“Are you a friend of Mr. Banneker’s?”
“In a way. In fact, I might claim to have started him on his career of newspaper crime. I’m Gardner of the Angelica City Herald.”
“Ban will be glad to see you. Take off your things. I am Russell Edmonds.”
He led the way into a spacious and beautiful room, filled with the composite hum of voices and the scent of half-hidden flowers. The Westerner glanced avidly about him, noting here a spoken name familiar in print, there a face recognized from far-spread photographic reproduction.
“Some different from Ban’s shack on the desert,” he muttered. “Hello! Mr. Edmonds, who’s the splendid-looking woman in brown with the yellow orchids, over there in the seat back of the palms?”
Edmonds leaned forward to look. “Royce Melvin, the composer, I believe. I haven’t met her.”
“I have, then,” returned the other, as the guest changed her position, fully revealing her face. “Tried to dig some information out of her once. Like picking prickly pears blindfold. That’s Camilla Van Arsdale. What a coincidence to find her here!”
“No! Camilla Van Arsdale? You’ll excuse me, won’t you? I want to speak to her. Make yourself known to any one you like the looks of. That’s the rule of the house; no introductions.”
He walked across the room, made his way through the crescent curving about Miss Van Arsdale, and, presenting himself, was warmly greeted.
“Let me take you to Ban,” he said. “He’ll want to see you at once.”