that kind of thing to hold itscirculation; but it could be depended upon to be "right" when the pinchcame. Marrineal would see to that. 

Since the episode of the killed proof, Marrineal had pursued a hands-offpolicy with regard to the editorial page. The labor editorials suitedhim admirably. They were daily winning back to the paper the support ofMarrineal's pet "common people" who had been alienated by its course inthe strike, for McClintick and other leaders had been sedulouslyspreading the story of the rejected strikers' advertisement. But, itappeared, Marrineal's estimate of the public's memory was correct: "Theynever remember. " Banneker's skillful and vehement preachments againstWall Street, money domination of the masses, and the like, went far towipe out the inherent anti-labor record of the paper and its owner. Hardly a day passed that some working-man's union or club did not passresolutions of confidence and esteem for Tertius C. Marrineal and ThePatriot. It amused Marrineal almost as much as it gratified him. As apolitical asset it was invaluable. His one cause of complaint againstthe editorial page was that it would not attack Judge Enderby, except ongeneral political or economic principles. And the forte of The Patriotin attack did not consist in polite and amenable forensics. Its readerswere accustomed to the methods of the prize-ring rather than thedebating platform. However, Marrineal made up for his editorial writer'slukewarmness, by the vigor of his own attacks upon Enderby. For, byearly summer, it became evident that the nomination (and probableelection) lay between these two opponents. Enderby was organizing astrong campaign. So competent and unbiased an observer of politicalevents as Russell Edmonds, now on The Sphere, believed that Marrinealwould be beaten. Shrewd, notwithstanding his egotism, Marrinealentertained a growing dread of this outcome himself. Through roundaboutchannels, he let his chief editorial writer understand that, when thefinal onset was timed, The Patriot's editorial page would be expected tolead the charge with the "spear that knows no brother. " Banneker wouldappreciate that his own interests, almost as much as his chief's, werecommitted to the overthrow of Willis Enderby. 

It was not a happy time for the Editor of The Patriot. 

Happiness promised for the near future, however. Wearied of chasing aphantom hope of health from spot to spot, the elder Mrs. Eyre hadfinally elected to settle down for the summer at her Westchester place. For obvious reasons, Io did not wish Banneker to come there. But shewould plan to see him in town. Only, they must be very discreet; perhapseven to the extent of having a third person dine with them, herhalf-brother Archie, or Esther Forbes. Any one, any time, anywhere, Banneker wrote back, provided only he could see her again!

The day that she came to town, having arranged to meet Banneker fordinner with Esther, fate struck from another and unexpected quarter. Such was Banneker's appearance when he came forward to greet her that Iocried out involuntarily, asking if he were ill. 

"_I_'m not, " he answered briefly. Then, with a forced smile of appeal tothe third member, "Do you mind, Esther, if I talk to Io on a privatematter?"

"Go as near as you like, " returned that understanding young personpromptly. "I'm consumed with a desire to converse with Elsie Maitland, who is dining in that very farthest corner. Back in an hour. "

"It's Camilla Van Arsdale, " said Banneker as the girl left. 

"You've heard from her?"

"From Mindle who looks after my shack there. He says she's very ill. I've got to go out there at once. "

"Oh, Ban!"

"I know, dearest, and after all these endless weeks of separation. Butyou wouldn't have me do otherwise. Would you?"

"Of course not, " she said indignantly. "When do you start?"

"At midnight. "

"And your work?"

"I'll send my stuff in by wire. "

"How long?"

"I can't tell until I get there. "

"Ban, you mustn't go, " she said with a changed tone. 

"Not go? To Miss Camilla? There's nothing--"

"I'll go. "

"You!"

"Why not? If she's seriously ill, she needs a woman, not a man withher. "

"But--but, Io, you don't even like her. "

"Heaven give you understanding, Ban, " she retorted with a bewitchingpretext of enforced patience. "She's a woman, and she was good to me inmy trouble. And if that weren't enough, she's your friend whom youlove. "

"I oughtn't to let you, " he hesitated. 

"You've got to let me. I'd go, anyway. Get Esther back. She must help mepack. Get me a drawing-room if you can. If not, I'll take your berth. "

"You're going to leave to-night?"

"Of course. What would you suppose?" She gave him her lustrous smile. "I'll love it, " she said softly, "because it's partly for you. "

The rest of the evening was consumed for Banneker in writing and wiring, arranging reservations through his influence with a local railroadofficial whom he pried loose from a rubber of bridge at his club; whileIo and Esther, dinnerless except for a hasty box of sandwiches, wereback in Westchester packing and explaining to Mrs. Eyre. When the threereconvened in Io's drawing-room the traveler was prepared for anindefinite stay. 

"If her condition is critical I'll wire for you, " promised lo. "Otherwise you mustn't come. "

With that he must make shift to be content; that and a swift clasp ofher arms, a clinging pressure of her lips, and her soft "Good-bye. Oh, good-bye! Love me every minute while I'm gone, " before the tactfulEsther Forbes, somewhat miscast in the temporary role of Propriety, returned from a conversation with the porter to say that they reallymust get off that very instant or be carried westward to the eternalscandal of society which would not understand a triangular elopement. 

Loneliness no longer beset Banneker, even though Io was fartherseparated from him than before in the unimportant reckoning ofgeographical miles; for now she was on his errand. He held her by thecontinuous thought of a vital common interest. In place of the formerbereavement of spirit was a new and consuming anxiety for Camilla VanArsdale. Io's first telegram from Manzanita went far to appease that. Miss Van Arsdale had suffered a severe shock, but was now on the road torecovery: Io would stay indefinitely: there was no reason for Banneker'scoming out for the present: in fact, the patient definitely prohibitedit: letter followed. 

The letter, when it came, forced a cry, as of physical pain, fromBanneker's throat. Camilla Van Arsdale was going blind. Some obscurereflex of the heart trouble had affected the blood supply of the eyes, and the shock of discovering this had reacted upon the heart. There wasno immediate danger; but neither was there ultimate hope of restoredvision. So much the eminent oculist whom Io had brought from AngelicaCity told her. 

Your first thought (wrote Io) will be to come out here at once. Don't. It will be much better for you to wait until she needs you more;until you can spend two or three weeks or a month with her. Now Ican help her through the days by reading to her and walking with her. You don't know how happy it makes me to be here where I first knewyou, to live over every event of those days. Your movable shack isalmost as it used to be, though there is no absurd steel boat outsidefor me to stumble into. 

Would you believe it; the new station-agent has a Sears-Roebuckcatalogue! I borrowed it of him to read. What, oh, what should asensible person--yes, I am a sensible person, Ban, outside of my lovefor you--and I'd scorn to be sensible about that--Where was I?Oh, yes; what should a sensible person find in these simple words"Two horse-power, reliable and smooth-running, economical of gasoline, "and so on, to make her want to cry? Ban, send me a copy of"The Voices. "

He sent her "The Undying Voices" and other books to read, and long, impassioned letters, and other letters to be read to Camilla Van Arsdalewhose waning vision must be spared in every possible way. 

Hour after hour (wrote Io) she sits at the piano and makes her wonderfulmusic, and tries to write it down. There I can be of very little help toher. Then she will go back into her room and lie on the big couch nearthe window where the young, low pines brush the wall, with Cousin Billy'sphotograph in her hands, and be so deathly quiet that I sometimes getfrightened and creep up to the door to peer in and be sure that she isall right. To-day when I looked in at the door I heard her say, quitesoftly to herself: "I shall die without seeing his face again. " I had tohold my breath and run out into the forest. Ban, I didn't know that itwas in me to cry so--not since that night on the train when I leftyou. . . . This all seems so wicked and wrong and--yes--wasteful. Think ofwhat these two splendid people could be to each other! She craves him so, Ban; just the sound of his voice, a word from him; but she won't breakher own word. Sometimes I think I shall do it. Write me all you can abouthim, Ban, and send papers: all the political matter. You can't imaginewhat it is to her only to hear about him. 

