The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Sporting Chance, by Alice and Claude Askew

AUTHORS OF
"THE SHULAMITE," "THE ETONIAN," "THE PLAINS OF SILENCE,"
"NOT PROVEN," ETC.

CHAPTER I.

MOSTYN MAKES HIS DEBÛT.

"It may be old-fashioned to drive a coach to the Derby, but I'll be in my coffin before I'll go down any other way!" Thus, perpetrating a characteristic "bull," spoke genial and popular "Old Rory," as he was known to the best part of the world—Sir Roderick Macphane, to give him his true title.

A few minutes back he had handed over the ribbons to one of the grooms, who, with his fellow, was now busily engaged unharnessing the horses, four fine roans, as handsome a team as the heart of man could desire. "Old Rory" was a famous whip, and, in spite of his advancing years, a good all-round sportsman—a master of hounds, a familiar figure on the race-course, and as good a judge of horse and dog flesh as any in the country. In his younger days he had been an intrepid rider at the hurdles, an amateur of more than common merit.

There was, perhaps, no more popular man than "Rory" Macphane in the three kingdoms. He was laughed at, especially in Parliament, where he held a seat for an Irish division, because of his quaint sayings and frequent faux pas , but his good nature, charity, and kindness of heart were admitted on all sides. They were as palpable as his sportsmanship.

Mostyn Clithero, who occupied a seat at the back of the coach together with his friend and future brother-in-law, Pierce Trelawny, a nephew of Sir Roderick's, enjoyed the comments of the crowd as the coach threaded its way to the appointed place opposite the Grand Stand.

"That's 'Old Rory,' what owns Hipponous." How the populace murdered the colt's name! "The Derby winner—perhaps! He's one of the best. Look at the old sport sitting up there with his back as straight as a lad's! Good luck to ye, sir, and good luck to the 'oss! Hip—Hip—Hipponous!" This had become a popular catch-word, easily taken up and repeated.

Sir Roderick smiled a little and nodded now and again, quite conscious of his popularity and of that of his horse. It was the ambition of his life to win the Derby. He had tried many times and failed, but on the present occasion it looked as if he stood a good chance, for Hipponous had won the Middle Park Plate and was second favourite in the betting.

Sir Roderick stood up on the box, his back turned to the course, and made a little speech to his guests. Lady Lempiere, who had occupied the place of honour by his side, and to whom his first remark had been addressed, turned too, as in duty bound. She was a well-known society dame, no longer young but still reputed for her beauty as well as for her success upon the turf. She fixed her eyes, which were blue and liquid and full of expression, upon Major Molyneux, who sat directly behind her, and who—or so her eyes seemed to say—might soon be by her side. He was her accepted cavalier, and it was an understood thing that wherever Lady Lempiere was asked Major Molyneux must also receive his invitation.

"I want you all to understand that ceremony is a non-starter to-day," thus spoke Sir Roderick, "and this is to be a go-as-you-please race for all of you. There's lunch on the coach for any one at any time it's asked for, and the ice will give out before the wine does, though we've got a hundredweight on board. Bring as many of your friends as you like; there's enough for all. Don't worry about me: I shall probably be in the House—I mean the Paddock"—he corrected himself with a broad smile—"a place where I'm more in my element, and occasionally get listened to." He drew a deep breath as of relief at a duty performed. "Since I'm not at Westminster," he added, "I needn't talk for an hour when all I have to say is just comprised in two words: good luck!"

The little speech was greeted with laughter and applause, applause in which none was so vociferous as an individual with a bibulous red face and a white beard, who had the carefully fostered appearance of a military man. This was Captain Armitage, and he occupied the back seat together with Mostyn Clithero, Pierce Trelawny, and a fourth man, Anthony Royce by name, who from his manner rather than his speech gave the impression of being an American.

"I wonder," whispered Mostyn to his friend, "what makes the captain so particularly demonstrative?"

"The idea that he'll soon get a drink, I expect," was the answer, spoken in an undertone, although Captain Armitage had turned his back and was airily waving his hand to his daughter, Rada, who sat on the front seat, pretending to listen with interest to the conversational inanities of young Lord Caldershot.

"I guess you're right there," commented Mr. Royce, his sides shaking with silent laughter. He had a way of laughing inwardly and without any apparent reason that was rather disconcerting till one was accustomed to it; it gave the impression that he was possessed of a peculiarly selfish sense of humour. He was an Englishman by birth, though for the last twenty years he had made his home in the States, where he had accumulated a great fortune and had become a recognised power in Wall Street. He had also gained some reputation as a traveller—an explorer upon scientific lines of little-known parts of the world—and he had but recently returned from an expedition of the sort, an expedition organised and financed by himself, which had, however, only partially achieved its object.

"Armitage will punish the champagne before the day's through," he continued in a voice that was agreeably free from nasal twang. "Look at him now!" Captain Armitage had swung himself down from the coach and could be seen in interested converse with the butler, who had emerged from its interior. "He's a curious sort of fellow, is the captain. Had a big fortune once, but did it all in on the turf. Kind-hearted fellows like Rory still keep in with him for the sake of old times, and because of the girl, who's a character, too, in her way. They live in a tumble-down cottage near John Treves's training stables at Partinborough, in Cambridgeshire. It was there I first came across them, for I've a house of my own in the neighbourhood. The girl"—he nodded his head in the direction of Rada—"has a poor time of it, and just runs wild. Armitage brings her to London now and then and tries to make a dash, showing up at the big race meetings and putting on a swagger, although heaven alone knows in what wretched lodgings he hangs out! He spends most of the time at his club, and leaves Rada to look after herself. He manages somehow to keep a horse or two in training at Treves's, but he's a sponge, and that's why I warn you two young fellows about him."

It was very clear that Anthony Royce had no liking for the bibulous captain: nor had Mostyn Clithero, even upon his shorter acquaintance, and that with good reason.

Mostyn knew nothing about racing; he was a very innocent in all matters connected with the turf. Captain Armitage had made this discovery very early in the day—when the party had met at Sir Roderick's house in Eaton Square, in fact—and he had proceeded to amuse himself at the young man's expense, a fact of which Mostyn had subsequently become uneasily aware. There was one matter especially which weighed upon his mind, and now, feeling himself with friends, he proceeded to unburden himself.

"I think," he said, "that Captain Armitage has been making fun of me. Is it true that Hipponous won the Waterloo Cup?"

There remained no doubt in Mostyn's mind after he had put that question, though his two companions let him down as gently as they could; even, as far as possible, refraining from laughter as they gave the necessary explanation.

