“Whatever gave you the idea I knew him?”
“I was told that you had claimed the body.”
Rascomb’s expression became inscrutable. His dark eyes bored into Flash as if probing for what lay behind the question. He moistened his lips to speak.
At that instant a player motioned to him from across the field. Rascomb’s relief was obvious.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I’ll talk with you later.”
Jerking his mount’s head, he rode to his post. The game was resumed.
“What was the idea of deliberately trying to antagonize Rascomb?” Doyle accused. “Such tactics won’t get you anywhere!”
“Maybe not a trip to the hunting lodge,” Flash cheerfully admitted.
He had no intention of allowing Rascomb to dictate what pictures he could or could not take. Oddly, as the game continued, no occasion arose to photograph the sportsman at close range.
Rascomb played erratically. His mallet slashed wickedly but many of his shots were badly placed. Losing his temper, he began jerking his horse about and calling it an “evil brute.”