At noon next day she called him on the ’phone.

“Just to tell you that I’m coming as usual Saturday evening,” she said.

“When do you leave on your cruise?” he asked.

“Not until next week.  I’ll tell you when I see you.  Good-bye.”

Never had Banneker seen Io in such difficult mood as she exhibited on the Saturday.  She had come early to The House With Three Eyes, accompanied by Densmore who looked in just for one drink before going to a much-touted boxing-match in Jersey.  Through the evening she deliberately avoided seeing Banneker alone for so much as the space of a query put and answered, dividing her attention between an enraptured master of the violin who had come after his concert, and an aged and bewildered inventor who, in a long career of secluded toil, had never beheld anything like this brilliant creature with her intelligent and quickening interest in what he had to tell her.  Rivalry between the two geniuses inspired the musician to make an offer which he would hardly have granted to royalty itself.

“After a time, when zese chatterers are gon-away, I shall play for you.  Is zere some one here who can accompany properly?”

Necessarily Io sent for Banneker to find out.  Yes; young Mackey was coming a little later; he was a brilliant amateur and would be flattered at the opportunity.  With a direct insistence difficult to deny, Banneker drew Io aside for a moment.  Her eyes glinted dangerously as she faced him, alone for the moment, with the question that was the salute before the crossing of blades.

“Well?”

“Are you really going, Io?”

“Certainly.  Why shouldn’t I?”

“Say that, for one reason”—­he smiled faintly, but resolutely—­“The Patriot needs your guiding inspiration.”

“All The Patriot’s troubles are over.  It’s plain sailing now.”

“What of The Patriot’s editor?”

“Quite able to take care of himself.”

Into his voice there suffused the first ring of anger that she had ever heard from him; cold and formidable.  “That won’t do, Io.  Why?”

“Because I choose.”

“A child’s answer.  Why?”

“Do you want to be flattered?” She raised to his, eyes that danced with an impish and perverse light.  “Call it escape, if you wish.”

“From me?”

“Or from myself.  Wouldn’t you like to think that I’m afraid of you?”

“I shouldn’t like to think that you’re afraid of anything.”

“I’m not.”  But her tone was that of the defiance which seeks to encourage itself.

“I’d call it a desertion,” he said steadily.

“Oh, no!  You’re secure.  You need nothing but what you’ve got.  Power, reputation, position, success.  What more can heart desire?” she taunted.

“You.”

She quivered under the blunt word, but rallied to say lightly:  “Six months isn’t long.  Though I may stretch it to a year.”