Mostyn flushed indignantly. "It was too bad of him," he cried; "too bad. He came up and talked so amiably that I quite believed all he said. Of course, he saw at once that I was a fool. He asked me if I could remember what price Hipponous had started at for the Waterloo Cup. And later"—his voice trembled—"I asked other people if they could tell me. I asked Lord Caldershot, and he just stared at me through that beastly eye-glass of his and turned away. And then I asked Miss Armitage, to whom I had just been introduced. I couldn't make out why she laughed at me. I was a fool to come to the races at all!" he ended, miserably.

He had come full of enthusiasm, and at a personal risk of which none but he himself knew the full measure, so his sense of wrong was all the more acute. Nor was he easily appeased, though both Pierce Trelawny and Anthony Royce did their best to make light of the incident.

"It was too bad of Armitage to pull your leg," Royce said feelingly. "I'll have a word with him on the subject. But in the meanwhile forget all about it, my boy, and enjoy your day."

Anthony Royce had shown himself very well disposed towards Mostyn on the way down, fully appreciative of the young man's enthusiasm as well as his ignorance, and it was due to him that Captain Armitage, who had evinced an inclination to continue the "leg-pulling" sport, had been finally silenced.

It was by Royce's own wish that he had taken a seat at the back of the coach, giving up his place in the front to the fair-haired youth, Lord Caldershot, gorgeous with eye-glass and button-hole, who had immediately appropriated Rada Armitage as his particular property for the day. They had already established themselves in the front when Mostyn clambered up at the back, and they were laughing together, their eyes turned upon him. He was sure, even then, that he was the object of their laughter. He had taken a dislike to the girl, though he could have given no reason for the feeling.

For he had recognised—he could not fail to recognise—that Rada was young—she could not have been much over twenty—high-spirited, and good to look at. Unfortunately he was always a little diffident and shy with strange girls—qualities that were not really natural to him, but which were the result of his home training—and he had not shown himself at his best that morning. Of course, matters had not been improved when she laughed at him, apparently without cause. When he mounted the coach his one wish was that the Armitages had been left out of the party altogether. He was struck by the contrast between Royce and the captain. The former was evidently strong and masterful, possessed of a will of iron, while the latter was bombastic, given to swagger, and totally lacking in repose. He was never still for a moment: he would shuffle his feet and fidget with his hands; he would spring up from his seat and then immediately sit down again; he would wave his arms and strike attitudes. His voice was now raised to a shout, now lowered to a whisper, hardly ever even in tone. Sometimes he would break out into snatches of song, particularly aggravating, since it usually occurred when he was being addressed. He was one of those men who seldom, even early in the morning, appear quite sober.

While on the road Armitage would have continued to make fun of Mostyn, an easy victim, had not Royce quietly intervened. The big financier had taken a fancy to the boy, and did not intend to see him bullied.

It was unfair, and particularly so because Mostyn had admitted from the first, and with becoming modesty, that he was totally lacking in racing experience. Yet he was obviously enthusiastic, and Anthony Royce, man of the world, admired the enthusiasm of the tall fair boy who was so simple and yet so manly withal. There was something about Mostyn's eyes, too; but upon this point the American was not yet sure of his ground. Mostyn Clithero was risking much that day. This jaunt to the Derby was a stolen expedition, undertaken without the knowledge of his father, and Mostyn knew quite well that when the truth came out there would be a terrible scene.

John Clithero looked upon the race-course as the devil's playground, and racing men as the devil's disciples; furthermore, he had sternly imposed this faith upon his children.

Mostyn had never accepted his father's views, though he did not dispute them. He liked horses without understanding them, and he had a good seat in the saddle, though his opportunities for riding were few and far between. It was natural that he should have a more open mind than either of his two elder brothers, James and Charles, for they had been brought up at home under their father's influence, while Mostyn had enjoyed an Eton and Oxford education, this being due to the intervention of his mother, now dead, who had probably vaguely realised that her elder sons were developing into prigs.

Mostyn, however, so far had respected his father's prejudices. He had never risked a penny in gambling of any sort; he had refused all invitations to attend race meetings; he had even avoided the theatre, this because he felt it his duty as his father's son. It was not an easy task for him, for his instincts were all towards the natural enjoyment of life: he was just a healthy-minded, well-intentioned young Englishman with nothing of the prig about him. Luckily for himself he developed a taste for athletics, and so by his prowess on the river and in the football field he gained respect both at school and University, and his prejudices were overlooked or readily forgiven. Mostyn never confided to anyone, till Pierce came upon the scene, how irksome these restraints were to him, how his inmost soul militated against them.

It was after he came down from Oxford and set to work to study for the Bar that he met Pierce Trelawny. Pierce was already engaged to Cicely, Mostyn's sister, though the match had not met with the unqualified approval of John Clithero, who considered the young man worldly-minded and fast because he went to theatres and attended race-meetings; and besides, the whole Trelawny family were conspicuously sporting. On the other hand, there was no question as to the desirability of the engagement from the social and monetary point of view, and it was to these considerations that Cicely's father had yielded, seeing nothing unreasonable in this shelving of his principles in favour of Mammon. As for Pierce, he was in love with Cicely, whose nature was akin to that of her brother Mostyn; and he did not worry his head about the rest of her family, whom he placidly despised, until he discovered that Mostyn was fashioned in a different mould. After that the two young men became firm friends, and went about a good deal together, though John Clithero looked on askance, believing that his son was being led astray; indeed, there had been one or two rather stormy scenes, for a new spirit had been aroused in Mostyn's breast, a desire to unfurl the standard of revolt.

Then came the great temptation. Pierce Trelawny had received an invitation to drive down to the Derby on his uncle's coach, and had been told that he might take a friend with him. "Why not bring your future brother-in-law?" Sir Roderick suggested. "I mean the lad you introduced to me in the Park the other day. Rowed for his college, didn't he? Was in the Eton eight, and did well at racquets? That's the sort of boy I like—a young sportsman."

"God bless my soul!" the old gentleman cried, when Pierce explained that Mostyn had never seen a race, and the reason for this neglect. "I did not know that any sensible people held such views nowadays. They even wanted to keep us at work at Westminster on Derby day," he added, with apparent inconsistency, "but I don't look for sense in the House of Commons! That's why I went into Parliament." He meant, of course, that it was his object to convince his fellow-members of their folly.

Sir Roderick was returned for one of the divisions of Ulster, and had held his seat, undisputed, for many years. He was a Tory of the old school, staunchly loyal, and to his mind no other views were admissible. Politics, therefore, in the sense of party division, did not exist. He loathed the very word. He would say irritably, "Don't talk to me of politics, I hate 'em—and, besides, there's no such thing." His Irishisms and unconscious word contortions contributed to the amusement of the House as well as to his personal popularity.

