Charley Devereux—for ’tis he—gazes very hard at his hostess. Could he be mistaken, or is not this the young lady whom he “chucked off” the runaway horse?
“Are you fond of riding?” he abruptly asked.
“Oh! passionately. I ride every day.”
“Did you ride in the park on Friday?”
“Yes, and was nearly killed. My horse, a thoroughbred, bolted. I fought him as long as I could. I got giddy, and I can recollect nothing till I found myself stretched on a bench beneath one of the trees on the side path.”
“Were you thrown?” asked Miss Devereux, of whom more anon.
“Well, yes and no. A man in the crowd—a young mechanic, my brother says—stopped the horse and caught me as I was flying through the air.”
“Charley, don’t you know something—”
A look from her brother silenced Miss Devereux.
“Were you present?” asked Miss Lindsay.