“Oh, so you saw me there?”
“Yes, I have a picture as a souvenir. Snapped it while you were talking with one of the drivers in the pit.”
The pleasant smile receded from Rascomb’s face. The corners of his lips twitched.
“I dislike being photographed,” he said. “I dislike it intensely. It makes me especially nervous to know that a camera is focused upon me during a polo match. I trust you’ll oblige me by not taking any pictures except from across the field?”
“Oh, sure,” Doyle said instantly before Flash could answer. “We’ll be glad to do you that little favor.”
“You’ll not lose by it.”
Rascomb wheeled his horse as if to ride away. Plainly he was irritated. Flash decided to court further displeasure.
“I’d like to ask a personal question, if you don’t mind, Mr. Rascomb,” he remarked. “Are you related to a man named Povy?”
“Povy?” the sportsman demanded sharply.
“Albert Povy. He was listed as killed in the recent train wreck.”