Sequels of a surprising and diverse character followed Banneker's sudden fame. The first to manifest itself was disconcerting. On the Wednesday following the fight on the pier, Mrs. Brashear intercepted him in the hallway.

"I'm sure we all admire what you did, Mr. Banneker," she began, in evident trepidation.

The subject of this eulogy murmured something deprecatory.

"It was very brave of you. Most praiseworthy. We appreciate it, all of us. Yes, indeed. It's very painful, Mr. Banneker. I never expected to--to--indeed, I couldn't have believed--" Mrs. Brashear's plump little hands made gestures so fluttery and helpless that her lodger was moved to come to her aid.

"What's the matter, Mrs. Brashear? What's troubling you?"

"If you could make it convenient," said she tremulously, "when your month is up. I shouldn't think of asking you before."

"Are you giving me notice?" he inquired in amazement.

"If you don't mind, please. The notoriety, the--the--your being arrested. You were arrested, weren't you?"

"Oh, yes. But the coroner's jury cleared--"

"Such a thing never happened to any of my guests before. To have my house in the police records," wept Mrs. Brashear. "Really, Mr. Banneker, really! You can't know how it hurts one's pride."

"I'll go next week," said the evicted one, divided between amusement and annoyance, and retired to escape another outburst of grief.

Now that the matter was presented to him, he was rather glad to be leaving. Quarters somewhere in mid-town, more in consonance with his augmented income, suggested themselves as highly desirable. Since the affray he had been the object of irksome attentions from his fellow lodgers. It is difficult to say whether he found the more unendurable young Wickert's curiosity regarding details, Hainer's pompous adulation, or Lambert's admiring but jocular attitude. The others deemed it their duty never to refrain from some reference to the subject wherever and whenever they encountered him. The one exception was Miss Westlake. She congratulated him once, quietly but with warm sincerity; and when next she came to his door, dealt with another topic.

"Mrs. Brashear tells me that you are leaving, Mr. Banneker."

"Did she tell you why? That she has fired me out?"

"No. She didn't."

Banneker, a little surprised and touched at the landlady's reticence, explained.

"Ah, well," commented Miss Westlake, "you would soon have outgrown us in any case."

"I'm not so sure. Where one lives doesn't so much matter. And I'm a creature of habit."

"I think that you are going to be a very big man, Mr. Banneker."

"Do you?" He smiled down at her. "Now, why?"

She did not answer his smile. "You've got power," she replied. "And you have mastered your medium--or gone far toward it."

"I'm grateful for your good opinion," he began courteously; but she broke in on him, shaking her head.

"If it were mine alone, it wouldn't matter. It's the opinion of those who know. Mr. Banneker, I've been taking a liberty."

"You're the last person in the world to do that, I should think," he replied smilingly.

"But I have. You may remember my asking you once when those little sketches that I retyped so often were to be published."

"Yes. I never did anything with them."

"I did. I showed them to Violet Thornborough. She is an old friend."

Ignorant of the publication world outside of Park Row, Banneker did not recognize a name, unknown to the public, which in the inner literary world connoted all that was finest, most perceptive, most discriminating and helpful in selective criticism. Miss Thornborough had been the first to see and foster half of the glimmering and feeble radiances which had later grown to be the manifest lights of the magazine and book world, thanks largely to her aid and encouragement. The next name mentioned by Miss Westlake was well enough known to Banneker, however. The critic, it appears, had, with her own hands, borne the anonymous, typed copies to the editorial sanctum of the foremost of monthlies, and, claiming a prerogative, refused to move aside from the pathway of orderly business until the Great Gaines himself, editor and autocrat of the publication, had read at least one of them. So the Great Gaines indulged Miss Thornborough by reading one. He then indulged himself by reading three more.

"Your goose," he pronounced, "is not fledged; but there may be a fringe of swan feathers. Bring him to see me."

"I haven't the faintest idea of who, what, or where he is," answered the insistent critic.