"Bring young Clithero, Pierce," he said decidedly. "It'll do him good, open his eyes a bit. He's too fine a lad to have his head stuffed with such nonsensical ideas. How old is he, did you say? Twenty-five? Well, he's quite old enough to have a will of his own." All of which was perfectly true, but Sir Roderick, as well as Pierce, overlooked the fact that Mostyn was utterly dependent upon his father.

As it happened, John Clithero was absent from London when Pierce conveyed Sir Roderick's invitation to Mostyn, and so he could not be consulted: the hopeless task of asking his approval could not be undertaken. It was open to Mostyn to keep his own counsel: to go to the Derby on the sly—a course that did not commend itself to his straightforward nature—or to make confession when his father returned, which would be two or three days after the Derby had been run. Letter-writing was out of the question, too, for John Clithero was actually on his way home from America, where he had been upon business. He was a banker, head of the old established house of Graves and Clithero, a firm of the highest repute and universally considered as stable as the Bank of England, all the more so because of the high standard of morality demanded of all connected with it, from the partners to the humblest employee.

Mostyn did not hesitate long. He wanted to see the Derby, and he was asked to go as the guest of a man who was universally respected. Only rank prejudice could assert harm in this. It was time to make his protest. And so, the evening before the race, he quietly announced his intention to his horrified brothers.

"A beastly race-course," sniffed James. "All the riff-raff of London. An encouragement to gambling, drunkenness, and vice." James was a perfect type of the "good young man"; than that no more need be said.

"Just because father happens to be away," remarked Charles; "I suppose that's your idea of honour, Mostyn." Charles was always talking about honour. He was unhealthily stout, had pasty cheeks and long yellow hair that lacked vitality.

"I think Mostyn's quite right, and I wish I was going too," proclaimed Cicely the rebellious.

And so the wrangle proceeded. It was distinctly uncomfortable, but Mostyn was quite determined to abide by his decision. Nor had he changed his mind when the next day came.

Owing to the behaviour of Captain Armitage it had not at first been particularly pleasant for Mostyn upon the coach, but Pierce and Mr. Royce had come to the rescue, the former engaging the attention of the captain, while the latter took the boy in hand and explained certain things that he ought to know about racing. It was all done with such infinite tact that Mostyn was soon at his ease, able to enjoy the fund of anecdote with which Anthony Royce enlivened the journey, as well as the scenes by the way, the ever-changing panorama, of which he had read, but which he had never expected to see.

He spoke little, but his eyes glittered with excitement. To him it was as though he was being carried into a new world, a world with which his soul was in sympathy, but the gates of which had always been closed. And yet it was not so strange to him as he had expected: perhaps in his dreams he had gazed through the gates, or even travelled down that very road upon a visionary coach that threaded its way proudly amid the heterogeneous traffic. So, despite his ignorance and inexperience, he felt in his element; he was a sportsman by instinct, so he told himself, and all these years he had been crushing down his true nature. Well, it was not too late to repair the mischief: for now he knew—he knew.

Anthony Royce watched him with kindly appreciative eyes. There were moments, though Mostyn was far too absorbed to notice this, when his broad forehead wrinkled into a frown as he gazed into the young man's face; it was a peculiar enigmatical frown, suggestive of an effort to think back into the past, to pierce the veil of years.

Mostyn could hold himself in no longer when the coach had taken up its place under the hill, and when Sir Roderick, by his little speech, had discharged his obligation towards his guests. A few moments of bustle followed. Captain Armitage, champagne bottle in hand, was filling a glass for Lord Caldershot, who was stooping down from his place upon the coach to take it; Rada was intently studying a race-card and comparing it with a little pink paper—a paper issued by some tipster or other; most of the other guests had already descended and mingled with the crowd. Among these was Pierce, who had hurried off after his uncle in the direction of the Paddock.

Mostyn stood up in his place; he was quivering with excitement, all his nerves seemed on edge. He stared about him and took in at a glance the whole wonderful sight—the restless mass of humanity seething over hill and dale, humanity in all its gradations, from the coster and his lass to the top-hatted men and smartly-dressed women who mingled with the throng till they found their centre in the enclosure and Grand Stand. The highest in all the land and the lowest—silk, satin, muslin, rags—Mayfair and Whitechapel—Tom, Dick, Harry, as alive and playful to-day as in the forties—they were all there just as Mostyn had read of them many a time. The white tents, the extravagantly dressed bookmakers, the itinerant musicians and jugglers, the gipsies. He drew a deep breath; he was looking upon the world!

"I'm glad I came," he cried, forgetting for the moment that he was not alone. "For now I know what it is to be alive."

His voice shook. Anthony Royce laid his hand gently upon the boy's shoulder. "I like your enthusiasm," he said, "I understand it. You are just making your debût upon a larger stage, and it is a little overwhelming. Well, I'll put you through your paces, my boy. Leave yourself in my hands and you won't regret it. I'll guarantee that your first Derby Day shall not be your last."

Mostyn accepted joyfully. "You're awfully kind, sir," he said. "I'm afraid I should have a poor time by myself, and I don't like to bother Pierce—besides, he wants to be with Sir Roderick. It's good of you to pity my ignorance. I wonder why you do it?"

Royce made no reply—probably none was expected. Only that strange enigmatical smile came once more to his face, and for a moment his eyes were vacant—again it was as though he were looking back into the past.

CHAPTER II.

MOSTYN SEES THE DERBY.

An hour before the big race Mostyn stood in the Paddock, by the side of his mentor, and pretended to pass a critical eye upon the horses generally, and upon Hipponous in particular.

The second favourite was a chestnut with three white stockings. His mane had been hogged, and he had—for a racehorse—an unusually large tail. Tyro as he was, Mostyn could understand the value of the large roomy flanks and magnificent barrel, and as the colt picked its way delicately round the circle, sweating slightly from excitement and glancing intelligently from side to side, it seemed as if he appreciated the fact that it was Derby Day, and realised the magnitude of the task before him.

A kaleidoscopic crowd surged round the horse, a crowd that Mostyn failed to understand till Royce explained that the "open sesame" to the Paddock could be obtained by the payment of a sovereign, which accounted for the general rubbing of shoulders and absence of class distinction.

Scraps of conversation, indistinctly overheard, amused, astonished, and perhaps instructed, him. There was a portly woman with a red face and a large feather hat, who pushed her way to the front, and said wheezingly to a thin little man at her side: "'Ullo, 'ere's Black Diamond."