So Banneker had clippings collected, wrote a little daily politicalbulletin for Io; even went out of his way editorially to pay anoccasional handsome tribute to Judge Enderby's personal character, whilst adducing cogent reasons why, as the "Wall Street and tractioncandidate, " he should be defeated. But his personal opinion, expressedfor the behoof of his correspondents in Manzanita, was that he probablycould not be defeated; that his brilliant and aggressive campaign wasforcing Marrineal to a defensive and losing fight. 

"It is a great asset in politics, " wrote Banneker to Miss Camilla, "tohave nothing to hide or explain. If we're going to be licked, there isno man in the world whom I'd as gladly have win as Judge Enderby. "

All this, of course, in the manner of one having interesting politicalnews of no special import to the receiver of the news, to deliver; andquite without suggestion of any knowledge regarding her personal concernin the matter. 

But between the lines of Io's letters, full of womanly pity for CamillaVan Arsdale, of resentment for her thwarted and hopeless longing, Banneker thought to discern a crystallizing resolution. It would be solike Io's imperious temper to take the decision into her own hands, tobring about a meeting between the long-sundered lovers, to cast into thelonely and valiant woman's darkening life one brief and splendid glow ofwarmth and radiance. For to Io, a summons for Willis Enderby to comewould be no more than a defiance of the conventions. She knew nothing ofthe ruinous vengeance awaiting any breach of faith on his part, at thehands of a virulent and embittered wife; she did not even know that hiscoming would be a specific breach of faith, for Banneker, withheld byhis promise of secrecy to Russell Edmonds, had never told her. Nor hadhe betrayed to her the espionage under which Enderby constantly moved;he shrank, naturally, from adding so ignoble an item to the weight ofdisrepute under which The Patriot already lay, in her mind. Sooner orlater he must face the question from her of why he had not resignedrather than put his honor in pawn to the baser uses of the newspaper andits owner's ambitions. To that question there could be no answer. Hecould not throw the onus of it upon her, by revealing to her that thenecessity of protecting her name against the befoulment of TheSearchlight was the compelling motive of his passivity. That was notwithin Banneker's code. 

What, meantime, should be his course? Should he write and warn Io aboutEnderby? Could he make himself explicable without explaining too much?After all, what right had he to assume that she would gratuitouslyintermeddle in the disastrous fates of others? A rigorous respect forthe rights of privacy was written into the rules of the game as sheplayed it. He argued, with logic irrefutable as it was unconvincing, that this alone ought to stay her hand; yet he knew, by the power oftheir own yearning, one for the other, that in the great cause of love, whether for themselves or for Camilla Van Arsdale and Willis Enderby, she would resistlessly follow the impulse born and matured of her ownpassion. Had she not once before denied love . . . And to what end ofsuffering and bitter enlightenment and long waiting not yet ended! Yes;she would send for Willis Enderby. 

Thus, with the insight of love, he read the heart of the loved one. Self-interest lifted its specious voice now, in contravention. If shedid send, and if Judge Enderby went to Camilla Van Arsdale, as Bannekerknew surely that he would, and if Ely Ives's spies discovered it, theway was made plain and peaceful for Banneker. For, in that case, theblunderbuss of blackmail would be held to Enderby's head: he must, perforce, retire from the race on whatever pretext he might devise, under threat of a scandal which, in any case, would drive him out ofpublic life. Marrineal would be nominated, probably elected; control ofThe Patriot would pass into Banneker's hands; The Searchlight would thusbe held at bay until he and Io were married, for he could not reallydoubt that she would marry him, even though there lay between them anunexplained doubt and a seeming betrayal; and he could remould thedistorted and debased policies of The Patriot to his heart's desire ofan honest newspaper fearlessly presenting and supporting truth as he sawit. 

All this at no price of treachery; merely by leaving matters which were, in fact, no concern of his, to the arbitrament of whatever fates mightconcern themselves with such troublous matters; it was just a matter ofminding his own business and assuming that Io Eyre would do likewise. Soargued self-interest, plausible, persuasive. He went to bed with theargument still unsettled, and, because it seethed in his mind, reachedout to his reading-stand to cool his brain with the limpid philosophiesof Stevenson's "Virginibus Puerisque. "

"The cruellest lies are often told in silence, " he read--the veryletters of the words seemed to scorch his eyes with prophetic fires. "Aman may have sat in a room for hours and not opened his teeth and yetcome out of that room a disloyal friend or a vile calumniator. And howmany loves have perished, because from--"

Banneker sprang from his bed, shaking. He dressed himself, consulted hiswatch, wrote a brief, urgent line to Io, after 'phoning for a taxi;carried it to the station himself, assured, though only by a fewminutes' margin, of getting it into the latest Western mail, returned tobed and slept heavily and dreamlessly. . . . Not over the bodies of a lovedfriend and an honored foe would Errol Banneker climb to a place ofsafety for Io and triumph for himself. 

Mail takes four days to reach Manzanita from New York. 

Through the hot months The House With Three Eyes had kept its hospitableorbs darkened of Saturday nights. Therefore, Banneker was free to spendhis week-ends at The Retreat, and his Friday and Saturday mail wereforwarded to the nearest country post-office, whither he sent for it, orpicked it up on his way back to town. It was on Saturday evening that hereceived the letter from Io, saying that she had written to WillisEnderby to come on to Manzanita and let the eyes, for which he hadfilled life's whole horizon since first they met his, look on him oncemore before darkness shut down on them forever. Her letter had crossedBanneker's. 

"I know that he will come, " she wrote. "He must come. It would be toocruel . . . And I know his heart. "

Eight-thirty-six in the evening! And Io's letter to Enderby must havereached him in New York that morning. He would be taking the fast trainfor the West leaving at eleven. Banneker sent in a call on thelong-distance 'phone for Judge Enderby's house. The twelve-minute waitwas interminable to his grilling impatience. At length the placid tonesof Judge Enderby's man responded. Yes; the Judge was there. No; hecouldn't be disturbed on any account; very much occupied. 

"This is Mr. Banneker. I must speak to him for just a moment. It'svital. "

"Very sorry, sir, " responded the unmoved voice. "But Judge Enderby'sorders was absloot. Not to be disturbed on any account. "

"Tell him that Mr. Banneker has something of the utmost importance tosay to him before he leaves. "

"Sorry, sir. It'd be as much as my place is worth. "

Raging, Banneker nevertheless managed to control himself. "He is leavingon a trip to-night, is he not?"

After some hesitation the voice replied austerely: "I believe he is, sir. Good-bye. "

Banneker cursed Judge Enderby for a fool of rigid methods. It would behis own fault. Let him go to his destruction, then. He, Banneker, haddone all that was possible. He sank into a sort of lethargy, broodingover the fateful obstacles which had obstructed him in hisself-sacrificing pursuit of the right, as against his own dearestinterests. He might telegraph Io; but to what purpose? An idea flashedupon him; why not telegraph Enderby at his home? He composed messageafter message; tore them up as saying too much or too little; ultimatelydevised one that seemed to be sufficient, and hurried to his car, totake it in to the local operator. When he reached the village office itwas closed. He hurried to the home of the operator. Out. After two falsetrails, he located the man at a church sociable, and got the messageoff. It was then nearly ten o'clock. He had wasted precious moments inbrooding. Well, he had done all and more than could have been asked ofhim, let the event be what it would. 

His night was a succession of forebodings, dreamed or half-wakeful. Spent and dispirited, he rose at an hour quite out of accord with thehabits of The Retreat, sped his car to New York, and put his inquiry toJudge Enderby's man. 

