"Wait," pleaded Io. "How did he stop The Searchlight?"

"By threatening Bussey with an expose that would have blown him out of the water. Blackmail, if you like, Mrs. Eyre, and not of the most polite kind."

"For me," whispered Io.

"He held that old carrion-buzzard, Bussey, up at the muzzle of The Patriot as if it were a blunderbuss. It was loaded to kill, too. And then," pursued Edmonds, "he paid the price. Marrineal got out his little gun and held him up."

"Held Ban up? What for? How could he do that? All this is a riddle to me, Mr. Edmonds."

"Do you think you really want to know?" asked the other with a touch of grimness. "It won't be pleasant hearing."

"I've got to know. Everything!"

"Very well. Here's the situation. Banneker points his gun, The Patriot, at Bussey. 'Be good or I'll shoot,' he says. Marrineal learns of it, never mind how. He points _his_ gun at Ban. 'Be good, or I'll shoot,'

says he. And there you are!"

"But what was his gun? And why need he threaten Ban?"

"Why, you see, Mrs. Eyre, about that time things were coming to an issue between Ban and Marrineal. Ban was having a hard fight for the independence of his editorial page. His strongest hold on Marrineal was Marrineal's fear of losing him. There were plenty of opportunities open to a Banneker. Well, when Marrineal got Ban where he couldn't resign, Ban's hold was gone. That was Marrineal's gun."

"Why couldn't he resign?" asked Io, white-lipped.

"If he quit The Patriot he could no longer hold Bussey, and The Searchlight could print what it chose. You see?"

"I see," said Io, very low. "Oh, why couldn't I have seen before!"

"How could you, if Ban told you nothing?" reasoned Edmonds. "The blame of the miserable business isn't yours. Sometimes I wonder if it's anybody's; if the newspaper game isn't just too strong for us who try to play it. As for The Searchlight, I've since got another hold on Bussey which will keep him from making any trouble. That's what I wanted to tell you."

"Oh, what does it matter! What does it matter!" she moaned. She crossed to the window, laid her hot and white face against the cool glass, pressed her hands in upon her temples, striving to think connectedly.

"Then whatever he did on The Patriot, whatever compromises he yielded to or--or cowardices--" she winced at the words--"were done to save his place; to save me."

"I'm afraid so," returned the other gently.

"Do you know what he's doing now?" she demanded.

"I understand he's back at Manzanita."

"He is. And from what I can make out," she added fiercely, "he is giving up his life to guarding Miss Van Arsdale from breaking her heart, as she will do, if she learns of Judge Enderby's death--Oh!" she cried, "I didn't mean to say that! You must forget that there was anything said."

"No need. I know all that story," he said gravely. "That is what I couldn't forgive in Ban. That he should have betrayed Miss Van Arsdale, his oldest friend. That is the unpardonable treachery."

"To save me," said Io.

"Not even for that. He owed more to her than to you."

"I can't believe that he did it!" she wailed. "To use my letter to set spies on Cousin Billy and ruin him--it isn't Ban. It isn't!"

"He did it, and, when it was too late, he tried to stop it."

"To stop it?" She looked her startled query at him. "How do you know that?"

"Last week," explained Edmonds, "Judge Enderby's partner sent for me. He had been going over some papers and had come upon a telegram from Banneker urging Enderby not to leave without seeing him. The telegram must have been delivered very shortly after the Judge left for the train."

"Telegram? Why a telegram? Wasn't Ban in town?"

"No. He was down in Jersey. At The Retreat."

"Wait!" gasped Io. "At The Retreat! Then my letter would have been forwarded to him there. He couldn't have got it at the same time that Cousin Billy got the one I sent him." She gripped Russell Edmonds's wrists in fierce, strong hands. "What if he hadn't known in time? What if, the moment he did know, he did his best to stop Cousin Billy from starting, with that telegram?" Suddenly the light died out of her face.

"But then how would that loathsome Mr. Ives have known that he was going, unless Ban betrayed him?"

"Easily enough," returned the veteran. "He had a report from his detectives, who had been watching Enderby for months.... Mrs. Eyre, I wish you'd give me a drink. I feel shaky."

She left him to give the order. When she returned, they had both steadied down. Carefully, and with growing conviction, they gathered the evidence into something like a coherent whole. At the end, Io moaned:

"The one thing I can't bear is that Cousin Billy died, believing that of Ban."

She threw herself upon the broad lounge, prone, her face buried in her arms. The veteran of hundreds of fights, brave and blind, righteous and mistaken, crowned with fleeting victories, tainted with irremediable errors, stood silent, perplexed, mournful. He walked slowly over to where the girl was stretched, and laid a clumsy, comforting hand on her shoulder.

"I wish you'd cry for me, too," he said huskily. "I'm too old."

CHAPTER XXI

Every Saturday the distinguished physician from Angelica City came to Manzanita on the afternoon train, spent two or three hours at Camilla Van Arsdale's camp, and returned in time to catch Number Seven back. No imaginable fee would have induced him to abstract one whole day from his enormous practice for any other patient. But he was himself an ardent vocal amateur, and to keep Royce Melvin alive and able to give forth her songs to the world was a special satisfaction to his soul. Moreover, he knew enough of Banneker's story to take pride in being partner in his plan of deception and self-sacrifice. He pretended that it was a needed holiday for him: his bills hardly defrayed the traveling expense.

Now, riding back with Banneker, he meditated a final opinion, and out of that opinion came speech.

"Mr. Banneker, they ought to give you and me a special niche in the Hall of Fame," he said.

A rather wan smile touched briefly Banneker's lips. "I believe that my ambitions once reached even that far," he said.

The other reflected upon the implied tragedy of a life, so young, for which ambition was already in the past tense, as he added:

"In the musical section. We've got our share in the nearest thing to great music that has been produced in the America of our time. You and I. Principally you."

Banneker made a quick gesture of denial.

"I don't know what you owe to Camilla Van Arsdale, but you've paid the debt. There won't be much more to pay, Banneker."

Banneker looked up sharply.

"No." The visitor shook his graying head. "We've performed as near a miracle as it is given to poor human power to perform. It can't last much longer."

"How long?"