"No, it ain't," responded her companion. "Look at the number. That's 'Ippernouse. He won the Middle Park Plate when I 'ad a dollar on 'im, and I'm going to put a couple o' quid on 'im to-day."

"I'll back Black Diamond," returned the fat woman, "because my first husband kept a small public called the 'Lord Napier' up past the 'Nag's Head' before we were married, and Black Diamond belongs to Lord Napier, so that's good enough for my money."

They drifted away and their place was taken by a couple of shrewd-looking club-men in long covert cloaks and bowler hats, with glasses slung over their shoulders. Mostyn heard one of them say to the other in an undertone: "Here's Hipponous. Look at his magnificent quarters. Don't forget to wire off immediately to Cork if he wins, and tell Dickson that I'll take the colt he has in his stables, brother to Hipponous, and if he throws the mare in I'll pay two thousand guineas for the pair."

This was business, and presently Mostyn heard business of another kind. "I like the looks of 'Ippernous," said a loudly dressed individual with white hat and check waistcoat—obviously a book-maker—to his clerk. "We can't afford to let him run loose, and I'll put fifty on for the book."

The remarks, however, were not all appreciative. There was a tall man with a vacant stare and a monocle, who was drawling out his comments to a well-dressed woman at his side. "Not an earthly, my dear. Don't waste your money on Hipponous. The favourite can't possibly lose. Algy told me at the club last night that he had laid six monkeys to four on it, and if it doesn't come off he'll have to tap the old man again or send in his papers."

Then again: "What on earth do they call this horse Hipponous for?" queried a pretty little soubrette, hanging on the arm of a young gentleman in a very long frock coat, suggestive of the counter. "Don't know, Ellice," was the reply, "but give me Lochiel, the fav'rit." "Oh, no," she urged, "do back Hipponous! He's got such pretty colours—scarlet and silver—just like that dress I had last Christmas for the Licensed Victuallers' Ball."

Finally, there was the comment facetious: "'Ippernous," said a seedy-looking man with pasty face to the lad who was leading the colt round, "W'y didn't they call 'im 'Ipperpotamus, an' a' done with it? A fine lookin' colt, mind yer, but not quite good enough to beat the fav'rit, 'oo will 'ave the satisfaction of carryin' a couple of Oxfords for Jim Simson of Kemberwell."

Mostyn had but a dim understanding of all this, but his heart leapt within him when Pierce came up, and smiting him cordially on the back, carried him off to wish good luck to Sir Roderick, who was standing by the side of his horse in the company of Joseph Dean, the famous trainer, and of Fred Martin, the jockey, who held the record of winning mounts for the year before. Martin wore Sir Roderick's colours—silver and scarlet—and his little twinkling eyes glittered as he confided to Mostyn that he was proud to wear them, and that he had every confidence in his horse—that he hoped to score his fifth Derby success.

Mostyn felt in the seventh heaven, a privileged being, all the more so since envious eyes were upon him. It was all he could do to hold himself with becoming gravity. His great desire was to pose as a man of experience, but, at the same time, there were so many questions he wished to ask. And at last his evil genius impelled him to an ineptitude, one of those blunders that seemed to come so easily to his tongue: he wanted to know Hipponous's age! Something in the jockey's stare as he made answer warned Mostyn of danger, and he moved away as soon as he dared.

"That's 'Ipponous, ain't it?" An ungrammatical stranger, who, in spite of his horsey attire, was evidently but poorly informed, pushed his way to Mostyn's side. "A fine horse—what?"

"I should think so," responded the young man heartily. "An Irish horse; comes from Sir Roderick Macphane's stables in Ulster. Trained by Joseph Dean here at Epsom." Mostyn felt on safe ground in giving this information.

"Ah!" The stranger leered out of the corner of his eye. "I dessay you know a bit, what? I see you talking to Martin just now. What does Martin think of his mount?"

"Why, he says"—Mostyn got no further, for luckily at that moment Anthony Royce appeared, and, laying his hand upon his young friend's arm gently led him away, very much to the annoyance of the stranger.

"Be careful of affable folk who try to get into conversation with you on the race-course," was all the reproach that Royce uttered; but Mostyn felt that he had been about to blunder, and once more anathematised himself for a fool.

The American did not lose sight of his young protégé again after that, but devoted himself to his work of instruction. Mostyn absorbed knowledge eagerly. "I asked Martin how old his horse was," he was constrained to admit.

Royce's sides shook with silent laughter. "Never mind," he said. "You'll know better next time." Then he went on to explain about betting, and how easily the market may be affected. "If you want to have a bet," he added, "I'll introduce you in the right quarter. You can't do better than back Hipponous to win and a place. He'll start at four to one. I don't believe in the favourite, though it's money on."

But Mostyn shook his head. "I don't want to bet," he said. "Gambling doesn't attract me a bit. It's just the sport of the thing."

And so the time had passed until the course was cleared for the big race. Mostyn had remained in the Paddock almost to the last minute, and then Royce had hurried him back to the coach. They had remained close to the railings, however, to see the preliminary canter.

"I don't fancy the favourite," Royce repeated. "Lochiel may have won the Guineas, but he's got a devilish uncertain temper. He'll either win in a walk or come in with the ruck. But there's a lot of good stuff," he continued, as the horses galloped down the course, followed by the comments of the crowd, "and it promises to be an uncommonly open race."

Anthony Royce's prophecy was correct. The race proved an extremely open one, and moreover it was full of surprises, notably the early defeat of the favourite and the prowess of a rank outsider. Lochiel made a bad start and dropped out long before the horses had come into the straight, while Peveril, who had hardly been considered at all and who stood fifty to one in the betting, got away ahead and maintained his lead almost to the finish. At Tattenham Corner Peveril, a lanky, ungainly horse, bestridden by an American jockey who bore the colours of an unpopular financier, was still, though almost imperceptibly, in advance. The jockey, craning forward and sitting almost upon the horse's neck, was making liberal use of his whip.

Royce took the field-glasses from Mostyn's unconscious hand. "Peveril, by all that's holy!" he muttered. "A dark horse. Is this one of Isaacson's tricks?" The next moment he was yelling "Hipponous! Come along, Hipponous!" for he had caught the glitter of the silver as Sir Roderick's horse, almost neck to neck with another, swept into view.

And now a moment of palpitating silence fell. Four of the horses were almost abreast, and another couple only a few paces behind. Mostyn, standing up upon the coach and straining his eyes, felt his heart thumping against his chest and his knees knocking together because of the thrill that ran down his spine. He wanted to shout, but he, too, was affected by the spell that had fallen upon that great throbbing mass of humanity; his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth; his lips were numb, paralysed. In a few moments he knew that he would lend his voice to the great cry that must go up from the multitude; then would come relief from a strain that was near the breaking point.