Yes; the telegram had arrived. In time? No; it was delivered twentyminutes after the Judge had left for his train. 

CHAPTER XVIII

Sun-lulled into immobility, the desert around the lonely little stationof Manzanita smouldered and slumbered. Nothing was visibly changed fromfive years before, when Banneker left, except that another agent, adisillusioned-appearing young man with a corn-colored mustache, cameforth to meet the slow noon local, chuffing pantingly in under a badhead of alkali-water steam. A lone passenger, obviously Eastern in mienand garb, disembarked, and was welcomed by a dark, beautiful, harassed-looking girl who had just ridden in on a lathered pony. Theagent, a hopeful soul, ambled within earshot. 

"How is she?" he heard the man say, with the intensity of a singlethought, as the girl took his hand. Her reply came, encouragingly. 

"As brave as ever. Stronger, a little, I think. "

"And she--the eyes?"

"She will be able to see you; but not clearly. "

"How long--" began the man, but his voice broke. He shook in the bitterheat as if from some inner and deadly chill. 

"Nobody can tell. She hoards her sight. "

"To see me?" he cried eagerly. "Have you told her?"

"No. "

"Is that wise?" he questioned. "The shock--"

"I think that she suspects; she senses your coming. Her face has therapt expression that I have seen only when she plays. Has had since youstarted. Yet there is no possible way in which she could have learned. "

"That is very wonderful, " said the stranger, in a hushed voice. Then, hesitantly, "What shall I do, Io?"

"Nothing, " came the girl's clear answer. "Go to her, that is all. "

Another horse was led forward and the pair rode away through theglimmering heat. 

It was a silent ride for Willis Enderby and Io. The girl was still alittle daunted at her own temerity in playing at fate with destinies asbig as these. As for Enderby, there was no room within his consciousnessfor any other thought than that he was going to see Camilla Van Arsdaleagain. 

He heard her before he saw her. The rhythms of a song, a tender and gaylittle lyric which she had sung to crowded drawing-rooms, but for himalone, long years past, floated out to him, clear and pure, through theclear, pure balm of the forest. He slipped quietly from his horse andsaw her, through the window, seated at her piano. 

Unchanged! To his vision the years had left no impress on her. And Io, at his side, saw too and marveled at the miracle. For the waiting womanlooked out of eyes as clear and untroubled as those of a child, softenedonly with the questioning wistfulness of darkening vision. Suffering andfortitude had etherealized the face back to youth, and that mysteriousexpectancy which had possessed her for days had touched the curves ofher mouth to a wonderful tenderness, the softness of her cheek to aquickening bloom. She turned her head slowly toward the door. Her lipsparted with the pressure of swift, small breaths. 

Io felt the man's tense body, pressed against her as if for support, convulsed with a tremor which left him powerless. 

"I have brought some one to you, Miss Camilla, " she said clearly: and inthe same instant of speaking, her word was crossed by the other's call:

"Willis!"

Sightless though she was, as Io knew, for anything not close before hereyes, she came to him, as inevitably, as unerringly as steel to themagnet, and was folded in his arms. Io heard his deep voice, vibrantbetween desolation and passion:

"Fifteen years! My God, fifteen years!"

Io ran away into the forest, utterly glad with the joy of which she hadbeen minister. 

Willis Enderby stayed five days at Manzanita; five days of ecstasy, ofperfect communion, bought from the rapacious years at the price of hisbroken word. For that he was willing to pay any price exacted, askingonly that he might pay it alone, that the woman of his long andself-denying love might not be called upon to meet any smallest part ofthe debt. She walked with him under the pines: he read to her: and therewere long hours together over the piano. It was then that there wasborn, out of Camilla Van Arsdale's love and faith and coming abnegation, her holy and deathless song for the dead, to the noble words of the"Dominus Illuminatio Mea, " which to-day, chanted over the coffins ofthousands, brings comfort and hope to stricken hearts. 

"In the hour of death, after this life's whim, When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim, And pain has exhausted every limb--The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him. "

On the last day she told him that they would not meet again. Life hadgiven to her all and more than all she had dared ask for. He must goback to his work in the world, to the high endeavor that was laid uponhim as an obligation of his power, and now of their love. He must writeher; she could not do without that, now; but guardedly, for other eyesthan hers must read his words to her. 

"Think what it is going to be to me, " she said, "to follow your course;to be able to pray for you, fighting. I shall take all the papers. Andany which haven't your name in shall be burned at once! How I shall bejealous even of your public who love and admire you! But you have leftme no room for any other jealousy. . . . "

"I am coming back to you, " he said doggedly, at the final moment ofparting. "Sometime, Camilla. "

"You will be here always, in the darkness, with me. And I shall love myblindness because it shuts out anything but you, " she said. 

Io rode with him to the station. On the way they discussed ways andmeans, the household arrangements when Io should have to leave, thefinding of a companion, who should be at once nurse, secretary, andamanuensis for Royce Melvin's music. 

"How she will sing now!" said Io. 

As they drew near to the station, she put her hand on his horse'sbridle. 

"Did I do wrong to send for you, Cousin Billy?" she asked. 

He turned to her a visage transfigured. 

"You needn't answer, " she said quickly. "I should know, anyway. It's herhappiness I'm thinking of. It can't have been wrong to give so muchhappiness, for the rest of her life. "

"The rest of her life, " he echoed, in a hushed accent of dread. 

While Enderby was getting his ticket, Io waited on the front platform. Asmall, wiry man came around the corner of the station, glanced at her, and withdrew. Io had an uneasy notion of having seen him beforesomewhere. But where, and when? Certainly the man was not a localhabitant. Had his presence, then, any significance for her or hers?Enderby returned, and the two stood in the hard morning sunlight beneaththe broad sign inscribed with the station's name. 

The stranger appeared from behind a freight-car on a siding, and hurriedup to within a few yards of them. From beneath his coat he slipped ablackish oblong. It gave forth a click, and, after swift manipulation, asecond click. Enderby started toward the snap-shotter who turned andran. 

"Do you know that man?" he asked, whirling upon Io. 

A gray veil seemed to her drawn down over his features. Or was it a mistof dread upon Io's own vision?

"I have seen him before, " she answered, groping. 

"Who is he?"

Memory flashed one of its sudden and sure illuminations upon her: aSaturday night at The House With Three Eyes; this little man coming inwith Tertius Marrineal; later, peering into the flowerful corner whereshe sat with Banneker. 

"He has something to do with The Patriot, " she answered steadily. 

"How could The Patriot know of my coming here?'

"I don't know, " said Io. She was deadly pale with a surmise toomonstrous for utterance. 

He put it into words for her. 

"Io, did you tell Errol Banneker that you were sending for me?"

"Yes. "

Even in the midst of the ruin which he saw closing in upon hiscareer--that career upon which Camilla Van Arsdale had newly built herlast pride and hope and happiness--he could feel for the agony of thegirl before him. 

"He couldn't have betrayed me!" cried Io: but, as she spoke, the memoryof other treacheries overwhelmed her. 

The train rumbled in. Enderby stooped and kissed her forehead. 

"My dear, " he said gently, "I'm afraid you've trusted him once toooften. "

CHAPTER XIX

Among his various amiable capacities, Ely Ives included that ofceremonial arranger. Festivities were his delight; he was ever on thelookout for occasions of celebration: any excuse for a gratulatoryfunction sufficed him. Before leaving on his chase to Manzanita, he hadconceived the festal notion of a dinner in honor of Banneker, not thathe cherished any love for him since the episode of the bet with DelavanEyre, but because his shrewd foresight perceived in it a closer bindingof the editor to the wheels of the victorious Patriot. Also it mightindirectly redound to the political advantage of Marrineal. Put thus tothat astute and aspiring public servant, it enlisted his prompt support. He himself would give the feast: no, on better thought, The Patriotshould give it. It would be choice rather than large: a hundred guestsor so; mainly journalistic, the flower of Park Row, with a sprinkling ofimportant politicians and financiers. The occasion? Why, the occasionwas pat to hand! The thousandth Banneker editorial to be published inThe Patriot, the date of which came early in the following month. 

