“Gawd!” said his companion, honestly shocked. “That’s a gloomy hole, ain’t it?”
“Not so bad, when you get used to it. I’ve been putting in three hours a day there lately.”
“Whatever for?”
“Oh, browsing. Book-hungry, I suppose. Carnegie hasn’t discovered Manzanita yet, you know; so I haven’t had many library opportunities.”
“Speaking of Manzanita,” remarked Cressey, and spoke of it, reminiscently and at length, as they walked along together. “Did the lovely and mysterious I.O.W. ever turn up and report herself?”
Banneker’s breath caught painfully in his throat.
“D’you know who she was?” pursued the other, without pause for reply to his previous question; and still without intermission continued: “Io Welland. That’s who she was. Oh, but she’s a hummer! I’ve met her since. Married, you know. Quick work, that marriage. There was a dam’ queer story whispered around about her starting to elope with some other chap, and his going nearly batty because she didn’t turn up, and all the time she was wandering around in the desert until somebody picked her up and took care of her. You ought to know something of that. It was supposed to be right in your back-yard.”
“I?” said Banneker, commanding himself with an effort; “Miss Welland reported in with a slight injury. That’s all.”
One glance at him told Cressey that Banneker did indeed “know something” of the mysterious disappearance which had so exercised a legion of busy tongues in New York; how much that something might be, he preserved for future and private speculation, based on the astounding perception that Banneker was in real pain of soul. Tact inspired Cressey to say at once: “Of course, that’s all you had to consider. By the way, you haven’t seen my revered uncle since you got here, have you?”
“Mr. Vanney? No.”