At her door she held her face up to him as
straightforwardly as a child. "Good luck to you, dear boy," she said
softly. "If I ever were a fortune-teller, I would say that your star was
for happiness and success."
He bent and kissed her cheek lightly. "I'll have my try at success," he
said. "But the other isn't so easy."
"You'll find them one and the same," was her parting prophecy.
Inured to work at all hours, Banneker went to the small, bare room in
his apartment which he kept as a study, and sat down to write the
interview. Angles of dawn-light had begun to irradiate the steep canyon
of the street by the time he had finished. He read it over and found it
good, for its purposes. Every line of it sparkled. It had the
effervescent quality which the reading public loves to associate with
stage life and stage people. Beyond that, nothing. Banneker mailed it to
Miss Westlake for typing, had a bath, and went to bed. At noon he was at
The Ledger office, fresh, alert, and dispassionately curious to
ascertain the next resolution of the mix-up between the paper and
himself.
Nothing happened; at least, nothing indicative. Mr. Greenough's
expression was as flat and neutral as the desk over which he presided as
he called Banneker's name and said to him:
"Mr.
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