“Why, then I’d put a mark on you. A reporter’s mark.”
“I think not.”
“Oh; you think not?” The horseman studied him negligently. Trained to the fineness of steel in the school of gymnasium, field, and tennis court, he failed to recognize in the man before him a type as formidable, in its rugged power, as his own. “Or perhaps I’d have the grooms do it for me, before they threw you over the fence.”
“It would be safer,” allowed the other, with a smile that surprised the athlete.
“Safer?” he repeated. “I wasn’t thinking of safety.”
“Think of it,” advised the visitor; “for if you set your grooms on me, they could perhaps throw me out. But as sure as they did I’d kill you the next time we met.”
Densmore smiled. “You!” he said contemptuously. “Kill, eh? Did you ever kill any one?”
“Yes.”
Under their jet brows Densmore’s eyes took on a peculiar look of intensity. “A Ledger reporter,” he murmured. “See here! Is your name Banneker, by any chance?”
“Yes.”