Success | Page 8

take in the women, if there aren't
too many and I can pick up a buckboard in Manzanita."
He nodded. "That'll be better, if any come in. Give me their names,
won't you? I have to keep track of them, you know."
The manner of the two was that of familiars, of friends, though there
was a touch of deference in Banneker's bearing, too subtly personal to
be attributed to his official status. He went out to adjust the visitor's
poncho, and, swinging her leg across the Mexican saddle of her horse
with the mechanical ease of one habituated to this mode of travel, she
was off.
Again the agent returned to his unofficial task and was instantly
submerged in it. Impatiently he interrupted himself to light the lamps
and at once resumed his pen. An emphatic knock at his door only
caused him to shake his head. The summons was repeated. With a sigh
Banneker gathered the written sheets, enclosed them in 5 S 0027, and
restored that receptacle to its place. Meantime the knocking continued
impatiently, presently pointed by a deep--
"Any one inside there?"
"Yes," said Banneker, opening to face the bulky old man who had
cared for the wounded. "What's wanted?"
Uninvited, and with an assured air, the visitor stepped in.

"I am Horace Vanney," he announced.
Banneker waited.
"Do you know my name?"
"No."
In no wise discountenanced by the matter-of-fact negative, Mr. Vanney,
still unsolicited, took a chair. "You would if you read the newspapers,"
he observed.
"I do."
"The New York papers," pursued the other, benignly explanatory. "It
doesn't matter. I came in to say that I shall make it my business to
report your energy and efficiency to your superiors."
"Thank you," said Banneker politely.
"And I can assure you that my commendation will carry weight.
Weight, sir."
The agent accepted this with a nod, obviously unimpressed. In fact, Mr.
Vanney suspected with annoyance, he was listening not so much to
these encouraging statements as to some unidentified noise outside.
The agent raised the window and addressed some one who had
approached through the steady drive of the rain. A gauntleted hand
thrust through the window a slip of paper which he took. As he moved,
a ray of light from the lamp, unblocked by his shoulder, fell upon the
face of the person in the darkness, illuminating it to the astounded eyes
of Mr. Horace Vanney.
"Two of them are going home with me," said a voice. "Will you send
these wires to the addresses?"
"All right," replied Banneker, "and thank you. Good-night."
"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,