climbed. Is it success. Ban?"

"It will be."

"And have you reached the Mountains of Fulfillment?"

He shook his head. "One never does, climbing alone."

"Has it been alone, Ban?"

"Yes."

"Always?"

"Always."

"So it has been for me--really. No," she added swiftly; "don't ask me
questions. Not now. I want to hear more of your new venture."

He outlined his plan and hopes for The Patriot.

"It's good," she said gravely. "It's power, and so it's danger. But it's
good.... Are we friends, Ban?"

"How can we be!"

"How can we not be! You've tried to drop me out of your life. Oh, I
know, because I know you--better than you think. You'll never drop me
out of your life again," she murmured with confident wistfulness.
"Never, Ban.... Let's go in."

Not until she came to bid him good-night, with a lingering handclasp,
her palm cleaving to his like the reluctant severance of lips, did she
tell him that she was going away almost immediately. "But I had to make
sure first that you were really alive, and still Ban," she said.

It was many months before he saw her again.

PART III

FULFILLMENT

CHAPTER I

The House With Three Eyes sent forth into the darkness a triple glow of
hospitality. Through the aloof Chelsea district street, beyond the
westernmost L structure, came taxicabs, hansoms, private autos, to
discharge at the central door men who were presently revealed, under the
lucent globe above the lintel, to be for the most part silhouette
studies in the black of festal tailoring and silk hat against the white
of expansive shirt-front. Occasionally, though less often, one of the
doors at either flank of the house, also overwatched by shining orbs,
opened to discharge an early departure. A midnight wayfarer, pausing
opposite to contemplate this inexplicable grandeur in a dingy
neighborhood, sought enlightenment from the passing patrolman:

"Wot's doin'? Swell gamblin' joint? Huh?" As he spoke a huge, silent car
crept swiftly to the entry, which opened to swallow up two bareheaded,
luxuriously befurred women, with their escorts. The curious wayfarer
promptly amended his query, though not for the better.

"Naw!" replied the policeman with scorn. "That's Mr. Banneker's house."

"Banneker? Who's Banneker?"

With augmented contempt the officer requested the latest quotations on
clover seed. "He's the editor of The Patriot," he vouchsafed. "A
millionaire, too, they say. And a good sport."