nificance for her or hers?
Enderby returned, and the two stood in the hard morning sunlight beneath
the broad sign inscribed with the station's name.

The stranger appeared from behind a freight-car on a siding, and hurried
up to within a few yards of them. From beneath his coat he slipped a
blackish oblong. It gave forth a click, and, after swift manipulation, a
second click. Enderby started toward the snap-shotter who turned and
ran.

"Do you know that man?" he asked, whirling upon Io.

A gray veil seemed to her drawn down over his features. Or was it a mist
of dread upon Io's own vision?

"I have seen him before," she answered, groping.

"Who is he?"

Memory flashed one of its sudden and sure illuminations upon her: a
Saturday night at The House With Three Eyes; this little man coming in
with Tertius Marrineal; later, peering into the flowerful corner where
she sat with Banneker.

"He has something to do with The Patriot," she answered steadily.

"How could The Patriot know of my coming here?'

"I don't know," said Io. She was deadly pale with a surmise too
monstrous for utterance.

He put it into words for her.

"Io, did you tell Errol Banneker that you were sending for me?"

"Yes."

Even in the midst of the ruin which he saw closing in upon his
career--that career upon which Camilla Van Arsdale had newly built her
last pride and hope and happiness--he could feel for the agony of the
girl before him.

"He couldn't have betrayed me!" cried Io: but, as she spoke, the memory
of other treacheries overwhelmed her.

The train rumbled in. Enderby stooped and kissed her forehead.

"My dear," he said gently, "I'm afraid you've trusted him once too
often."

CHAPTER XIX

Among his various amiable capacities, Ely Ives included that of
ceremonial arranger. Festivities were his delight; he was ever on the
lookout for occasions of celebration: any excuse for a gratulatory
function sufficed him. Before leaving on his chase to Manzanita, he had
conceived the festal notion of a dinner in honor of Banneker, not that
he cherished any love for him since the episode of the bet with Delavan
Eyre, but because his shrewd foresight perceived in it a closer binding
of the editor to the wheels of the victorious Patriot. Also it might
indirectly redound to the political advantage of Marrineal. Put thus to
that astute and aspiring public servant, it enlisted his prompt support.
He himself would give the feast: no