y whispered around about her starting to elope with some other
chap, and his going nearly batty because she didn't turn up, and all the
time she was wandering around in the desert until somebody picked her up
and took care of her. You ought to know something of that. It was
supposed to be right in your back-yard."

"I?" said Banneker, commanding himself with an effort; "Miss Welland
reported 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 busy
tongues in New York; how much that something might be, he preserved for
future and private speculation, based on the astounding perception that
Banneker 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 seen
my 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 on
the nose."

"Has he still got a green whisker?"

"Go and see. He's asked about you two or three times in the last coupla
months."

"But I've no errand with him."

"How can you tell? He might start something for you. It isn't often that
he keeps a man in mind like he has you. Anyway, he's a wise old bird and
may 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, for
the morning, they parted. Banneker set to his browsing in the library
until 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 and
humming happily to herself. The sound struck dismay to his soul. The
prospect of work from him was doubtless the insecure foundation of that
cheerfulness. "Soon" he had said; the implication was that the matter
was pressing. Probably she was counting on it for the morrow. Well, he
must furnish something, anything, to feed the maw of her hungry
typewriter; to fulfill that wistful hope which had sprung in her eyes
when he spoke to her.

Sweeping his table bare of the lore and lure of journalism as typified
in the bulky, black-faced edit