Had Ives himself come to Banneker with any such project, it would havebeen curtly rejected. Ives kept in the background. The proposal camefrom Marrineal, and in such form that for the recipient of the honor torefuse it would have appeared impossibly churlish. Little though hedesired or liked such a function, Banneker accepted with a good grace, and set himself to write an editorial, special to the event. Its titlewas, "What Does Your Newspaper Mean to You?" headed with the quotationfrom the Areopagitica: and he compressed into a single column all hisdreams and idealities of what a newspaper might be and mean to thepublic which it sincerely served. Specially typed and embossed, it wasarranged as the dinner souvenir. 

As the day drew near, Banneker had less and less taste for the ovation. Forebodings had laid hold on his mind. Enderby had been back for fivedays, and had taken no part whatever in the current political activity. Conflicting rumors were in the air. The anti-Marrineal group wasobviously in a state of confusion and doubt: Marrineal's friends wereexcited, uncertain, expectant. 

For three days Banneker had had no letter from Io. 

The first intimation of what had actually occurred came to him justbefore he left the office to dress for the dinner in his honor. WillisEnderby had formally withdrawn from the governorship contest. Hisstatement given out for publication in next morning's papers, was in theoffice. Banneker sent for it. The reason given was formal and brief;nervous breakdown; imperative orders from his physician. The whole thingwas grisly plain to Banneker, but he must have confirmation. He went tothe city editor. Had any reporter been sent to see Judge Enderby?

Yes: Dilson, one of the men frequently assigned to do Marrineal's andIves's special work had been sent to Enderby's on the previous day withspecific instructions to ask a single question: "When was the Judgegoing to issue his formal withdrawal": Yes: that was the precise form ofthe question: not, "Was he going to withdraw, " but "When was he, " and soon. 

The Judge would not answer, except to say that he might have a statementto make within twenty-four hours. This afternoon (continued the cityeditor) Enderby, it was understood, had telephoned to The Sphere andasked that Russell Edmonds come to his house between four and five. Noone else would do. Edmonds had gone, had been closeted with Enderby foran hour, and had emerged with the brief typed statement for distributionto all the papers. He would not say a word as to the interview. JudgeEnderby absolutely denied himself to all callers. Physician's ordersagain. 

Banneker reflected that if the talk between Edmonds and Enderby had beenwhat he could surmise, the veteran would hardly attend the dinner in his(Banneker's) honor. Honor and Banneker would be irreconcilable terms, tothe stern judgment of Pop Edmonds. Had they, indeed, becomeirreconcilable terms? It was a question which Banneker, in the turmoilof his mind, could not face. On his way along Park Row he stopped andhad a drink. It seemed to produce no effect, so presently he hadanother. After the fourth, he clarified and enlarged his outlook uponthe whole question, which he now saw in its entirety. He perceivedhimself as the victim of unique circumstances, forced by the demands ofhonor into what might seem, to unenlightened minds, dubious if notdishonorable positions, each one of them in reality justified: yes, necessitated! Perhaps he was at fault in his very first judgment;perhaps, had he even then, in his inexperience, seen what he now saw soclearly in the light of experience, the deadly pitfalls into whichjournalism, undertaken with any other purpose than the simple settingforth of truth, beguiles its practitioners--perhaps he might have drawnback from the first step of passive deception and have resigned ratherthan been a party to the suppression of the facts about the Veridiankillings. Resigned? And forfeited all his force for education, forenlightenment, for progress of thought and belief, exerted upon millionsof minds through The Patriot?. . . Would that not have been the way ofcowardice?. . . He longed to be left to himself. To think it all out. Whatwould Io say, if she knew everything? Io whose silence was surroundinghim with a cold terror. . . . He had to get home and dress for that curseddinner!

Marrineal had done the thing quite royally. The room was superb withflowers; the menu the best devisable; the wines not wide of range, butchoice of vintage. The music was by professionals of the first grade, willing to give their favors to these powerful men of the press. Theplatform table was arranged for Marrineal in the presiding chair, flanked by Banneker and the mayor: Horace Vanney, Gaines, a judge of theSupreme Court, two city commissioners, and an eminent political boss. The Masters, senior and junior, had been invited, but declined, thelatter politely, the former quite otherwise. Below were the small grouptables, to be occupied by Banneker's friends and contemporaries of localnewspaperdom, and a few outsiders, literary, theatrical, and political. When Banneker appeared in the reception-room where the crowd awaited, smiling, graceful, vigorous, and splendid as a Greek athlete, the wholeassemblage rose in acclaim--all but one. Russell Edmonds, somber andthoughtful, kept his seat. His leonine head drooped over his broadshirt-bosom. 

Said Mallory of The Ledger, bending over him:

"Look at Ban, Pop!"

"I'm looking, " gloomed Edmonds. 

"What's behind that smile? Something frozen. What's the matter withhim?" queried the observant Mallory. 

"Too much success. "

"It'll be too much dinner if he doesn't look out, " remarked the other. "He's trying to match cocktails with every one that comes up. "

"Won't make a bit of difference, " muttered the veteran. "He's all steel. Cold steel. Can't touch him. "

Marrineal led the way out of the ante-room to the banquet, escortingBanneker. Never had the editor of The Patriot seemed to be morecompletely master of himself. The drink had brightened his eyes, broughta warm flush to the sun-bronze of his cheek, lent swiftness to histongue. He was talking brilliantly, matching epigrams with the GreatGaines, shrewdly poking good-natured fun at the stolid and stupid mayor, holding his and the near-by tables in spell with reminiscences in whichso many of them shared. Some wondered how he would have anything leftfor his speech. 

While the game course was being served, Ely Ives was summoned outside. Banneker, whose faculties had taken on a preternatural acuteness, saw, when he returned, that his face had whitened and sharpened; watched himwrite a note which he folded and pinned before sending it to Marrineal. In the midst of a story, which he carried without interruption, theguest of honor perceived a sort of glaze settle over his chief'simmobile visage; the next moment he had very slightly shaken his head atIves. Banneker concluded his story. Marrineal capped it with another. Ives, usually abstemious as befits one who practices sleight-of-hand andbrain, poured his empty goblet full of champagne and emptied it in long, eager draughts. The dinner went on. 

The ices were being cleared away when a newspaper man, not in eveningclothes, slipped in and talked for a moment with Mr. Gordon of TheLedger. Presently another quietly appropriated a seat next to Van Cleveof The Sphere. The tidings, whatever they were, spread. Then, theimportant men of the different papers gathered about Russell Edmonds. They seemed to be putting to him brief inquiries, to which he answeredwith set face and confirming nods. With his quickened faculties, Banneker surmised one of those inside secrets of journalism so oftensacredly kept, though a hundred men know them, of which the public readsonly the obvious facts, the empty shell. Now and again he caught a quickand veiled glance of incomprehension of doubt, of incredulity, cast athim. 

He chattered on. Never did he talk more brilliantly. 

Coffee. Presently there would be cigars. Then Marrineal would introducehim, and he would say to these men, this high and inner circle ofjournalism, the things which he could not write for his public, which hecould present to them alone, since they alone would understand. It wasto be his _magnum opus_, that speech. For a moment he had lost physicalvisualization in mental vision. When again he let his eyes rest on thescene before him, he perceived that a strange thing had happened. Thetable at which Van Cleve had sat, with seven others, was empty. In thesame glance he saw Mr. Gordon rise and quietly walk out, followed by theother newspaper men in the group. Two politicians were left. They movedclose to each other and spoke in whispers, looking curiously atBanneker. 