"Then hire a detective at our expense," smiled the editor. "And, please, as you go, can't you lure away with you Mr. Harvey Wheelwright, our most popular novelist, now in the reception-room wishing us to publish his latest enormity? Us!" concluded the Great Gaines sufficiently.

Having related the episode to its subject, Miss Westlake said diffidently: "Do you think it was inexcusably impertinent of me?"

"No. I think it was very kind."

"Then you'll go to see Mr. Gaines?"

"One of these days. When I get out of this present scrape. And I hope you'll keep on copying my Sunday stuff after I leave. Nobody else would be so patient with my dreadful handwriting."

She gave him a glance and a little flush of thankfulness. Matters had begun to improve with Miss Westlake. But it was due to Banneker that she had won through her time of desperation. Now, through his suggestion, she was writing successfully, quarter and half column "general interest" articles for the Woman's Page of the Sunday Ledger. If she could in turn help Banneker to recognition, part of her debt would be paid. As for him, he was interested in, but not greatly expectant of, the Gaines invitation. Still, if he were cast adrift from The Ledger because of activity in the coming police inquiry, there was a possible port in the magazine world.

Meantime there pressed the question of a home. Cressey ought to afford help on that. He called the gilded youth on the telephone.

"Hello, old fire-eater!" cried Cressey. "Some little hero, aren't you! Bully work, my boy. I'm proud to know you.... What; quarters? Easiest thing you know. I've got the very thing--just like a real-estate agent. Let's see; this is your Monday at Sherry's, isn't it? All right. I'll meet you there."

Providentially, as it might appear, a friend of Cressey's, having secured a diplomatic appointment, was giving up his bachelor apartment in the select and central Regalton.

"Cheap as dirt," said the enthusiastic Cressey, beaming at Banneker over his cocktail that evening. "Two rooms and bath; fully furnished, and you can get it for eighteen hundred a year."

"Quite a raise from the five dollars a week I've been paying," smiled Banneker.

"Pshaw! You've got to live up to your new reputation. You're somebody, now, Banneker. All New York is talking about you. Why, I'm afraid to say I know you for fear they'll think I'm bragging."

"All of which doesn't increase my income," pointed out the other.

"It will. Just wait. One way or another you'll capitalize that reputation. That's the way New York is."

"That isn't the way _I_ am, however. I'll capitalize my brains and ability, if I've got 'em; not my gun-play."

"Your gun-play will advertise your brains and ability, then," retorted Cressey. "Nobody expects you to make a princely income shooting up toughs on the water-front. But your having done it will put you in the lime-light where people will notice you. And being noticed is the beginning of success in this-man's-town. I'm not sure it isn't the end, too. Just see how the head waiter fell all over himself when you came in. I expect he's telling that bunch at the long table yonder who you are now."

"Let him," returned Banneker comfortably, his long-bred habit of un-self-consciousness standing him in good stead. "They'll all forget it soon enough."

As he glanced over at the group around the table, the man who was apparently acting as host caught his eye and nodded in friendly fashion.

"Oh, you know Marrineal, do you?" asked Cressey in surprise.

"I've seen him, but I've never spoken to him. He dines sometimes in a queer little restaurant way downtown, just off the Swamp. Who is he, anyway?"

"Puzzle. Nobody in the clubs knows him. He's a spender. Bit of a rounder, too, I expect. Plays the Street, and beats it, too."

"Who's the little beauty next him?"

"You a rising light of Park Row, and not know Betty Raleigh? She killed 'em dead in London in romantic comedy and now she's come back here to repeat."

"Oh, yes. Opening to-night, isn't she? I've got a seat." He looked over at Marrineal, who was apparently protesting against his neighbor's reversed wine-glass. "So that's Mr. Marrineal's little style of game, is it?" He spoke crudely, for the apparition of the girl was quite touching in its youth, and delight, and candor of expression, whereas he had read into Marrineal's long, handsome, and blandly mature face a touch of the satyr. He resented the association.

