"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