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Updated: June 14, 2025
Banneker greeted Esther Forbes and Cressey, and waited for the trio until they came down. There was a stir as they entered. There was usually a stir in any room which Io entered. She had that quality of sending waves across the most placid of social pools. Willis Enderby was one of the first to greet her, a quick irradiation of pleasure relieving the austere beauty of his face.
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 suite vacant 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 bachelor suites, yet awhile. I've only just got a job." "What is it?" "Newspaper work. The Morning Ledger."
"Some change from the catalogue suit you sported when you landed here! You know how to wear 'em; I've got to say that for you.... I've got to get back. When'll you dine with me? I want to hear all about it." "Any Monday," answered Banneker. Cressey returned to his waiting potage, and was immediately bombarded with queries, mainly from the girl on his left. "Who's the wonderful-looking foreigner?"
And if you won't come for Io she's still abroad, by the way and won't be back for a month perhaps you'll come for me. Just to show that you forgive my impertinences. Everybody does. I'm going to tell Bertie Cressey he must bring you.... All right, Bertie! I wish you wouldn't follow me up like like a paper-chase. Good-night, Mr. Banneker."
Providentially, as it might appear, a friend of Cressey's, having secured a diplomatic appointment, was giving up his bachelor apartment in the select and central Regalton. "Cheap as dirt," said the enthusiastic Cressey, beaming at Banneker over his cocktail that evening. "Two rooms and bath; fully furnished, and you can get it for eighteen hundred a year."
By it Banneker recognized Poultney Masters, Jr., the son and heir of the tyrannous old financier who had for years bullied and browbeaten New York to his wayward old heart's content. In his son there was nothing of the bully, but through the amiability of manner Banneker could feel a quiet force. Cressey introduced them. "We're just having coffee," said Banneker. "Will you join us?"
"All right for you, who can change seven days in the week; but I've got to live with these clothes, day in and day out," argued Banneker. To which Cressey deferred, though with a sigh. "You could carry off those sporty things as if they were woven to order for you," he declared. "You've got the figure, the carriage, the the whatever-the-devil it is, for it."
It was glorious hair. Not black, as Cressey had described it in his hasty sketch of the unknown I.O.W.; too alive with gleams and glints of luster for that. Nor were her eyes black, but rather of a deep-hued, clouded hazel, showing troubled shadows between their dark-lashed, heavy lids. Yet Banneker made no doubt but that this was the missing girl of Cressey's inquiry. "May I?" he said.
"Let him," returned Banneker comfortably, his long-bred habit of un-self-consciousness standing him in good stead. "They'll all forget it soon enough." As he glanced over at the group around the table, the man who was apparently 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.
The indifference of the tone indicated to his companion either that Banneker did not identify Delavan Eyre by his marriage, or that he maintained extraordinary control over himself, or that 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.
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