“I’ll think it over,” answered Banneker, as Densmore entered.

“Come and see me at the office,” invited Masters as he shambled pursily away.

Across the dining-table Densmore said to his guest:  “So the Old Boy wants to put you up here.”

“Yes.”

“That means a sure election.”

“But even if I could afford it, I’d get very little use of the club.  You see, I have only one day off a week.”

“It is a rotten business, for sure!” said Densmore sympathetically.  “Couldn’t you get on night work, so you could play afternoons?”

“Play polo?” Banneker laughed.  “My means would hardly support one pony.”

“That’ll be all right,” returned the other nonchalantly.  “There are always fellows glad to lend a mount to a good player.  And you’re going to be that.”

The high lust of the game took and shook Banneker for a dim moment.  Then he recovered himself.  “No.  I couldn’t do that.”

“Let’s leave it this way, then.  Whether you join now or not, come down once in a while as my guest, and fill in for the scratch matches.  Later you may be able to pick up a few nags, cheap.”

“I’ll think it over,” said Banneker, as he had said to old Poultney Masters.

Not until after the dinner did Banneker remind his host of their understanding.  “You haven’t forgotten that I’m here on business?”

“No; I haven’t.  I’m going to answer your question for publication.  Mrs. Eyre has not the slightest intention of suing for divorce.”

“About the separation?”

“No.  No separation, either.  Io is traveling with friends and will be back in a few months.”

“That is authoritative?”

“You can quote me, if you like, though I’d rather nothing were published, of course.  And I give you my personal word that it’s true.”

“That’s quite enough.”

“So much for publication.  What follows is private:  just between you and me.”

Banneker nodded.  After a ruminative pause Densmore asked an abrupt question.

“You found my sister after the wreck, didn’t you?”

“Well; she found me.”

“Was she hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Badly?”

“I think not.  There was some concussion of the brain, I suppose.  She was quite dazed.”

“Did you call a doctor?”

“No.  She wouldn’t have one.”

“You know Miss Van Arsdale, don’t you?”

“She’s the best friend I’ve got in the world,” returned Banneker, so impulsively that his interrogator looked at him curiously before continuing: 

“Did you see Io at her house?”

“Yes; frequently,” replied Banneker, wondering to what this all tended, but resolved to be as frank as was compatible with discretion.

“How did she seem?”

“She was as well off there as she could be anywhere.”

“Yes.  But how did she seem?  Mentally, I mean.”