He had no bet upon the race, save for a couple of shares in a sweepstake that had been organised on the way down; yet, perhaps, none in that vast throng, however interested, however deeply involved, felt the emotion of the moment as keenly as Mostyn Clithero. It was the awakening of a new sensation, the rousing of a new passion, something that had been crushed down and was asserting itself with the greater strength now that it had at last obtained the mastery. It was the love of sport for its own sake; Anthony Royce had seen quite enough of his new friend during the day to realise that.

The silence broke. Like an oncoming billow a low mutter, gradually swelling and rising, went up from the crowd. Mostyn had the impression of two vast waves facing each other, arrested in their onward rush and leaving a clear space between. He felt himself an atom amid a myriad of atoms in a turbulent sea: he had been in the depths, unable to breathe, oppressed by a great weight, but now, as he rose to the surface, the tension was relaxed, the strain broken. He could see, he could hear, he was shouting with the rest, alternately clapping his hands and lifting his hat in the air, yielding himself absolutely to an excitement which was as new to him as it was delightful. Never before had his pulses throbbed so quickly, his nerves felt so completely on the stretch.

The horses swept by. It was a fine, a memorable race, a race to live in the annals of great sporting events. There was every excuse for Mostyn's excitement. His was not the only heart to beat quickly that day.

Three horses, almost abreast, approached the winning-post. They were Peveril, Black Diamond, and Hipponous; a fourth, Beppo, had dropped a little behind, evidently done. Peveril was not in favour with the crowd; it was mainly for Hipponous that the cry went up. Mostyn yelled the name of Sir Roderick's colt till he was hoarse.

And at the last moment, just as it seemed that Sir Roderick's hopes were to be dashed to the ground, Hipponous made a brave spurt. He was placed between the other two, his flanks just visible behind them. Suddenly these flanks were no longer seen; the three horses appeared a compact mass, a mass of blended and harmonised colour. Mostyn seemed to see the silver and scarlet through a yellow mist, for the sun's rays fell slantingly over the course; they caught the gold, the pink and the mauve which distinguished the jockeys upon Peveril and Black Diamond, as well as the silver and scarlet of Hipponous, blending the whole into a scintillating gold, all the more vivid for the black background of humanity rising tier upon tier to the highest level of the Grand Stand.

They flashed past the winning post, a gleaming mass of colour. Three horses, neck to neck as it seemed to the crowd. Which had won? Was it—could it be—a tie for the three of them? There was a note of doubt in the yelling of the mob.

"Peveril—no, Black Diamond!" "I tell yer it was 'Ippernous! Wait till the numbers go up!"

Beppo and the other horses which had been well in the running, sped by in their turn; then came the stragglers with the favourite, Lochiel, last but one. A groan of derision went up as he passed; it was a bad day for his jockey, who happened to be Martin's chief rival.

After that the course became a sea of black, rushing humanity; the two great waves had broken and the space between them was annihilated. And presently there was another roar from the crowd, no longer of doubt. The numbers had gone up, and, a little later, the "all right" was cried. Hipponous first; Black Diamond and Peveril tied for second place. Bravo, Hipponous! Hurrah for Sir Roderick Macphane!

Another Derby had been won, and the victory was to the best horse. Sir Roderick Macphane had realised the ambition of his life, and Mostyn Clithero had caught the infection of a great passion. The latter, no doubt, was but a small event in itself, but the young man felt vaguely, as he stood there gazing straight before him, though the race was over, that he had somehow reached a turning point in his life.

CHAPTER III.

MOSTYN ACCEPTS A CHALLENGE.

"You enjoyed it?" Anthony Royce laid his hand on Mostyn's arm and looked smilingly into his face. It was palpably a superfluous question, for Mostyn's appreciation was plainly writ upon every feature. He was flushed and his lips were quivering, nor could he give an immediate answer, finding it hard to struggle back from the new world in which he had been revelling to the commonplaces of life.

Yet he felt that he was being keenly scrutinised; that those sharp grey eyes were fixed upon him, taking in every detail of his appearance, reading him like a book, gauging his emotions, studying, not only his face but his very soul. He wondered if he appeared a fool, and grew hot at the thought.

"It's my first Derby," he said apologetically, taking refuge in a self-evident fact. "I have never seen a race before."

"And you enjoyed it?" Royce repeated his question, rather for the sake of opening conversation than for any other reason.

"Enjoyed it!" Mostyn placed a heavy accent upon the first word. "Why, I don't think I have ever enjoyed anything so much in all my life. I haven't been alive till to-day. Oh!" he cried, clasping his hands together, and yet half ashamed of giving utterance to such a sentiment, "how I should like to win a Derby myself!"

Royce laughed, aloud this time. "Who knows?" he, remarked; "the future is on the knees of the gods." Once more his grey eyes appeared to be reading the young man's face, taking in every detail of his appearance.

Mostyn Clithero was good to look at, or so the older man was telling himself, as he wondered if it could be possible that an idea which had come into his head earlier in the day, might have foundation in fact; that reminiscent look, that semblance of gazing back into the past, had returned to Royce's eyes, and for the moment he seemed to have forgotten all else.

"There is something in the boy's face that reminds me of her," he was muttering to himself. "It's about the eyes or about the mouth—I'm not quite sure which. Anyway, if I should turn out to be right, the lad's got nothing of his father about him, and I'm glad of that; I'm glad of that."

Mostyn was indeed a young man whose personal appearance might attract attention. He was tall, standing well over six foot, and broad of shoulder in proportion. His athletic training had done much for him, and he was in every way, physically as well as mentally, a contrast to his two brothers. He had often been told, indeed, that he resembled his mother, who in her younger days had been stately and handsome, a recognised beauty in London society, while James and Charles were always supposed to take after their father. Mostyn had fair hair, which he wore cut short, striving thereby to overcome its tendency to curl, an attempt at which he was not always quite successful; his eyes were blue, very large and gentle, though they could be stern at times, as could his lips, which were otherwise prone to smile.

Anthony Royce, who had a keen insight into the minds of men, and who had observed the boy very carefully almost from the first moment of their meeting, was pleased with what he had seen, and, for more reasons than one, felt well disposed towards Mostyn Clithero.

He glanced at his watch. "I guess we'll stop here awhile," he said; "it's restful. Besides, I want to have a quiet chat with you." He took a bulky cigar-case from his pocket, extracted a large and dark cigar, which he proceeded to light up. Then he offered the case to his young friend.

Mostyn shook his head. He did not smoke; it was one of those things to which his father objected.

