"So the wise thing is for her to go," concluded Miss Van Arsdale.
"Unless she is willing to risk the publicity."
"Yes," assented Io. "The wise thing is for me to go." She spoke in a
curious tone, not looking at Banneker, not looking at anything outward
and visible; her vision seemed somberly introverted.
"Not now, though," said Banneker.
"Why not?" asked both women. He answered Io.
"You called for a storm. You're going to get it. A big one. I could send
you out on Number Eight, but that's a way-train and there's no telling
where it would land you or when you'd get through. Besides, I don't
believe Gardner is coming. I'd have heard from him by now. Listen!"
The slow pat-pat-pat of great raindrops ticked like a started clock on
the roof. It ceased, and far overhead the great, quiet voice of the wind
said, "Hush--sh--sh--sh--sh!", bidding the world lie still and wait.
"What if he does come?" asked Miss Van Arsdale
"I'll get word to you and get her out some way."
The storm burst on Banneker, homebound, just as he emerged from the
woodland, in a wild, thrashing wind from the southwest and a downpour
the most fiercely, relentlessly insistent that he had ever known. A
cactus desert in the rare orgy of a rainstorm is a place of wonder.
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