"Oh, no. She wouldn't be. It isn't as sporty as all that." He rose to shake hands with a short, angular young man, dressed to a perfection as accurate as Banneker's own, and excelling him in one distinctive touch, a coat-flower of gold-and-white such as no other in New York could wear, since only in one conservatory was that special orchid successfully grown. By it Banneker recognized Poultney Masters, Jr., the son and heir of the tyrannous old financier who had for years bullied and browbeaten New York to his wayward old heart's content. In his son there was nothing of the bully, but through the amiability of manner Banneker could feel a quiet force. Cressey introduced them. "We're just having coffee," said Banneker. "Will you join us?" "Thank you; I must go back to my party. I came over to express my personal obligation to you for cleaning out that gang of wharf-rats. My boat anchors off there. I hope to see you aboard her sometime." "You owe me no thanks," returned Banneker good-humoredly. "What I did was to save my own precious skin." "The effect was the same. After this the rats will suspect every man of being a Banneker in disguise, and we shall have no more trouble." "You see!" remarked Cressey triumphantly as Masters went away. "I told you you'd arrived." "Do you count a word of ordinary courtesy as so much?" inquired Banneker, surprised and amused. "From Junior? I certainly do. No Masters ever does anything without having figured out its exact meaning in advance." "And what does this mean?" asked the other, still unimpressed. "For one thing, that the Masters influence will be back of you, if the police try to put anything over. For another, that you've got the broadest door to society open to you, if Junior follows up his hint about the yacht." "I haven't the time," returned Banneker with honest indifference. He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "Cressey," he said, "if I had a newspaper of my own in New York, do you know what I'd do with it?" "Make money." "I hope so. But whether I did or not, I'd set out to puncture that bubble of the Masters power and supremacy. It isn't right for any man to have that power just through money. It isn't American." "The old man would smash your paper in six months." "Maybe. Maybe not. Nobody has ever taken a shot at him yet. He may be more vulnerable than he looks.... Speaking of money, I suppose I'd better take that apartment. God knows how I'll pay for it, especially if I lose my job." "If you lose your job I'll get you a better one on Wall Street to-morrow." "On the strength of Poultney Masters, Jr., shaking hands with me, I suppose." "Practically. It may not get into your newspapers, but the Street will know all about it to-morrow." "It's a queer city. And it's a queer way to get on in it, by being quick on the trigger. Well, I'm off for the theater."