While the police inquiry was afoot, Banneker was, perforce, often late in reporting for duty, the regular hour being twelve-thirty. Thus the idleness which the city desk had imposed upon him was, in a measure, justified. On a Thursday, when he had been held in conference with Judge Enderby, he did not reach The Ledger office until after two. Mr. Greenough was still out for luncheon. No sooner had Banneker entered the swinging gate than Mallory called to him. On the assistant city editor's face was a peculiar expression, half humorous, half dubious, as he said:

"Mr. Greenough has left an assignment for you."

"All right," said Banneker, stretching out his hand for the clipping or slip. None was forthcoming.

"It's a tip," explained Mallory. "It's from a pretty convincing source. The gist of it is that the Delavan Eyres have separated and a divorce is impending. You know, of course, who the Eyres are."

"I've met Eyre."

"That so? Ever met his wife?"

"No," replied Banneker, in good faith.

"No; you wouldn't have, probably. They travel different paths. Besides, she's been practically living abroad. She's a stunner. It's big society stuff, of course. The best chance of landing the story is from Archie Densmore, her half-brother. The international polo-player, you know. You'll find him at The Retreat, down on the Jersey coast."

The Retreat Banneker had heard of as being a bachelor country club whose distinguishing marks were a rather Spartan athleticism, and a more stiffly hedged exclusiveness than any other social institution known to the _elite_ of New York and Philadelphia, between which it stood midway.

"Then I'm to go and ask him," said Banneker slowly, "whether his sister is suing for divorce?"

"Yes," confirmed Mallory, a trifle nervously. "Find out who's to be named, of course. I suppose it's that new dancer, though there have been others. And there was a quaint story about some previous attachment of Mrs. Eyre's: that might have some bearing."

"I'm to ask her brother about that, too?"

"We want the story," answered Mallory, almost petulantly.

On the trip down into Jersey the reporter had plenty of time to consider his unsavory task. Some one had to do this kind of thing, so long as the public snooped and peeped and eavesdropped through the keyhole of print at the pageant of the socially great: this he appreciated and accepted. But he felt that it ought to be some one other than himself--and, at the same time, was sufficiently just to smile at himself for his illogical attitude.

A surprisingly good auto was found in the town of his destination, to speed him to the stone gateway of The Retreat. The guardian, always on duty there, passed him with a civil word, and a sober-liveried flunkey at the clubhouse door, after a swift, unobtrusive consideration of his clothes and bearing, took him readily for granted, and said that Mr. Densmore would be just about going on the polo field for practice. Did the gentleman know his way to the field? Seeing the flag on the stable, Banneker nodded, and walked over. A groom pointed out a spare, powerful looking young man with a pink face, startlingly defined by a straight black mustache and straighter black eyebrows, mounting a light-built roan, a few rods away. Banneker accosted him.

"Yes, my name is Densmore," he answered the visitor's accost.

"I'm a reporter from The Ledger," explained Banneker.

"A reporter?" Mr. Densmore frowned. "Reporters aren't allowed here, except on match days. How did you get in?"

"Nobody stopped me," answered the visitor in an expressionless tone.

"It doesn't matter," said the other, "since you're here. What is it; the international challenge?"

"A rumor has come to us--There's a tip come in at the office--We understood that there is--" Banneker pulled himself together and put the direct question. "Is Mrs. Delavan Eyre bringing a divorce suit against her husband?"

For a time there was a measured silence. Mr. Densmore's heavy brows seemed to jut outward and downward toward the questioner.

"You came out here from New York to ask me that?" he said presently.

"Yes."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. Who is named as co-respondent? And will there be a defense, or a counter-suit?"

"A counter-suit," repeated the man in the saddle quietly. "I wonder if you realize what you're asking?"

"I'm trying to get the news," said Banneker doggedly striving to hold to an ideal which momentarily grew more sordid and tawdry.

"And I wonder if you realize how you ought to be answered."

Yes; Banneker realized, with a sick realization. But he was not going to admit it. He kept silence.

"If this polo mallet were a whip, now," observed Mr. Densmore meditatively. "A dog-whip, for preference."

Under the shameful threat Banneker's eyes lightened. Here at least was something he could face like a man. His undermining nausea mitigated.

"What then?" he inquired in tones as level as those of his opponent.

"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."

"You're the man who cleared out the wharf-gang."

"Yes."

Densmore had been born and brought up in a cult to which courage is the basic, inclusive virtue for mankind, as chastity is for womankind. To his inground prejudice a man who was simply and unaffectedly brave must by that very fact be fine and admirable. And this man had not only shown an iron nerve, but afterward, in the investigation, which Densmore had followed, he had borne himself with the modesty, discretion, and good taste of the instinctive gentleman. The poloist was almost pathetically at a loss. When he spoke again his whole tone and manner had undergone a vital transformation.

"But, good God!" he cried in real distress and bewilderment, "a fellow who could do what you did, stand up to those gun-men in the dark and alone, to be garbaging around asking rotten, prying questions about a man's sister! No! I don't get it."

Banneker felt the blood run up into his face, under the sting of the other's puzzled protest, as it would never have done under open contempt or threat. A miserable, dull hopelessness possessed him. "It's part of the business," he muttered.

"Then it's a rotten business," retorted the horseman. "Do you _have_ to do this?"

"Somebody has to get the news."

"News! Scavenger's filth. See here, Banneker, I'm sorry I roughed you about the whip. But, to ask a man questions about the women of his own family--No: I'm _damned_ if I get it." He lost himself in thought, and when he spoke again it was as much to himself as to the man on the ground. "Suppose I did make a frank statement: you can never trust the papers to get it straight, even if they mean to, which is doubtful. And there's Io's name smeared all over--Hel-lo! What's the matter, now?" For his horse had shied away from an involuntary jerk of Banneker's muscles, responsive to electrified nerves, so sharply as to disturb the rider's balance.

"What name did you say?" muttered Banneker, involuntarily.

"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 waistcoat, Banneker mounted and urged the pony after the ball which the other sent spinning out across the field. He made a fairly creditable cut away to the left, following down and playing back moderately. While his mallet work was, naturally, uncertain, he played with a full, easy swing and in good form. But it was his horsemanship which specially commended itself to the critical eye of the connoisseur.

"Ridden range, haven't you?" inquired the poloist when the other came in.

"Quite a bit of it, in my time."

"Now, I'll tell you," said Densmore, employing his favorite formula. "There'll be practice later. It's an off day and we probably won't have two full teams. Let me rig you out, and you try it."

Banneker shook his head. "I'm here on business. I'm a reporter with a story to ............