The manner of the two was that of familiars, of friends, though there
was a touch of deference in Banneker's bearing, too subtly personal to
be attributed to his official status. He went out to adjust the
visitor's poncho, and, swinging her leg across the Mexican saddle of her
horse with the mechanical ease of one habituated to this mode of travel,
she was off.

Again the agent returned to his unofficial task and was instantly
submerged in it. Impatiently he interrupted himself to light the lamps
and at once resumed his pen. An emphatic knock at his door only caused
him to shake his head. The summons was repeated. With a sigh Banneker
gathered the written sheets, enclosed them in 5 S 0027, and restored
that receptacle to its place. Meantime the knocking continued
impatiently, presently pointed by a deep--

"Any one inside there?"

"Yes," said Banneker, opening to face the bulky old man who had cared
for the wounded. "What's wanted?"

Uninvited, and with an assured air, the visitor stepped in.

"I am Horace Vanney," he announced.

Banneker waited.

"Do you know my name?"

"No."