“I’m not a society reporter.”
“But you know Mrs. Eyre?”
“Yes; in a way,” returned Banneker, gaining command of himself. “Officially, you might say. She was in a railroad wreck that I stage-managed out West. I was the local agent.”
“Then I’ve heard about you,” replied Densmore with interest, though he had heard only what little Io had deemed it advisable that he should know. “You helped my sister when she was hurt. We owe you something for that.”
“Official duty.”
“That’s all right. But it was more than that. I recall your name now.” Densmore’s bearing had become that of a man to his equal. “I’ll tell you, let’s go up to the clubhouse and have a drink, shan’t we? D’ you mind just waiting here while I give this nag a little run to supple him up?”
He was off, leaving Banneker with brain awhirl. To steady himself against this sudden flood of memory and circumstance, Banneker strove to focus his attention upon the technique of the horse and his rider. When they returned he said at once:
“Are you going to play that pony?”
The horseman looked mildly surprised. “After he’s learned a bit more. Shapes up well, don’t you think?”
“Speed him up to me and give him a sharp twist to the right, will you?”