What manner of news could that have been, brought in by the workingnewspaper man, thus to depopulate a late-hour dining-table? Had theworld turned upside down?

Below him, and but a few paces distant, Tommy Burt was seated. When he, too, got slowly to his feet, Banneker leaned across the strewn, whitenapery toward him. 

"What's up, Tommy?"

For an instant the star reporter stopped, seemed to turn an answer overin his mind, then shook his head, and, with an unfathomable look ofincredulity and shrinking, went his way. Bunny Fitch followed; Fitch, the slave of his paper's conventions, the man without standards otherthan those which were made for him by the terms of his employment, whowould go only because his proprietors would have him go: and the grinwhich he turned up to Banneker was malignant and scornful. Already thecircle about Ely Ives, who was still drinking eagerly, had melted away. Glidden, Mallory, Gale, Andreas, and a dozen others of his oldestassociates were at the door, not talking as they would have done hadsome "big story" broken at that hour, but moving in a chill silence andpurposefully like men seeking relief from an unendurable atmosphere. Thedeadly suspicion of the truth struck in upon the guest of honor; they, his friends, were going because they could no longer take part inhonoring him. His mind groped, terrified and blind, among black shadows. 

Marrineal, for once allowing discomposure to ruffle hisimperturbability, rose to check the exodus. 

"Gentlemen! One moment, if you please. As soon as--"

The rest was lost to Banneker as he beheld Edmonds rear his spare formup from his chair a few paces away. Reckless of ceremony now, thecentral figure of the feast rose. 

"Edmonds! Pop!"

The veteran stopped, turning the slow, sad judgment of his eyes upon theother. 

"What is it?" appealed Banneker. "What's happened? Tell me. "

"Willis Enderby is dead. "

The query, which forced itself from Banneker's lips, was aself-accusation. "By his own hand?"

"By yours, " answered Edmonds, and strode from the place. 

Groping, Banneker's fingers encountered a bottle, closed about it, drewit in. He poured and drank. He thought it wine. Not until the reekingstab of brandy struck to his brain did he realize the error. . . . Allright. Brandy. He needed it. He was going to make a speech. What speech?How did it begin. . . . What was this that Marrineal was saying? "In viewof the tragic news. . . . Call off the speech-making?" Not at all! He, Banneker, must have his chance. He could explain everything. 

Brilliantly, convincingly to his own mind, he began. It was all right;only the words in their eagerness to set forth the purity of hismotives, the unimpeachable rectitude of his standards, became confused. Somebody was plucking at his arm. Ives? All right? Ives was a goodfellow, after all. . . . Yes: he'd go home--with Ives. Ives wouldunderstand. 

All the way back to The House With Three Eyes he explained himself; anyfair-minded man would see that he had done his best. Ives wasfair-minded; he saw it. Ives was a man of judgment. Therefore, when hesuggested bed, he must be right. Very weary, Banneker was. He felt very, very wretched about Enderby. He'd explain it all to Enderby in themorning--no: couldn't do that, though. Enderby was dead. Queer idea, that! What was it that violent-minded idiot, Pop Edmonds, had said? He'dsettle with Pop in the morning. Now he'd go to sleep. . . . 

He woke to utter misery. In the first mail came the letter, nowexpected, from Io. It completed the catastrophe in which his every hopewas swept away. 

I have tried to make myself believe (she wrote) that you could not haveBetrayed him; that you would not, at least, have let me, who loved you, be, unknowingly, the agent of his destruction. But the black record comesback to me. The Harvey Wheelwright editorial, which seemed so light athing, then. The lie that beat Robert Laird. The editorial that you darednot print, after promising. All of one piece. How could I ever havetrusted you!

Oh, Ban, Ban! When I think of what we have been to each other; howgladly, how proudly, I gave myself to you, to find you unfaithful! Isthat the price of success? And unfaithful in such a way! If you had beenuntrue to me in the conventional sense, I think it would have been asmall matter compared to this betrayal. That would have been a thing ofthe senses, a wound to the lesser part of our love. But this--Couldn'tyou see that our relation demanded more of faith, of fidelity, thanmarriage, to justify it and sustain it; more idealism, more truth, moreloyalty to what we were to each other? And now this!

If it were I alone that you have betrayed, I could bear my own remorse;perhaps even think it retribution for what I have done. But how canI--and how can you--bear the remorse of the disaster that will fall uponCamilla Van Arsdale, your truest friend? What is there left to her, nowthat the man she loves is to be hounded out of public life byblackmailers? I have not told her. I have not been able to tell her. Perhaps he will write her, himself. How can she bear it! I am going away, leaving a companion in charge of her. 

Camilla Van Arsdale! One last drop of bitterness in the cup of suffering. Neither she nor Io had, of course, learned of Enderby's death, and couldnot for several days, until the newspapers reached them. Bannekerperceived clearly the thing that was laid upon him to do. He must go outto Manzanita and take the news to her. That was part of his punishment. He sent a telegram to Mindle, his factotum on the ground. 

Hold all newspapers from Miss C. Until I get there, if you have torob mails. E. B. 

Without packing his things, without closing his house, without resigninghis editorship, he took the next train for Manzanita. Io, coming East, and still unaware of the final tragedy, passed him, halfway. 

While the choir was chanting, over the body of Willis Enderby, thesolemn glory of Royce Melvin's funeral hymn, the script of which hadbeen found attached to his last statement, Banneker, speeding westward, was working out, in agony of soul, a great and patient penance, for hisown long observance, planning the secret and tireless ritual throughwhich Camilla Van Arsdale should keep intact her pure and long delayedhappiness while her life endured. 

CHAPTER XX

A dun pony ambled along the pine-needle-carpeted trail leading throughthe forest toward Camilla Van Arsdale's camp, comfortably shaded againstthe ardent power of the January sun. Behind sounded a soft, rapidpadding of hooves. The pony shied to the left with a violence whichmight have unseated a less practiced rider, as, with a wild whoop, DutchPete came by at full gallop. Pete had been to a dance at the Sick Coyoteon the previous night which had imperceptibly merged itself into thepresent morning, and had there imbibed enough of the spirit of theoccasion to last him his fifteen miles home to his ranch. Now he pulledup and waited for the slower rider to overtake him. 

"Howdy, Ban!"

"Hello, Pete. "

"How's the lady gettin' on?"

"Not too well. "

"Can't see much of anythin', huh?"

"No: and never will again. "

"Sho! Well, I don't figger out as I'd want to live long in that fix. Howlong does the doc give her, Ban?"

"Perhaps six months; perhaps a year. She isn't afraid to die; but she'shanging to life just as long as she can. She's a game one, Pete. "

"And how long will you be with us, Ban?"

"Oh, I'm likely to be around quite a while yet. "

Dutch Pete, thoroughly understanding, reflected that here was anothergame one. But he remarked only that he'd like to drop in on MissK'miller next time he rode over, with a bit of sage honey that he'dsaved out for her. 

"She'll be glad to see you, " returned the other. "Only, don't forget, Pete; not a word about anything except local stuff. "

"Sure!" agreed Pete with that unquestioning acceptance of another'sreasons for secrecy which marks the frontiersman. "Say, Ban, " he added, "you ain't much of an advertisement for Manzanita as a health resort, yourself. Better have that doc stick his head in your mouth and look atyour insides. "

Banneker raised tired eyes and smiled. "Oh, I'm all right, " he repliedlistlessly. 

"Come to next Saturday's dance at the Coyote; that'll put dynamite inyour blood, " prescribed the other as he spurred his horse on. 

