“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 to it anywhere.  It is unforgettable.  That was Camilla Van Arsdale.  Was she in the wreck?”

“No.”

“Don’t tell me that it wasn’t she!  Don’t try to tell me, for I won’t believe it.”

“I’m not trying to tell you anything,” Banneker pointed out.

“True; you’re not.  You’re close-mouthed enough.  But—­Camilla Van Arsdale!  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 would remember me, I am sure.  And, in any case, she would know my name.  Where did you say she lived?”

“I don’t think I said.”

“Mystery-making!” The big man’s gruffness had a suggestion of amusement in 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 an invalid—­”

“After all these years,” interposed the other, in the tone of one who ruminates upon a marvel.

“—­and I happen to know that it isn’t well for—­that is, she doesn’t care to see strangers, particularly from New York.”

The old man stared.  “Are you a gentleman?” he asked with abrupt surprise.

“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 there will be none.”

Banneker nodded, and with that nod dismissed the subject quite as effectually as Mr. Horace Vanney himself could have done.  “Did you attend all the injured?” he asked.

“All the serious ones, I think.”

“Was there a young girl among them, dark and good-looking, whose name began—­”

“The one my addle-brained young nephew has been pestering me about?  Miss I. 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.  When the speech was over and the hand withdrawn, something remained among the strewn papers.  Banneker regarded it with interest.  It showed a blotch of yellow upon green and a capital C. Picking it up, he looked from it to its giver.

“A little tribute,” said that gentleman:  “a slight recognition of your services.”  His manner suggested that hundred-dollar bills were inconsiderable trifles, hardly requiring the acknowledgment of thanks.

In this case the bill did not secure such acknowledgment.