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Lacking knowledge, his instinct could find no starting-point; he was bewildered in vision and in mind. Just off the corner of the quietest of the Forties, he met a group of four young men, walking compactly by twos. The one nearest him in the second line was Herbert Cressey. His heavy and rather dull eye seemed to meet Banneker's as they came abreast.
"Of course, if it's something to do with the railroad I'd have to be careful. I can't give away the company's affairs." "I don't think it is." Miss Van Arsdale's troubled eyes strayed toward the inner room. Following them, Banneker's lighted up with a flash of astonished comprehension. "You don't think " he began. His friend nodded assent. "Why should the newspapers be after her?"
"We'll give the facts plainly and 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 finale to their accounts that the central figure of the sensation was only a reporter.
What he most hoped was some development 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.
Judge Willis Enderby, many times invited, had for the first time come. At five minutes after midnight, the incorruptible doorkeeper sent an urgent message requesting Mr. Banneker's personal attention to a party who declined politely but firmly to be turned away. The host, answering the summons, found Io. She held out both hands to him. "Say you're glad to see me," she said imperatively.
Horace Vanney's shrewd design to show a budding journalist of promise on which side his self-interest lay. The weak spot in the plan was that Banneker did not seem to care! Banneker's induction into journalism was unimpressive. They gave him a desk, an outfit of writing materials, a mail-box with his name on it, and eventually an assignment. Mr.
Curiosity as well as a mere personal interest prompted her to accept. She did not understand the purpose of these strange and vivid writings committed to her hands, so different from any of the earlier of Mr. Banneker's productions; so different, indeed, from anything that she had hitherto seen in any print. Nor did she derive full enlightenment from her Elysian journeys with the writer.
The query, which forced itself from Banneker's lips, was a self-accusation. "By his own hand?" "By yours," answered Edmonds, and strode from the place. Groping, Banneker's fingers encountered a bottle, closed about it, drew it in. He poured and drank. He thought it wine. Not until the reeking stab of brandy struck to his brain did he realize the error.... All right. Brandy. He needed it.
"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 girl came forward at once, not waiting for Banneker's introduction, with a formal gravity.
Banneker's, eh? And to whom was Mr. Banneker responsible? Mr. Marrineal, alone? All right! They would see Mr. Marrineal. Mr. Haring was sorry, but Mr. Marrineal was out of town. Well, in that case, Banneker. They'd trust themselves to show him which foot he got off on. Oh, Mr. Banneker wasn't there, either.
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