Banneker, through the mechanical course of his office, debated the situation.  Should he tell Io of the message?  To do so would only add to her anxieties, probably to no good purpose, for he did not believe that she would desert Miss Van Arsdale, ill and helpless, on any selfish consideration.  Fidelity was one of the virtues with which he had unconsciously garlanded Io.  Then, too, Gardner might not come anyway.  If he did Banneker was innocently confident of his own ability to outwit the trained reporter and prevent his finding the object of his quest.  A prospective and possible ally was forecast in the weather.  Warning of another rainfall impending had come over the wire.  As yet there was no sign visible from his far-horizoned home, except a filmy and changeful wreath of palest cloud with which Mount Carstairs was bedecked.  Banneker decided for silence.

Miss Van Arsdale was much better when he rode over in the morning, but Io looked piteously worn and tired.

“You’ve had no rest,” he accused her, away from the sick woman’s hearing.

“Rest enough of its kind, but not much sleep,” said Io.

“But you’ve got to have sleep,” he insisted.  “Let me stay and look after her to-night.”

“It wouldn’t be of any use.”

“Why not?”

“I shouldn’t sleep anyway.  This house is haunted by spirits of unrest,” said the girl fretfully.  “I think I’ll take a blanket and go out on the desert.”

“And wake up to find a sidewinder crawling over you, and a tarantula nestling in your ear.  Don’t think of it.”

“Ban,” called the voice of Camilla Van Arsdale from the inner room, clear and firm as he had ever heard it.

He went in.  She stretched out a hand to him.  “It’s good to see you, Ban.  Have I worried you?  I shall be up and about again to-morrow.”

“Now, Miss Camilla,” protested Banneker, “you mustn’t—­”

“I’m going to get up to-morrow,” repeated the other immutably.  “Don’t be absurd about it.  I’m not ill.  It was only the sort of knock-down that I must expect from time to time.  Within a day or two you’ll see me riding over....  Ban, stand over there in that light....  What’s that you’ve got on?”

“What, Miss Camilla?”

“That necktie.  It isn’t in your usual style.  Where did you get it?”

“Sent to Angelica City for it.  Don’t you like it?” he returned, trying for the nonchalant air, but not too successfully.

“Not as well as your spotty butterflies,” answered the woman jealously.  “That’s nonsense, though.  Don’t mind me, Ban,” she added with a wry smile.  “Plain colors are right for you.  Browns, or blues, or reds, if they’re not too bright.  And you’ve tied it very well.  Did it take you long to do it?”

Reddening and laughing, he admitted a prolonged and painful session before his glass.  Miss Van Arsdale sighed.  It was such a faint, abandoning breath of regret as might come from the breast of a mother when she sees her little son in his first pride of trousers.