“But I have.  You may remember my asking you once when those little sketches that I retyped so often were to be published.”

“Yes.  I never did anything with them.”

“I did.  I showed them to Violet Thornborough.  She is an old friend.”

Ignorant of the publication world outside of Park Row, Banneker did not recognize a name, unknown to the public, which in the inner literary world connoted all that was finest, most perceptive, most discriminating and helpful in selective criticism.  Miss Thornborough had been the first to see and foster half of the glimmering and feeble radiances which had later grown to be the manifest lights of the magazine and book world, thanks largely to her aid and encouragement.  The next name mentioned by Miss Westlake was well enough known to Banneker, however.  The critic, it appears, had, with her own hands, borne the anonymous, typed copies to the editorial sanctum of the foremost of monthlies, and, claiming a prerogative, refused to move aside from the pathway of orderly business until the Great Gaines himself, editor and autocrat of the publication, had read at least one of them.  So the Great Gaines indulged Miss Thornborough by reading one.  He then indulged himself by reading three more.

“Your goose,” he pronounced, “is not fledged; but there may be a fringe of swan feathers.  Bring him to see me.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea of who, what, or where he is,” answered the insistent critic.

“Then hire a detective at our expense,” smiled the editor.  “And, please, as you go, can’t you lure away with you Mr. Harvey Wheelwright, our most popular novelist, now in the reception-room wishing us to publish his latest enormity?  Us!” concluded the Great Gaines sufficiently.

Having related the episode to its subject, Miss Westlake said diffidently:  “Do you think it was inexcusably impertinent of me?”

“No.  I think it was very kind.”

“Then you’ll go to see Mr. Gaines?”

“One of these days.  When I get out of this present scrape.  And I hope you’ll keep on copying my Sunday stuff after I leave.  Nobody else would be so patient with my dreadful handwriting.”

She gave him a glance and a little flush of thankfulness.  Matters had begun to improve with Miss Westlake.  But it was due to Banneker that she had won through her time of desperation.  Now, through his suggestion, she was writing successfully, quarter and half column “general interest” articles for the Woman’s Page of the Sunday Ledger.  If she could in turn help Banneker to recognition, part of her debt would be paid.  As for him, he was interested in, but not greatly expectant of, the Gaines invitation.  Still, if he were cast adrift from The Ledger because of activity in the coming police inquiry, there was a possible port in the magazine world.

Meantime there pressed the question of a home.  Cressey ought to afford help on that.  He called the gilded youth on the telephone.