"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.
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