Then on him also fell, as it seemed, the approaching shadow of the grey man and he looked up with something of a start into the keen eyes of Drew.

“Son,” said the big man, “you look sort of familiar to me.  I’m asking your pardon, but who was your mother?”

The eyes of young Woodbury narrowed and the two stood considering each other gravely for a long moment.

“I never saw her,” he said at last, and then turned with a frown to work his way through the crowd and back to his box.

The tall man hesitated a moment and then started in pursuit, but the mob intervened.  He turned back to Werther.

“Did you get his name?” he asked.

“Fine bit of riding he showed, eh?” cried the little man, “and turned down my thousand as cool as you please.  I tell you, Drew, there’s some flint in the Easterners after all!”

“Damn the Easterners.  What’s his name?”

“Woodbury.  Anthony Woodbury.”

“Woodbury?”

“What’s wrong with that name?”

“Nothing.  Only I’m a bit surprised.”

And he frowned with a puzzled, wistful expression, staring straight ahead like a man striving to solve a great riddle.

CHAPTER III

SOCIAL SUICIDE

At his box, Woodbury stopped only to huddle into his coat and overcoat and pull his hat down over his eyes.  Then he hurried on toward an exit, but even this slight delay brought the reporters up with him.  They had scented news as the eagle sights prey far below, and then swooped down on him.  He continued his flight shaking off their harrying questions, but they kept up the running fight and at the door one of them reached his side with:  “It’s Mr. Woodbury of the Westfall Polo Club, son of Mr. John Woodbury of Anson Place?”

Anthony Woodbury groaned with dismay and clutched the grinning reporter by the arm.

“Come with me!”

Prospects of a scoop of a sizable nature brightened the eyes of the reporter.  He followed in all haste, and the other news-gatherers, in obedience to the exacting, unspoken laws of their craft, stood back and followed the flight with grumbling envy.

On Twenty-Sixth Street, a little from the corner of Madison Avenue, stood a big touring car with the chauffeur waiting in the front seat.  There were still some followers from the Garden.

Woodbury jumped into the back seat, drew the reporter after him, and called:  “Start ahead, Maclaren—­drive anywhere, but get moving.”

“Now, sir,” turning to the reporter as the engine commenced to hum, “what’s your name?”

“Bantry.”

“Bantry?  Glad to know you.”

He shook hands.

“You know me?”

“Certainly.  I cover sports all the way from polo to golf.  Anthony Woodbury—­Westfall Polo Club—­then golf, tennis, trap shooting—­”

“Enough!” groaned the victim.  “Now look here, Bantry, you have me dead to rights—­got me with the goods, so to speak, haven’t you?”