Banneker had no need to turn the dun pony aside to the branch trail thatcurved to the door of his guest; the knowing animal took it by habitude, having traversed it daily for a long time. It was six months sinceBanneker had bought him: six months and a week since Willis Enderby hadbeen buried. And the pony's rider had in his pocket a letter, of dateonly four days old, from Willis Enderby to Camilla Van Arsdale. It wasdated from the Governor's Mansion, Albany, New York. Banneker hadwritten it himself, the night before. He had also composed nearly acolumn of supposed Amalgamated Wire report, regarding the fight for andagainst Governor Enderby's reform measures, which he would readpresently to Miss Van Arsdale from the dailies just received. As hedismounted, the clear music of her voice called:

"Any mail, Ban?"

"Yes. Letter from Albany. "

"Let me open it myself, " she cried jealously. 

He delivered it into her hands: this was part of the ritual. She ran herfingers caressingly over it, as if to draw from it the hidden sweetnessof her lover's strength, which must still be only half-expressed, because the words were to be translated through another's reading; thenreturned it to its real author. 

"Read it slowly, Ban, " she commanded softly. 

Having completed the letter, his next process was to run through thepapers, giving in full any news or editorials on State politics. Thiswas a task demanding the greatest mental concentration and alertness, for he had built up a contemporary history out of his imagination, andmust keep all the details congruous and logical. Several times, withthat uncanny retentiveness of memory developed in the blind, she had allbut caught him; but each time his adroitness saved the day. Later, whilehe was at work in the room which she had set aside for his dailywriting, she would answer the letter on the typewriter, having taughtherself to write by position and touch, and he would take her reply forposting. Her nurse and companion, an elderly woman with a naturalaptitude for silence and discretion, was Banneker's partner in thesecret. The third member of the conspiracy was the physician who cameonce a week from Angelica City because he himself was a musician andthis slowly and courageously dying woman was Royce Melvin. Between themthey hedged her about with the fiction that victoriously defied griefand defeated death. 

Camilla Van Arsdale got up from her couch and walked with confidentfootsteps to the piano. 

"Ban, " she said, seating herself and letting her fingers run over thekeys, "can't you substitute another word for 'muffled' in the thirdline? It comes on a high note--upper g--and I want a long, not a shortvowel sound. "

"How would 'silenced' do?" he offered, after studying the line. 

"Beautifully. You're a most amiable poet! Ban, I think your verses aregoing to be more famous than my music. "

"Never that, " he denied. "It's the music that makes them. "

"Have you heard from Mr. Gaines yet about the essays?"

"Yes. He's taking them. He wants to print two in each issue and callthem 'Far Perspectives. '"

"Oh, good!" she cried. "But, Ban, fine as your work is, it seems aterrible waste of your powers to be out here. You ought to be in NewYork, helping the governor put through his projects. "

"Well, you know, the doctor won't give me my release. "

(Presently he must remember to have a coughing spell. He coughedhollowly and well, thanks to assiduous practice. This was part of thegrim and loving comedy of deception: that he had been peremptorilyordered back to Manzanita on account of "weak lungs, " with orders tolive in his open shack until he had gained twenty pounds. He wasgaining, but with well-considered slowness. )

"But when you can, you'll go back and help him, even if I'm not here toknow about it, won't you?"

"Oh, yes: I'll go back to help him when I can, " he promised, as heartilyas if he had not made the same promise each time that the subject cameup. There was still a good deal of the wistful child about the dyingwoman. 

Out from that forest hermitage where the two worked, one in serenethough longing happiness, the other under the stern discipline of lossand self-abnegation, had poured, in six short months, a living currentof song which had lifted the fame of Royce Melvin to new heights: herfame only, for Banneker would not use his name to the words that rangwith a pure and vivid melody of their own. Herein, too, he was payinghis debt to Willis Enderby, through the genius of the woman who lovedhim; preserving that genius with the thin, lustrous, impregnable fictionof his own making against threatening and impotent truth. 

Once, when Banneker had brought her a lyric, alive with the sweetness ofyouth and love in the great open spaces, she had said:

"Ban, shall we call it 'Io?'"

"I don't think it would do, " he said with an effort. 

"Where is she?"

"Traveling in the tropics. "

"You try so hard to keep the sadness out of your voice when you speak ofher, " said Camilla sorrowfully. "But it's always there. Isn't thereanything I can do?"

"Nothing. There's nothing anybody can do. "

The blind woman hesitated. "But you care for her still, don't you, Ban?"

"Care! Oh, my God!" whispered Banneker. 

"And she cares. I know she cared when she was here. Io isn't the kind ofwoman to forget easily. She tried once, you know. " Miss Van Arsdalesmiled wanly. "Why doesn't she ever say anything of you in her letters?"

"She does. "

"Very little. " (Io's letters, passing through Banneker's hands werecarefully censored, of necessity, to forefend any allusion to thetragedy of Willis Enderby, often to the extent of being rewrittencomplete. It now occurred to Banneker that he had perhaps overdone thematter of keeping his own name out of them. ) "Ban, " she continuedwistfully, "you haven't quarreled, have you?"

"No, Miss Camilla. We haven't quarreled. "

"Then _what_ is it, Ban? I don't want to pry; you know me well enough tobe sure of that. But if I could only know before the end comes that youtwo--I wish I could read your face. It's a helpless thing, being blind. "This was as near a complaint as he had ever heard her utter. 

"Io's a rich woman, Miss Camilla, " he said desperately. 

"What of it?"

"How could I ask her to marry a jobless, half-lunged derelict?"

"_Have_ you asked her?"

He was silent. 

"Ban, does she know why you're here?"

"Oh, yes; she knows. "

"How bitter and desolate your voice sounds when you say that! And youwant me to believe that she knows and still doesn't come to you?"

"She doesn't know that I'm--ill, " he said, hating himself for thenecessity of pretense with Camilla Van Arsdale. 

"Then I shall tell her. "

"No, " he controverted with finality, "I won't allow it. "

"Suppose it turned out that this were really the right path for you totravel, " she said after a pause; "that you were going to do biggerthings here than you ever could do with The Patriot? I believe it'sgoing to be so, Ban; that what you are doing now is going to be yourtrue success. "

"Success!" he cried. "Are you going to preach success to me? If everthere was a word coined in hell--I'm sorry, Miss Camilla, " he broke off, mastering himself. 

She groped her way to the piano, and ran her fingers over the keys. "There is work, anyway, " she said with sure serenity. 

"Yes; there's work, thank God!"

Work enough there was for him, not only in his writing, for which he hadrecovered the capacity after a long period of stunned inaction, but inthe constant and unwearied labor of love in building and rebuilding, fortifying and extending, that precarious but still impregnable bulwarkof falsehood beneath whose protection Camilla Van Arsdale lived and washappy and made the magic of her song. Illusion! Banneker wonderedwhether any happiness were other than illusion, whether the illusion ofhappiness were not better than any reality. But in the world of grimfact which he had accepted for himself was no palliating mirage. Uponhim "the illusive eyes of hope" were closed. 

While Banneker was practicing his elaborate deceptions, Miss Van Arsdalehad perpetrated a lesser one of her own, which she had not deemed itwise to reveal to him in their conversation about Io. Some time beforethat she had written to her former guest a letter tactfully designed tolay a foundation for resolving the difficulty or misunderstandingbetween the lovers. In the normal course of events this would have beencommitted for mailing to Banneker, who would, of course, haveconfiscated it. But, as it chanced, it was hardly off the typewriterwhen Dutch Pete dropped in for a friendly call while Banneker was at thevillage, and took the missive with him for mailing. It traveled widely, amassed postmarks and forwarding addresses, and eventually came to itsfinal port. 

