“Speaking of Manzanita,” remarked Cressey, and spoke of it, reminiscently and at length, as they walked along together.  “Did the lovely 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 to his previous question; and still without intermission continued:  “Io Welland. That’s who she was.  Oh, but she’s a hummer!  I’ve met her since.  Married, you know.  Quick work, that marriage.  There was a dam’ queer story 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.