They had been standing upon the box of the coach, and it was here that they seated themselves, Royce occupying the driver's place. He puffed thoughtfully at the cigar before breaking the silence. Mostyn sat silent too, wondering what this new friend of his would have to say, and why Anthony Royce, the American millionaire, should have apparently taken so much interest in him. Mostyn had hardly given a thought to the matter before, but now he was more collected, more himself, and the things seemed strange to him.

"I have a curious idea," so Royce began at last, "that though you and I have never met before, Clithero, I was once acquainted both with your mother and with your father. I thought so from the first moment we met in Eaton Square, and I have been watching you and have noticed all manner of little tricks of expression which remind me of Mary Clithero—Mary Willoughby as she was, she who I fancy must be your mother." He was gazing straight before him, blowing out great clouds of smoke.

"Yes, my mother's name was Willoughby!" cried Mostyn, surprised. "How strange to think that you should have known her all those years ago! And you never saw her after her marriage? She is dead now, you know."

Royce nodded his head gravely. "She'd have been alive to-day"—he began, then broke off suddenly. "I never met your mother as Mrs. Clithero," he continued after a pause. "It would not have been well for either of us. We loved each other once: Mary Willoughby is the only woman who has ever influenced my life. We were to have been married."

"I never heard of this; I was never told." Mostyn opened wondering eyes and stared at his companion with new interest.

"No, it is hardly likely that you would have been told." A great bitterness had come into Royce's tone. "The whole affair was a discreditable one. Your mother was not to blame; pray understand that at once." The words were called for because Mostyn had flushed and glanced up quickly. "I think as dearly of your mother to-day as ever in the past, and it is for her sake, Mostyn—for I must call you Mostyn—that I have been taking such an interest in you. She was deceived, and so I lost her."

He paused; for a second Mostyn could hardly see his face, because of the volume of smoke that he emitted from his lips.

"Do you wish to speak to me of this?" Mostyn asked, a slight frown wrinkling his brow. He felt instinctively that the whole story might be one that it would be better for him not to know.

Royce shrugged his shoulders. "No," he said slowly; "the subject is painful to me even after all these years, and it might be painful to you to hear it. I only wanted to know that you are really the son of the woman I loved. Your father dealt badly with me, Mostyn, and I have never forgiven him. I suppose he feels just the same towards me. John Clithero was always a hard man, the sort of man who would never forgive anyone whom he has injured." The words were spoken with bitter sarcasm. Mostyn looked away and shuffled with his feet, for he knew that they were true, and yet, since they were spoken of his father, he felt vaguely that he was called upon to resent them.

"That brings me to my point," Royce went on, after a moment's pause. "I think I am right in believing that you have come to the Derby to-day without your father's knowledge, and if he knows there will be the devil to pay. I don't suppose Clithero has changed much, and, according to his ideas, a man who ventures upon a race-course is travelling the devil's high road. It's wonderful what some men's minds are capable of!" Royce took his cigar from his mouth and gazed at Mostyn from under his heavy brows. "I wonder you've turned out so well," he commented.

"I expect I'm all in the wrong for being here at all," Mostyn said, the colour flushing his face. He could never rid himself of that disposition to blush. "But I couldn't help it," he went on; "I wanted to come, the desire of it was in my blood." He laughed awkwardly. "I suppose I am different somehow to the rest of my people."

"I am very glad you are. You take after your mother, Mostyn, for she came of a healthy-minded stock. But now, tell me, what will happen when you get home? Or do you propose to keep this little jaunt a secret?" The grey eyes fixed upon Mostyn were searching.

"I shall tell my father that I went to the Derby," Mostyn replied with some defiance in his tone, for he hated the suggestion of underhand dealing. "I have made no secret of it to anyone. My father is not at home just now, but I shall tell him when he returns."

"Good!" Anthony Royce knocked the ash from his cigar, an ash which he had allowed to grow to inordinate length. "I like a man who acts straight and isn't ashamed of what he does. But there will be a row?"

"Very possibly." Mostyn fidgeted. What was the good of all these questions? He had put aside the evil day, determined to live in the present. He was enjoying himself; why spoil his pleasure? A bell rang and the police could be seen clearing the course. Another race was about to be run. Mostyn fumbled with his programme. "Who's going to win this event?" he asked.

"A devil of a row, if I'm not mistaken," Anthony Royce said reflectively, ignoring the question. "John Clithero would sacrifice his flesh and blood upon the altar of his principles. I'm afraid you will get into trouble, my boy. Well, what I want to say is this. Come to me if things go badly with you. Don't let any silly pride stand in your way. I've got an idea in my head, and you can help me work it out. You will be doing me a favour, far more than the other way about. You needn't think it a matter of charity—I'm not that kind of man. Furthermore, it's nothing mean or underhand that I shall ask you—to that you have my word." Royce had evidently read the young man's character very well. "Now—supposing your father shows you the door—he may, you know—will you come to me?"

"I will," Mostyn stretched out his hand, a strong, well-made hand, and the elder man took it in his, holding it a moment, and looking the boy squarely in the eyes.

After the next race, a race over which Mostyn's enthusiasm was again roused, though not to the same pitch as before, the guests upon Sir Roderick's coach returned in little straggling groups to partake of tea. Sir Roderick himself, flushed with his victory, did the honours, and received the congratulations of all his friends. He was bubbling over with good spirits, perpetrated innumerable verbal blunders, at which he was the first to laugh, and distributed "largesse" freely among the hangers-on about the coach—this, until such a crowd of minstrels, gipsies, and such like had collected that it was all the grooms could do to disperse them; but it was a good-natured, cheering crowd, and Sir Roderick was distinctly enjoying himself.

Captain Armitage, his white beard and moustache contrasting forcibly with his rubicund complexion, disdained tea, and appropriated a champagne bottle to himself. He was less excitable than he had been on the journey down, but then, as he would say himself, he was the kind of man whom drink sobered. Lady Lempiere and Major Molyneux were conspicuous by their absence, but all the other guests had put in an appearance. Lord Caldershot was still assiduous in his attentions to Rada, who, for her part, was in a state of delight at having won the coach sweepstake, as well as several pounds, the proceeds of her own investment upon Hipponous, plus many pairs of gloves which she had apparently won off her cavalier.

She was a distinctly pretty girl; Mostyn, who had had some opportunities of talking to her during the day, was constrained to admit the fact. He was attracted by her, and yet, at the same time, in some peculiar manner, repelled. She was unlike any girl he had ever met. She had no reserve of manner, she spoke as freely as a man might speak, and yet her whole appearance was distinctly feminine.