Worn out with the hopeless quest of forgetfulness in far lands, Io Eyrecame back to New York. It was there that the long pursuit of her byCamilla Van Arsdale's letter ended. Bewilderment darkened Io's mind asshe read, to be succeeded by an appalled conjecture; Camilla VanArsdale's mind had broken down under her griefs. What other hypothesiscould account for her writing of Willis Enderby as being still alive?And of her having letters from him? To the appeal for Banneker which, concealed though it was, underlay the whole purport of the writing, Ioclosed her heart, seared by the very sight of his name. She would havetorn the letter up, but something impelled her to read it again; somehint of a pregnant secret to be gleaned from it, if one but held theclue. Hers was a keen and thoughtful mind. She sent it exploring throughthe devious tangle of the maze wherein she and Banneker, Camilla VanArsdale and Willis Enderby had been so tragically involved, and as shepatiently studied the letter as possible guide there dawned within her aglint of the truth. It began with the suspicion, soon growing toconviction, that the writer of those inexplicable words was not, couldnot be insane; the letter breathed a clarity of mind, an untroubledsimplicity of heart, a quiet undertone of happiness, impossible toreconcile with the picture of a shattered and grief-stricken victim. YetIo had, herself, written to Miss Van Arsdale as soon as she knew ofJudge Enderby's death, pouring out her heart for the sorrow of the womanwho as a stranger had stood her friend, whom, as she learned to know herin the close companionship of her affliction, she had come to love;offering to return at once to Manzanita. To that offer had come noanswer; later she had had a letter curiously reticent as to WillisEnderby. (Banneker, in his epistolary personification of Miss VanArsdale had been perhaps overcautious on this point. ) Io began to piecetogether hints and clues, as in a disjected puzzle:--Banneker's presencein Manzanita--Camilla's blindness. --Her inability to know, exceptthrough the medium of others, the course of events. --The bewilderingreticence and hiatuses in the infrequent letters from Manzanita, particularly in regard to Willis Enderby. --This calm, sane, cheerfulview of him as a living being, a present figure in his old field ofaction. --The casual mention in an early letter that all of Miss VanArsdale's reading and most of her writing was done through the nurse orBanneker, mainly the latter, though she was mastering the art oftouch-writing on the typewriter. The very style of the earlier letters, as she remembered them, was different. And just here flashed the thoughtwhich set her feverishly ransacking the portfolio in which she kept herold correspondence. There she found an envelope with a Manzanitapostmark dated four months earlier. The typing of the two letters wasnot the same. 

Groping for some aid in the murk, Io went to the telephone and called upthe editorial office of The Sphere, asking for Russell Edmonds. Withintwo hours the veteran had come to her. 

"I have been wanting to see you, " he said at once. 

"About Mr. Banneker?" she queried eagerly. 

"No. About The Searchlight. "

"The Searchlight? I don't understand, Mr. Edmonds. "

"Can't we be open with each other, Mrs. Eyre?"

"Absolutely, so far as I am concerned. "

"Then I want to tell you that you need have no fear as to what TheSearchlight may do. "

"Still I don't understand. Why should I fear it?"

"The scandal--manufactured, of course--which The Searchlight had cookedup about you and Mr. Banneker before Mr. Eyre's death. "

"Surely there was never anything published. I should have heard of it. "

"No; there wasn't. Banneker stopped it. "

"Ban?"

"Do you mean to say that you knew nothing of this, Mrs. Eyre?" he said, the wonder in his face answering the bewilderment in hers. "Didn'tBanneker tell you?"

"Never a word. "

"No; I suppose he wouldn't, " ruminated the veteran. "That would be likeBan--the old Ban, " he added sadly. "Mrs. Eyre, I loved that boy, " hebroke out, his stern and somber face working. "There are times even nowwhen I can scarcely make myself believe that he did what he did. "

"Wait, " pleaded Io. "How did he stop The Searchlight?"

"By threatening Bussey with an exposé that would have blown him out ofthe water. Blackmail, if you like, Mrs. Eyre, and not of the most politekind. "

"For me, " whispered Io. 

"He held that old carrion-buzzard, Bussey, up at the muzzle of ThePatriot as if it were a blunderbuss. It was loaded to kill, too. Andthen, " pursued Edmonds, "he paid the price. Marrineal got out his littlegun and held him up. "

"Held Ban up? What for? How could he do that? All this is a riddle tome, Mr. Edmonds. "

"Do you think you really want to know?" asked the other with a touch ofgrimness. "It won't be pleasant hearing. "

"I've got to know. Everything!"

"Very well. Here's the situation. Banneker points his gun, The Patriot, at Bussey. 'Be good or I'll shoot, ' he says. Marrineal learns of it, never mind how. He points _his_ gun at Ban. 'Be good, or I'll shoot, 'says he. And there you are!"

"But what was his gun? And why need he threaten Ban?"

"Why, you see, Mrs. Eyre, about that time things were coming to an issuebetween Ban and Marrineal. Ban was having a hard fight for theindependence of his editorial page. His strongest hold on Marrineal wasMarrineal's fear of losing him. There were plenty of opportunities opento a Banneker. Well, when Marrineal got Ban where he couldn't resign, Ban's hold was gone. That was Marrineal's gun. "

"Why couldn't he resign?" asked Io, white-lipped. 

"If he quit The Patriot he could no longer hold Bussey, and TheSearchlight could print what it chose. You see?"

"I see, " said Io, very low. "Oh, why couldn't I have seen before!"

"How could you, if Ban told you nothing?" reasoned Edmonds. "The blameof the miserable business isn't yours. Sometimes I wonder if it'sanybody's; if the newspaper game isn't just too strong for us who try toplay it. As for The Searchlight, I've since got another hold on Busseywhich will keep him from making any trouble. That's what I wanted totell you. "

"Oh, what does it matter! What does it matter!" she moaned. She crossedto the window, laid her hot and white face against the cool glass, pressed her hands in upon her temples, striving to think connectedly. "Then whatever he did on The Patriot, whatever compromises he yielded toor--or cowardices--" she winced at the words--"were done to save hisplace; to save me. "

"I'm afraid so, " returned the other gently. 

"Do you know what he's doing now?" she demanded. 

"I understand he's back at Manzanita. "

"He is. And from what I can make out, " she added fiercely, "he is givingup his life to guarding Miss Van Arsdale from breaking her heart, as shewill do, if she learns of Judge Enderby's death--Oh!" she cried, "Ididn't mean to say that! You must forget that there was anything said. "

"No need. I know all that story, " he said gravely. "That is what Icouldn't forgive in Ban. That he should have betrayed Miss Van Arsdale, his oldest friend. That is the unpardonable treachery. "

"To save me, " said Io. 

"Not even for that. He owed more to her than to you. "

"I can't believe that he did it!" she wailed. "To use my letter to setspies on Cousin Billy and ruin him--it isn't Ban. It isn't!"

"He did it, and, when it was too late, he tried to stop it. "

"To stop it?" She looked her startled query at him. "How do you knowthat?"

"Last week, " explained Edmonds, "Judge Enderby's partner sent for me. Hehad been going over some papers and had come upon a telegram fromBanneker urging Enderby not to leave without seeing him. The telegrammust have been delivered very shortly after the Judge left for thetrain. "

"Telegram? Why a telegram? Wasn't Ban in town?"

"No. He was down in Jersey. At The Retreat. "

"Wait!" gasped Io. "At The Retreat! Then my letter would have beenforwarded to him there. He couldn't have got it at the same time thatCousin Billy got the one I sent him. " She gripped Russell Edmonds'swrists in fierce, strong hands. "What if he hadn't known in time? Whatif, the moment he did know, he did his best to stop Cousin Billy fromstarting, with that telegram?" Suddenly the light died out of her face. "But then how would that loathsome Mr. Ives have known that he wasgoing, unless Ban betrayed him?"

