You're right, boy. I'll give him to the iceman."

The big grey man, William Drew, loomed over the heads of the little
crowd, and they gave way before him as water divides under the prow of a
ship; it was as if he cast a shadow which they feared before him.

"Help me through this mob," said Woodbury to Werther, "and back to my
box. Devil take it, my overcoat won't cover that leg."

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 co