There was an expansive, friendly quality to Rascomb which attracted Flash despite himself. For some reason he had felt distrustful of the man. Now that he had heard him speak, the feeling was slipping away.
“A little request, boys,” the sportsman said casually. “No close-ups of me, please.”
“You don’t like to be photographed?” Flash inquired, watching the man curiously.
Rascomb’s dark eyes appraised the cameraman. His glance took in the cheap suit, the muddy shoes, wrinkled tie.
“You’ll have to excuse Evans’ appearance.” Doyle spoke apologetically. “He fell into a river this morning.”
“A river?” Rascomb asked in amusement.
Flash did not bother to explain or correct Doyle’s misstatement.
After a lengthy pause the polo player inquired thoughtfully:
“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before? Your face seems familiar.”
“Funny. I was thinking the same thing when I first saw you—that was at the Indianapolis auto races.”