Banneker nodded, and with that nod dismissed the subject quite as effectually as Mr. Horace Vanney himself could have done. “Did you attend all the injured?” he asked.
“All the serious ones, I think.”
“Was there a young girl among them, dark and good-looking, whose name began—”
“The one my addle-brained young nephew has been pestering me about? Miss I. O. W.?”
“Yes. He reported her to me.”
“I handled no such case that I recall. Now, as to your own helpfulness, I wish to make clear that I appreciate it.”
Mr. Vanney launched into a flowery tribute of the after-dinner variety, leaning forward to rest a hand upon Banneker’s desk as he spoke. When the speech was over and the hand withdrawn, something remained among the strewn papers. Banneker regarded it with interest. It showed a blotch of yellow upon green and a capital C. Picking it up, he looked from it to its giver.
“A little tribute,” said that gentleman: “a slight recognition of your services.” His manner suggested that hundred-dollar bills were inconsiderable trifles, hardly requiring the acknowledgment of thanks.
In this case the bill did not secure such acknowledgment.
“You don’t owe me anything,” stated the agent. “I can’t take this!”