And, indeed, it was better for him than the alternative of trying to sleep without the anodyne of complete exhaustion. For again, his hours were haunted by the not-to-be-laid spirit of Io Welland. As in those earlier days when, with hot eyes and set teeth, he had sent up his nightly prayer for deliverance from the powers of the past-- "Heaven shield and keep us free From the wizard, Memory And his cruel necromancies!"-- she came back to her old sway over his soul, and would not be exorcised.--So he drugged his brain against her with the opiate of weariness. Three of his four weeks had passed when Banneker began to whistle at his daily stent. Thereafter small boys, grimy with printer's ink, called occasionally, received instructions and departed, and there emanated from his room the clean and bitter smell of paste, and the clip of shears. Despite all these new activities, the supply of manuscript for Miss Westlake's typewriter never failed. One afternoon Banneker knocked at the door, asked her if she thought she could take dictation direct, and on her replying doubtfully that she could try, transferred her and her machine to his den, which was littered with newspapers, proof-sheets, and foolscap. Walking to and fro with a sheet of the latter inscribed with a few notes in his hand, the hermit proceeded to deliver himself to the briskly clicking writing machine. "Three-em dash," said he at the close. "That seemed to go fairly well." "Are you training me?" asked Miss Westlake. "No. I'm training myself. It's easier to write, but it's quicker to talk. Some day I'm going to be really busy"--Miss Westlake gasped--"and time-saving will be important. Shall we try it again to-morrow?" She nodded. "I could brush up my shorthand and take it quicker." "Do you know shorthand?" He looked at her contemplatively. "Would you care to take a regular position, paying rather better than this casual work?" "With you?" asked Miss Westlake in a tone which constituted a sufficient acceptance. "Yes. Always supposing that I land one myself. I'm in a big gamble, and these," he swept a hand over the littered accumulations, "are my cards. If they're good enough, I'll win." "They are good enough," said Miss Westlake with simple faith. "I'll know to-morrow," replied Banneker. For a young man, jobless, highly unsettled of prospects, the ratio of whose debts to his assets was inversely to what it should have been, Banneker presented a singularly care-free aspect when, at 11 A.M. of a rainy morning, he called at Mr. Tertius Marrineal's Fifth Avenue house, bringing with him a suitcase heavily packed. Mr. Marrineal's personal Jap took over the burden and conducted it and its owner to a small rear room at the top of the house. Banneker apprehended at the first glance that this was a room for work. Mr. Marrineal, rising from behind a broad, glass-topped table with his accustomed amiable smile, also looked workmanlike.