"Rada Armitage is a little savage," so Royce had explained her to Mostyn. "She has lived all her life with that wretched old scapegrace, her father, for her mother died when she was an infant. She has never known a controlling hand. Heaven knows how they exist—Armitage's cottage at Partingborough is a disgrace to a civilised man. Rada's like an untrained filly, and you must take her at that. She was called after a horse, too, one upon which the captain won a lot of money the year she was born."

The girl was small in stature, although she was slim and perfectly proportioned, giving, perhaps, an impression of inches which she really did not possess. Her hair was deep black, glossy, and inclined to be rebellious; her eyes, too, were black, very bright, piercing, and particularly expressive. They seemed to change in some peculiar way with every emotion that swayed her; one moment they would be soft, the next they would flash with humour, and then again they would be scornfully defiant. As with her eyes, so it was with her mouth and with her face generally; to Mostyn she was a puzzle, and he wondered what her real nature could be.

He took the opportunity of dispensing tea to improve his acquaintance. He felt that the girl watched him surreptitiously, and, self-conscious as he always was, he had an idea that there was a rather derisive curl upon her lips. Probably she had not forgotten his faux pas of the morning.

Unfortunately he found it more difficult than he had anticipated to take part in the conversation. Sir Roderick was telling of the merits of a two-year-old, named Pollux, which he had in his Irish stables, and which he had entered for next year's Derby.

"If Hipponous hadn't won to-day," he remarked enthusiastically, "I feel that I should have had a dead cert with Pollux. That's saying a lot, of course, but you never saw such a perfect colt. Sired by Jupiter, with Stella for dam—you can't have better breeding than that."

"Ah—ah," laughed Captain Armitage, lifting his glass to his lips with shaking hand. "That's all very well, 'Rory,' my boy, but what about Castor? His sire was Jupiter, too, and his dam Swandown; she was a perfect mare, though I never had much luck with her, and she died after the foal was born. Still—there's Castor——" He broke into one of his cackling laughs. "It'll be a race between Castor and Pollux for the Derby next year." He stood up, then realising a certain unsteadiness of his limbs, sat down again.

Sir Roderick smiled benignly, and proceeded to explain to the company that this rivalry between Castor and Pollux was no new thing. The two colts had been born within a week of each other, and had been named, not so much according to their parentage as because they resembled each other so minutely. They were both perfect animals, and there was little to choose between them.

Mostyn listened attentively to the conversation, gathering up scraps of knowledge, and storing them in his brain. He talked when he could, but he would have been wiser to have kept silent, for, towards the close of the day, and when preparations for departure were being made, he committed a faux pas which quite eclipsed his other efforts.

He had allowed his enthusiasm to master him once more, and had lost guard of his tongue—as ill-luck would have it, in the presence of Rada. He could quite understand how it might be the height of anyone's ambition to own a Derby winner, so he exclaimed; then he added—as a little while earlier to Royce—"How I should love to win a Derby!" Immediately after which he turned and enquired of Sir Roderick if Hipponous was not entered for the Oaks as well.

He bitterly regretted that speech, for even Anthony Royce and Pierce were constrained to laugh, while as for Captain Armitage, he simply rolled in his seat. But it was not that so much that Mostyn minded, though he stammered and blushed crimson, and began muttering some excuse. What hurt him was the look of scorn and derision that flashed into Rada's eyes.

"You win a Derby!" she cried disdainfully. "Are you sure you know a horse from a cow? Why, you silly boy, you couldn't win a Derby if you lived to a hundred! I'd stake my life on that."

Poor Mostyn choked with indignation, the insult was so deliberate and spoken so openly. How he wished it was a man with whom he had to deal!

Mostyn looked round. He saw Captain Armitage's red face suffused and congested with laughter; he caught a supercilious sneer on the lips of Lord Caldershot. He was boiling over with suppressed rage.

Suddenly he felt a nudge from the elbow of Anthony Royce, who was sitting next to him, and a whisper in his ear.

Mostyn pulled himself together. He had no time to think, to weigh his words. He did not even realise the import of them. The wrath of his heart dictated his answer.

"I never bet. But all the same I'll undertake to win a Derby within reasonable time: ten years—five years," he added recklessly, in spite of the protesting nudge of Royce's elbow.

"Jove, what a brave man!" drawled Caldershot. His languid tone exasperated Mostyn to fury.

"In five years," he repeated. "I'd stake my life upon it, too. I call you all to witness."

"Whatever's the boy saying?" It was good-natured Sir Roderick who intervened. "I'm not going to have anybody staking their life upon my coach. We can't go upsetting the market like that."

In the laugh that followed Pierce deftly turned the conversation, and soon, with the bustle of departure, the whole incident was more or less forgotten. Mostyn, however, sat silent and absorbed.

What had appeared a farce to others was to him very real. What was this that he had undertaken to do? To win a Derby, and in five years—he who was utterly inexperienced and who possessed no resources whatever?

What had Anthony Royce meant by inciting him to such a speech? He wanted to put the question, but the American imposed silence upon him.

"We can't talk now. Don't worry yourself; it will be all right. You shall hear from me first thing to-morrow. It's no longer a matter of waiting for the row at home: you've got to be a racing man, Mostyn, whether your father approves or no." He smiled his enigmatical smile, and his shoulders shook with inward laughter. During the whole of the return journey he led the conversation, and would not allow it to depart from general topics.

But at parting he pressed Mostyn's hand meaningly. "You are a sportsman from to-day, my boy," he said. "Don't forget that. It's all part of the scheme, and you have pledged your word. To-morrow you shall hear from me and you'll understand."

Pierce walked with Mostyn a few paces, then hailed a cab. "I'm going to dine at the club," he said. "What do you say to joining me?" But Mostyn shook his head; his one desire now was to return home, to be alone to think things out. He, too, called a hansom and drove to his father's house in Bryanston Square.

A surprise awaited him there. His sister Cicely came running down to the hall to meet him, her hands outstretched, her face pale. At the same time Mostyn fancied that he caught sight of the pasty face of his brother Charles peering through the half-closed dining-room door.

"Oh, Mostyn!" cried the girl. "Father's come back. He left by an earlier boat and reached London to-day. He knows all about the Derby, and he is furiously angry; he is in his study and wants to see you at once."

CHAPTER IV.

MOSTYN IS REBELLIOUS.

Father and son faced each other in the large oak-panelled study. The storm had burst, raged, and subsided, but the calm which had followed was an ominous one, and liable to be broken at any moment. Mostyn recognised that the worst was yet to come.

John Clithero was unaccustomed to opposition. His rule had been absolute; he had governed with an iron rod. He was that greatest of tyrants, a man conscious of rectitude. But, perhaps, for the very rarity of such an event, he could not control his temper when thwarted. In this his son had the better of him.

