Herein Banneker had refrained from following him.  Ever the cat at the hole’s mouth, the patient lurker, the hopeful waiter upon the event, the proprietor of The Patriot forbore to press his editorial chief.  He still mistrusted the strength of his hold upon Banneker; feared a defiance when he could ill afford to meet it.  What he most hoped was some development which would turn Banneker’s heavy guns upon Laird so that, with the defeat of the fusion ticket candidate, the public would say, “The Patriot made him and The Patriot broke him.”

Laird played into Marrineal’s hands.  Indignant at what he regarded as a desertion of principles by The Patriot, the fusion nominee, in one of his most important addresses, devoted a stinging ten minutes to a consideration of that paper, its proprietor, and its editorial writer, in its chosen role of “friend of labor.”  His text was the Veridian strike, his information the version which McClintick furnished him; he cited Banneker by name, and challenged him as a prostituted mind and a corrupted pen.  Though Laird had spoken as he honestly believed, he did not have the whole story; McClintick, in his account, had ignored the important fact that Marrineal, upon being informed of conditions, had actually (no matter what his motive) remedied them.  Banneker, believing that Laird was fully apprised, as he knew Enderby to be, was outraged.  This alleged reformer, this purist in politics, this apostle of honor and truth, was holding him up to contumely, through half-truths, for a course which any decent man must, in conscience, have followed.  He composed a seething editorial, tore it up, substituted another wherein he made reply to the charges, in a spirit of ingenuity rather than ingenuousness, for The Patriot case, while sound, was one which could not well be thrown open to The Patriot’s public; and planned vengeance when the time should come.

Io, on a brief trip from Philadelphia, lunched with him that week, and found him distrait.

“It’s only politics,” he said.  “You’re not interested in politics,” and, as usual, “Let’s talk about you.”

She gave him that look which was like a smile deep in the shadows of her eyes.  “Ban, do you know the famous saying of Terence?”

He quoted the “Homo sum.”  “That one?” he asked.

She nodded.  “Now, hear my version:  ’I am a woman; nothing that touches my man is alien to my interests.’”

He laughed.  But there was a note of gratitude in his voice, almost humble, as he said:  “You’re the only woman in the world, Io, who can quote the classics and not seem a prig.”

“That’s because I’m beautiful,” she retorted impudently. “Tell me I’m beautiful, Ban!”

“You’re the loveliest witch in the world,” he cried.

“So much for flattery.  Now—­politics.”

He recounted the Laird charges.

“No; that wasn’t fair,” she agreed.  “It was most unfair.  But I don’t believe Bob Laird knew the whole story.  Did you ask him?”