rily.

"Io. My foster-sister's nickname. Irene Welland, she was. You're a queer
sort of society reporter if you don't know that."

"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?"

Accepting the suggestion without comment, Densmore cantered away and
brought the roan down at speed. To the rider, his mount seemed to make
the sudden turn perfectly. But Banneker stepped out and examined the off
forefoot with a dubious face.

"Breaks a little there," he stated seriously.

The horseman tried the turn again, throwing his weight over. This time
he did feel a slightly perceptible "give." "What's the remedy?" he
asked.

"Build up the outer flange of the shoe. That may do it. But I shouldn't
trust him without a thorough test. A good pony'll always overplay his
safety a little in a close match."

The implication of this expert view aroused Densmore's curiosity.
"You've played," he said.

"No: I've never played. I've knocked the ball about a little."

"Where?"

"Out in Santa Barbara. With the stable-boys."

So simply was it said that Densmore returned, quite as simply: "Were you
a stable-boy?"

"No such luck, then. Just a kid, out of a job."

Densmore dismounted, handed reins and mallet to the visitor and said,
"Try a shot or two."

Slipping his coat and w