m
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