"No; it isn't," replied Cressey promptly. "If it is, he's in the wrong pew. Miss Raleigh is straight as they make 'em, from all I hear."

"She looks it," admitted Banneker.

"At that, she's in a rather sporty lot. Do you know that chap three seats to her left?"

Banneker considered the diner, a round-faced, high-colored, youthful man of perhaps thirty-five, with a roving and merry eye. "No," he answered. "I never saw him before."

"That's Del Eyre," remarked Cressey casually, and appearing not to look at Banneker.

"A friend of yours?" The indifference of the tone indicated to his companion either that Banneker did not identify Delavan Eyre by his marriage, or that he maintained extraordinary control over himself, or that the queer, romantic stories of Io Welland's "passion in the desert" were gross exaggerations. Cressey inclined to the latter belief.

"Not specially," he answered the question. "He belongs to a couple of my clubs. Everybody likes Del; even Mrs. Del. But his pace is too swift for me. Just at present he is furnishing transportation, sixty horse-power, for Tarantina, the dancer who is featured in Betty Raleigh's show."

"Is she over there with them?"

"Oh, no. She wouldn't be. It isn't as sporty as all that." He rose to shake hands with a short, angular young man, dressed to a perfection as accurate as Banneker's own, and excelling him in one distinctive touch, a coat-flower of gold-and-white such as no other in New York could wear, since only in one conservatory was that special orchid successfully grown. By it Banneker recognized Poultney Masters, Jr., the son and heir of the tyrannous old financier who had for years bullied and browbeaten New York to his wayward old heart's content. In his son there was nothing of the bully, but through the amiability of manner Banneker could feel a quiet force. Cressey introduced them.

"We're just having coffee," said Banneker. "Will you join us?"

"Thank you; I must go back to my party. I came over to express my personal obligation to you for cleaning out that gang of wharf-rats. My boat anchors off there. I hope to see you aboard her sometime."

"You owe me no thanks," returned Banneker good-humoredly. "What I did was to save my own precious skin."

"The effect was the same. After this the rats will suspect every man of being a Banneker in disguise, and we shall have no more trouble."

"You see!" remarked Cressey triumphantly as Masters went away. "I told you you'd arrived."

"Do you count a word of ordinary courtesy as so much?" inquired Banneker, surprised and amused.

"From Junior? I certainly do. No Masters ever does anything without having figured out its exact meaning in advance."

"And what does this mean?" asked the other, still unimpressed.

"For one thing, that the Masters influence will be back of you, if the police try to put anything over. For another, that you've got the broadest door to society open to you, if Junior follows up his hint about the yacht."

"I haven't the time," returned Banneker with honest indifference. He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "Cressey," he said, "if I had a newspaper of my own in New York, do you know what I'd do with it?"

"Make money."

"I hope so. But whether I did or not, I'd set out to puncture that bubble of the Masters power and supremacy. It isn't right for any man to have that power just through money. It isn't American."

"The old man would smash your paper in six months."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Nobody has ever taken a shot at him yet. He may be more vulnerable than he looks.... Speaking of money, I suppose I'd better take that apartment. God knows how I'll pay for it, especially if I lose my job."

"If you lose your job I'll get you a better one on Wall Street to-morrow."

"On the strength of Poultney Masters, Jr., shaking hands with me, I suppose."

"Practically. It may not get into your newspapers, but the Street will know all about it to-morrow."

"It's a queer city. And it's a queer way to get on in it, by being quick on the trigger. Well, I'm off for the theater."

