“Awfully sorry I didn’t spot you at once.”  Cressey’s genuineness was a sufficient apology.  “I’m a little stuffy to-day.  Bachelor dinner last night.  What are you doing here?  Looking around?”

“No.  I’m living here.”

“That so?  So am I. Come into my club and let’s talk.  I’m glad to see you, Mr. Banneker.”

Even had Banneker been prone to self-consciousness, which he was not, the extreme, almost monastic plainness of the small, neutral-fronted building to which the other led him would have set him at ease.  It gave no inkling of its unique exclusiveness, and equally unique expensiveness.  As for Cressey, that simple, direct, and confident soul took not the smallest account of Banneker’s standardized clothing, which made him almost as conspicuous in that environment as if he had entered clad in a wooden packing-case.  Cressey’s creed in such matters was complete; any friend of his was good enough for any environment to which he might introduce him, and any other friend who took exceptions might go farther!

“Banzai!” said the cheerful host over his cocktail.  “Welcome to our city.  Hope you like it.”

“I do,” said Banneker, lifting his glass in response.

“Where are you living?”

“Grove Street.”

Cressey knit his brows.  “Where’s that?  Harlem?”

“No.  Over west of Sixth Avenue.”

“Queer kind of place to live, ain’t it?  There’s a corkin’ little suite vacant over at the Regalton.  Cheap at the money.  Oh!-er-I-er-maybe—­”

“Yes; that’s it,” smiled Banneker.  “The treasury isn’t up to bachelor suites, yet awhile.  I’ve only just got a job.”

“What is it?”

“Newspaper work.  The Morning Ledger.”

“Reporting?” A dubious expression clouded the candid cheerfulness of the other’s face.

“Yes.  What’s the matter with that?”

“Oh; I dunno.  It’s a piffling sort of job, ain’t it?”

“Piffling?  How do you mean?”

“Well, I supposed you had to ask a lot of questions and pry into other people’s business and—­and all that sorta thing.”

“If nobody asked questions,” pointed out Banneker, remembering Gardner’s resolute devotion to his professional ideals, “there wouldn’t be any news, would there?”

“Sure!  That’s right,” agreed the gilded youth.  “The Ledger’s the decentest paper in town, too.  It’s a gentleman’s paper.  I know a feller on it; Guy Mallory; was in my class at college.  Give you a letter to him if you like.”

Informed that Banneker already knew Mr. Mallory, his host expressed the hope of being useful to him in any other possible manner—­“any tips I can give you or anything of that sort, old chap?”—­so heartily that the newcomer broached the subject of clothes.

“Nothin’ easier,” was the ready response.  “I’ll take you right down to Mertoun.  Just one more and we’re off.”

The one more having been disposed of:  “What is it you want?” inquired Cressey, when they were settled in the taxi which was waiting at the club door for them.