"That's a shrewd hit," confessed Banneker. "I've suspected that Marrineal means to capitalize it eventually, though I don't know just how. He's a secret sort of animal, Marrineal." "But he gives you a free hand?" she asked. "He has to," said Banneker simply. Camilla Van Arsdale sighed. "It's success, Ban. Isn't it?" "Yes. It's success. In its kind." "Is it happiness?" "Yes. Also in its kind." "The real kind? The best kind?" "It's satisfaction. I'm doing what I want to do." She sighed. "I'd hoped for something more." He shook his head. "One can't have everything." "Why not?" she demanded almost fiercely. "You ought to have. You're made for it." After a pause she added: "Then it isn't Betty Raleigh. I'd hoped it was. I've been watching her. There's character there, Ban, as well as charm." "She has other interests. No; it isn't Betty." "Ban, there are times when I could hate her," broke out Miss Van Arsdale. "Who? Betty?" "You know whom well enough." "I stand corrected in grammar as well as fact," he said lightly. "Have you seen her?" "Yes. I see her occasionally. Not often." "Does she come here?" "She has been." "And her husband?" "No." "Ban, aren't you ever going to get over it?" He looked at her silently. "No; you won't. There are a few of us like that. God help us!" said Camilla Van Arsdale. CHAPTER II Others than Banneker's friends and frequenters now evinced symptoms of interest in his influence upon his environment. Approve him you might, or disapprove him; the palpable fact remained that he wielded a growing power. Several promising enterprises directed at the City Treasury had aborted under destructive pressure from his pen. A once impregnably cohesive ring of Albany legislators had disintegrated with such violence of mutual recrimination that prosecution loomed imminent, because of a two weeks' "vacation" of Banneker's at the State Capitol. He had hunted some of the lawlessness out of the Police Department and bludgeoned some decent housing measures through the city councils. Politically he was deemed faithless and unreliable which meant that, as an independent, he had ruined some hopefully profitable combinations in both parties. Certain men, high up in politics and finance at the point where they overlap, took thoughtful heed of him. How could they make him useful? Or, at least, prevent him from being harmful? No less a potentate than Poultney Masters had sought illumination from Willis Enderby upon the subject in the days when people in street-cars first began to rustle through the sheets of The Patriot, curious to see what the editorial had to say to them that day. "What do you think of him?" began the magnate. "Able," grunted the other. "If he weren't, I wouldn't be troubling my head about him. What else? Dangerous?" "As dangerous as he is upright. Exactly."