d anxiously.

"She won't be any the better for seeing people," replied Miss Van
Arsdale firmly, and with that the caller was forced to be content as he
went back to his own place.

The morning train of the nineteenth, which should have been the noon
train of the eighteenth, deposited upon the platform Gardner of the
Angelica City Herald, and a suitcase. The thin and bespectacled reporter
shook hands with Banneker.

"Well, Mr. Man," he observed. "You've made a hit with that story of
yours even before it's got into print."

"Did you bring me a copy of the paper?"

Gardner grinned. "You seem to think Sunday specials are set up and
printed overnight. Wait a couple of weeks."

"But they're going to publish it?"

"Surest thing you know. They've wired me to know who you are and what
and why."

"Why what?"

"Oh, I dunno. Why a fellow who can do that sort of thing hasn't done it
before or doesn't do it some more, I suppose. If you should ever want a
job in the newspaper game, that story would be pretty much enough to get
it for you."

"I wouldn't mind getting a little local correspondence to do," announced
Banneker modestly.

"So you intimated before. Well, I can give you some practice right now.
I'm on a blind trail that goes up in the air somewhere around here. Do
you remember, we compared lists on the wreck?"

"Yes."

"Have you got any addition to your list since?"

"No," replied Banneker. "Have you?" he added.

"Not by name. But the tip is that there was a prominent New York society
girl, one of the Four Hundred lot, on the train, and that she's
vanished."

"All the bodies were accounted for," said the agent.

"They don't think she's dead. They think she's run away."

"Run away?" repeated Banneker with an impassive face.

"Whether the man was with her on the train or whether she was to join
him on the coast isn't known. That's the worst of these society tips,"
pursued the reporter discontentedly. "They're always vague, and usually
wrong. This one isn't even certain about who the girl is. But they think
it's Stella Wrightington," he concluded in the manner of one who has
imparted portentous tidings.

"Who's she?" said Banneker.

"Good Lord! Don't you ever read the news?" cried the disgusted
journalist. "Why, she's had her picture published more times than a
movie queen. She's the youngest daughter of Cyrus Wrightington, the
multi-millionaire philanthropist. Now did you see anything of that kind
o