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“Only what all New Plymouth knows about her,” answered the driver coldly.

“And what’s that?”

The other ignored the question.

“What’s that?” Harley asked again, when the car had travelled another mile.

“Nothing,” admitted Roy. “But it says a lot.”

“What does it say of her?”

“Calls her names.”

“What names?”

“‘A good sport,’ is the best of ’em. You can guess the worst.”

There was another lengthy silence, then Roy, chafed by the strain of the awkward pause, sought to excuse his attitude.

“Only know her by sight, myself,” he said.

“What do you say of her?” was the sharp demand.

Roy considered for a moment before he answered.

“Me? Well—if she were my girl, I’d be everlastingly afraid of the other fellow. All the same, I’d be glad to take the risk. But she’s got more brains than to pick on a taxi-driver. She doesn’t have to, anyhow.”

Harley gripped his clenched fist between his knees.

“Everybody talks about her, eh?” he asked savagely. “Every Tom, Dick and Harry, eh?”

Roy shrugged.

“Ever know a woman of that type who wasn’t talked about by everybody?” he asked, smiling apologetically.

Harley turned his head to look at Roy. His face was white, and his eyes glinted dangerously.

“A woman of what type?”

The other answered nothing.

Harley released his fists.

“A woman of what type?” he repeated.

“Oh, for the love of Mike!” snapped Roy in disgust. “Talk of something else.”