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?"