"Easily enough, " returned the veteran. "He had a report from hisdetectives, who had been watching Enderby for months. . . . Mrs. Eyre, Iwish you'd give me a drink. I feel shaky. "

She left him to give the order. When she returned, they had bothsteadied down. Carefully, and with growing conviction, they gathered theevidence into something like a coherent whole. At the end, Io moaned:

"The one thing I can't bear is that Cousin Billy died, believing that ofBan. "

She threw herself upon the broad lounge, prone, her face buried in herarms. The veteran of hundreds of fights, brave and blind, righteous andmistaken, crowned with fleeting victories, tainted with irremediableerrors, stood silent, perplexed, mournful. He walked slowly over towhere the girl was stretched, and laid a clumsy, comforting hand on hershoulder. 

"I wish you'd cry for me, too, " he said huskily. "I'm too old. "

CHAPTER XXI

Every Saturday the distinguished physician from Angelica City came toManzanita on the afternoon train, spent two or three hours at CamillaVan Arsdale's camp, and returned in time to catch Number Seven back. Noimaginable fee would have induced him to abstract one whole day from hisenormous practice for any other patient. But he was himself an ardentvocal amateur, and to keep Royce Melvin alive and able to give forth hersongs to the world was a special satisfaction to his soul. Moreover, heknew enough of Banneker's story to take pride in being partner in hisplan of deception and self-sacrifice. He pretended that it was a neededholiday for him: his bills hardly defrayed the traveling expense. 

Now, riding back with Banneker, he meditated a final opinion, and out ofthat opinion came speech. 

"Mr. Banneker, they ought to give you and me a special niche in the Hallof Fame, " he said. 

A rather wan smile touched briefly Banneker's lips. "I believe that myambitions once reached even that far, " he said. 

The other reflected upon the implied tragedy of a life, so young, forwhich ambition was already in the past tense, as he added:

"In the musical section. We've got our share in the nearest thing togreat music that has been produced in the America of our time. You andI. Principally you. "

Banneker made a quick gesture of denial. 

"I don't know what you owe to Camilla Van Arsdale, but you've paid thedebt. There won't be much more to pay, Banneker. "

Banneker looked up sharply. 

"No. " The visitor shook his graying head. "We've performed as near amiracle as it is given to poor human power to perform. It can't lastmuch longer. "

"How long?"

"A matter of weeks. Not more. Banneker, do you believe in a personalimmortality?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

"I don't know, either. I was thinking. . . . If it were so; when she getsacross, what she will feel when she finds her man waiting for her. God!"He lifted his face to the great trees that moved and murmured overhead. "How that heart of hers has sung to him all these years!"

He lifted his voice and sent it rolling through the cathedral aisles ofthe forest, in the superb finale of the last hymn. 

"For even the purest delight may pall, And power must fail, and the pride must fallAnd the love of the dearest friends grow small--But the glory of the Lord is all in all. "

The great voice was lost in the sighing of the winds. They rode on, thoughtful and speechless. When the physician turned to his companionagain, it was with a brisk change of manner. 

"And now we'll consider you. "

"Nothing to consider, " declared Banneker. 

"Is your professional judgment better than mine?" retorted the other. "How much weight have you lost since you've been out here?"

"I don't know. "

"Find out. Don't sleep very well, do you?"

"Not specially. "

"What do you do at night when you can't sleep? Work?"

"No. "

"Well?"

"Think. "

The doctor uttered a non-professional monosyllable. "What will you do, "he propounded, waving his arm back along the trail toward the VanArsdale camp, "when this little game of yours is played out?"

"God knows!" said Banneker. It suddenly struck him that life would beblank, empty of interest or purpose, when Camilla Van Arsdale died, whenthere was no longer the absorbing necessity to preserve, intact andimpregnable, the fortress of love and lies wherewith he had surroundedher. 

"When this chapter is finished, " said the other, "you come down toAngelica City with me. Perhaps we'll go on a little camping triptogether. I want to talk to you. "

The train carried him away. Oppressed and thoughtful, Banneker walkedslowly across the blazing, cactus-set open toward his shack. There wasstill the simple housekeeping work to be done, for he had left earlythat morning. He felt suddenly spiritless, flaccid, too inert even forthe little tasks before him. The physician's pronouncement had taken thestrength from him. Of course he had known that it couldn't be verylong--but only a few weeks!

He was almost at the shack when he noticed that the door stood halfajar. 

But here, where everything had been disorder, was now order. The bed wasmade, the few utensils washed, polished, and hung up; on the table ahandful of the alamo's bright leaves in a vase gave a touch of color. 

In the long chair (7 T 4031 of the Sears-Roebuck catalogue) sat Io. Abook lay on her lap, the book of "The Undying Voices. " Her eyes wereclosed. Banneker reached out a hand to the door lintel for support. 

A light tremor ran through Io's body. She opened her eyes, and fixedthem on Banneker. She rose slowly. The book fell to the floor and layopen between them. Io stood, her arms hanging straitly at her side, herwhole face a lovely and loving plea. 

"Please, Ban!" she said, in a voice so little that it hardly came to hisears. 

Speech and motion were denied him, in the great, the incredible surpriseof her presence. 

"Please, Ban, forgive me. " She was like a child, beseeching. Her firmlittle chin quivered. Two great, soft, lustrous tears welled up from theshadowy depths of the eyes and hung, gleaming, above the lashes. "Oh, aren't you going to speak to me!" she cried. 

At that the bonds of his languor were rent. He leapt to her, heard thebroken music of her sob, felt her arms close about him, her lips seekhis and cling, loath to relinquish them even for the passionate murmursof her love and longing for him. 

"Hold me close, Ban! Don't ever let me go again! Don't ever let me doubtagain!"

When, at length, she gently released herself, her foot brushed thefallen book. She picked it up tenderly, and caressed its leaves as sheadjusted them. 

"Didn't the Voices tell you that I'd come back, Ban?" she asked. 

He shook his head. "If they did, I couldn't hear them. "

"But they sang to you, " she insisted gently. "They never stoppedsinging, did they?"

"No. No. They never stopped singing. "

"Ah; then you ought to have known, Ban. And I ought to have known thatyou couldn't have done what I believed you had. Are you sure you forgiveme, Ban?"

She told him of what she had discovered, of the talk with RussellEdmonds ("I've a letter from him for you, dearest one; he loves you, too. But not as I do. Nobody could!" interjected Io jealously), of theclue of the telegram. And he told her of Camilla Van Arsdale and thelong deception; and at that, for the first time since he knew her, shebroke down and gave herself up utterly to tears, as much for him as forthe friend whom he had so loyally loved and served. When it was over andshe had regained command of herself, she said:

"Now you must take me to her. "

So once more they rode together into the murmurous peace of the forest. Io leaned in her saddle as they drew near the cabin, to lay a hand onher lover's shoulder. 

"Once, a thousand years ago, Ban, " she said, "when love came to me, Iwas a wicked little infidel and would not believe. Not in the EnchantedCanyon, nor in the Mountains of Fulfillment, nor in the Fadeless Gardenswhere the Undying Voices sing. Do you remember?"

"Do I not!" whispered Ban, turning to kiss the fingers that tightened onhis shoulder. 

"And--and I blasphemed and said there was always a serpent in everyParadise, and that Experience was a horrid hag, with a bony fingerpointing to the snake. . . . This is my recantation, Ban. I know now thatyou were the true Prophet; that Experience has shining wings and eyesthat can lock to the future as well as the past, and immortal Hope for alover. And that only they two can guide to the Mountains of Fulfillment. Is it enough, Ban?"

"It is enough, " he answered with grave happiness. 

"Listen!" exclaimed Io. 

The sound of song, tender and passionate and triumphant, came pulsingthrough the silence to meet them as they rode on. 

THE END