Between acts, Banneker, walking out to get air, was conscious of being the object of comment and demonstration. He heard his name spoken in half whispers; saw nods and jerks of the head; was an involuntary eavesdropper upon a heated discussion; "That's the man."--"No; it ain't. The paper says he's a big feller."--"This guy ain't a reporter. Pipe his clothes."--"Well, he's big if you size him right. Look at his shoulders."--"I'll betcha ten he ain't the man." And an apologetic young fellow ran after him to ask if he was not, in truth, Mr. Banneker of The Ledger. Being no more than human, he experienced a feeling of mild excitation over all this. But no sooner had the curtain risen on the second act than he quite forgot himself and his notoriety in the fresh charm of the comedy, and the delicious simplicity of Betty Raleigh as the heroine. That the piece was destined to success was plain, even so early. As the curtain fell again, and the star appeared, dragging after her a long, gaunt, exhausted, alarmed man in horn-rimmed spectacles, who had been lurking in a corner suffering from incipient nervous breakdown and illusions of catastrophe, he being the author, the body of the house rose and shouted. A hand fell on Banneker's shoulder.

"Come behind at the finish?" said a voice.

Turning, Banneker met the cynical and near-sighted eyes of Gurney, The Ledger's dramatic critic, with whom he had merely a nodding acquaintance, as Gurney seldom visited the office except at off-hours.

"Yes; I'd like to," he answered.

"Little Betty spotted you and has been demanding that the management bring you back for inspection."

"The play is a big success, isn't it?"

"I give it a year's run," returned the critic authoritatively. "Laurence has written it to fit Raleigh like a glove. She's all they said of her in London. And when she left here a year ago, she was just a fairly good _ingenue_. However, she's got brains, which is the next best thing in the theatrical game to marriage with the manager--or near-marriage."

Banneker, considering Gurney's crow-footed and tired leer, decided that he did not like the critic much.

Back-of-curtain after a successful opening provides a hectic and scrambled scene to the unaccustomed eye. Hastily presented to a few people, Banneker drifted to one side and, seating himself on a wire chair, contentedly assumed the role of onlooker. The air was full of laughter and greetings and kisses; light-hearted, offhand, gratulatory kisses which appeared to be the natural currency of felicitation. Betty Raleigh, lovely, flushed, and athrill with nervous exaltation, flung him a smile as she passed, one hand hooked in the arm of her leading man.

"You're coming to supper with us later," she called.

"Am I?" said Banneker.

"Of course. I've got something to ask you." She spoke as one expectant of unquestioning obedience: this was her night of glory and power.

Whether he had been previously bidden in through Gurney, or whether this chance word constituted his invitation, he did not know. Seeking enlightenment upon the point, he discovered that the critic had disappeared, to furnish his half-column for the morning issue. La Tarantina, hearing his inquiry, gave him the news in her broken English. The dancer, lithe, powerful, with the hideous feet and knotty legs typical of her profession, turned her somber, questioning eyes on the stranger:

"You air Monsieur Ban-kerr, who shoot, n'est-ce-pas?" she inquired.

"My name is Banneker," he replied.

"Weel you be ver' good an' shoot sahmbody for me?"

"With pleasure," he said, laughing; "if you'll plead for me with the jury."

"Zen here he iss." She stretched a long and, as it seemed, blatantly naked arm into a group near by and drew forth the roundish man whom Cressey had pointed out at Marrineal's dinner party. "He would be unfaithful to me, ziss one."

"I? Never!" denied the accused. He set a kiss in the hollow of the dancer's wrist. "How d'ye do, Mr. Banneker," he added, holding out his hand. "My name is Eyre."

"But yess!" cried the dancer. "He--what you say it?--he r-r-r-rave over Miss R-r-raleigh. He make me jealous. He shall be shoot at sunrice an' I weel console me wiz his shooter."

"Charming programme!" commented the doomed man. It struck Banneker that he had probably been drinking a good deal, also that he was a very likeable person, indeed. "If you don't mind my asking, where the devil did you learn to shoot like that?"

"Oh, out West where I came from. I used to practice on the pine trees at a little water-tank station called Manzanita".

"Manzanita!" repeated the other. "By God!" He swore softly, and stared at the other.

Banneker was annoyed. Evidently the gossip of which Io's girl friend had hinted that other night at Sherry's had obtained wide currency. Before the conversation could go any further, even had it been likely to after that surprising check, one of th............