Yet the situation was galling to Mostyn. It was undignified to be standing there in his father's study just as if he were a child awaiting punishment. His associations with this room were of no pleasant order, and he hated it accordingly. John Clithero had been stern with his children, and had not spared the rod.

Mostyn glanced about him: the study was just the same to-day as it had been in those early years. There were the long book-shelves with their array of handsomely-bound books, which, however, as far as Mostyn knew, were never touched. The heavy oak panelling was oppressive, and the chairs, covered with dark red morocco, were stiff and uncomfortable. There were some plaster casts of classical subjects on the top of the book-cases, casts that had become grimy with age, and which Mostyn had always looked up to with peculiar reverence. He glanced at them now, and noticed that Pallas Athene had been badly cracked, evidently quite recently, and that the crack had extended to her nose, part of which had been broken away. Pallas Athene presented an absurd figure, and Mostyn felt inclined to laugh at her. She was no longer glorified in his eyes.

John Clithero sat beside his great desk, a desk that was old-fashioned in make, for he disdained modern and American innovations in his own home, however much he might make use of them in his business office. The desk was piled with papers, which were, however, all carefully bound with tape—for the banker was, above all, a man of method. He had not asked his son to be seated, nor had Mostyn ventured to take a chair; during the whole of the stormy interview he had stood facing his father, his feet firmly planted together, his head high.

In appearance John Clithero was not the ascetic that he professed himself. He was a stout, burly man, his head sunk low upon his shoulders, his size and weight suggestive of ill-health. His hair was thin and grey, while his eyes appeared imbedded in heavy masses of flesh. He came of a good old country family, but one would not have thought it to look at him; he was just the type that might be found as the leading light of a nonconformist chapel. He affected black broadcloth, and his clothes hung loosely even about his portly form. It may be that his strict morality and his abhorrence of worldly pleasures had stood him in good stead, and had helped him to build up the reputation of his bank, incidentally making a fortune for himself. He was no hypocrite, but he knew the commercial value of his doctrines.

"Am I to understand, Mostyn," he said, pouting out his thick lip, "that you refuse—you absolutely refuse—to give me your word never again to attend a race meeting? If that is the case there is very little more to be said between us."

"How can I give you my word, father?" Mostyn's voice was not raised, but he spoke with dogged determination. "I am not a child. I am old enough to see the world with my own eyes. What harm is there in a race meeting?" he went on, though he knew that it was useless to argue with such a man as his father. "If one is sensible and moderate——"

John Clithero waved his large fleshy hand with a commanding gesture. "I don't intend to discuss this matter with you, Mostyn," he interrupted, "or to consider the rights and the wrongs of racing. I disapprove of it, and that fact should be quite sufficient for you. You have grievously offended me by your conduct to-day, and all the more so since you had in mind to deceive me; you took advantage of my absence to do a thing which you knew I would not permit; you thought that I should be none the wiser."

"That is untrue!" Mostyn flashed out the words, resenting the imputation upon his honour. "I should have told you what I had done on your return to London. I made no secret of it."

John Clithero sneered. "I am at liberty to form my own conclusions," he remarked. "It is not usual for young men who disobey their parents to confess to their misdeeds. Luckily, though I cannot trust you, your brothers are to be relied upon."

A wave of anger passed over Mostyn, and his lips curved disdainfully. He had quite expected to be "given away" by his brothers unless he spoke first. Their minds were too narrow to give him credit for honesty of purpose. Probably the mischief-maker was the fat and unwholesome Charles, who had been addicted to sneaking ever since he was a little boy. What was more, he had always been listened to, at least by his father, who had never discouraged that sort of thing.

Mostyn kept his temper under control, however, and merely shrugged his shoulders. "I can only repeat I should have told you that I had been to the Derby, and that I see no ill whatever in what I did," he said stolidly.

John Clithero drew himself upright in his chair, and his hands, resting upon his knees, were trembling. It was just as if they were itching for the cane, to the use of which they had been accustomed. "So you absolutely refuse to make any promise?" he said sternly. "You will continue to walk the evil path?"

"I don't admit the evil path," replied Mostyn doggedly, "and so I can make no promise to keep from it."

"Very well." John Clithero's hands dropped from his knees and he rose to his feet, pushing his chair violently aside. "Then I cut you adrift, now and for ever! You are no longer son of mine. I wash my hands of you. Hell is your portion and the portion of your fellow-sinner!" As with all his kind, the word "hell" came glibly and sonorously to the man's lips. There were times when he revelled in biblical phrase, adopting it freely to the needs of the moment. He sought to do so now, but, confused by his rage, he lost himself in a maze of ambiguity. Once Mostyn, who stood quietly listening, supplied him with the word he needed, a course naturally calculated to aggravate the situation.

"Silence!" stammered John Clithero. "How dare you interrupt me, sir?" He came close to his son, his hands clenched as though it was with difficulty that he repressed a desire to strike. "Off with you!" he yelled, quite oblivious of the fact that he was standing between his son and the door; "and when you find yourself starving in the gutter don't come to me, or to your brothers, for help. The door shall be shut upon you, understand that, as if you were a beggar!" All unconsciously the man was betraying his disposition—for none was harder upon the beggar in the street than he.

"I quite understand. Will you allow me to pass?" In contrast to his father, Mostyn had lost none of his dignity. As soon as John Clithero moved away, recommencing his fierce raging up and down the room, vowing his son to perdition in this world and the next, Mostyn stepped firmly to the door.

John Clithero followed him, panting for breath, a sorry figure. "Go!" he spluttered, "go to your vile haunts, to your race-courses! Go!—go to the devil!" The final exclamation was not meant in the ordinary vulgar sense, but the man was quite beyond the measuring of his words.

Mostyn made no reply. He quietly left the room. His father slammed the door behind him with a noise that re-echoed through the house. It was the end; the rupture was irreparable.

Mostyn, biting his lip, pale but determined, made his way slowly upstairs to his own room. He was glad of one thing—that he had not lost his temper, and that he had not in any way failed in the respect that he owed his father; for the rest he felt that he was in the right, and that it was simply impossible for him to have given the promise that was demanded of him. Never to attend another race meeting, with his instincts, the instincts that had been aroused in him that day—such an undertaking was absurd, impossible. Who could say what the future might bring forth, especially after the events of that day? And John Clithero would not have been content with any half promise; what he had demanded was in the nature of a vow.

Mostyn had always feared that something of the sort might eventually come to pass. His home, especially since his mother's death, had never been a real home to him; he had always felt himself out of sympathy with his father and brothers, disliked by them. There was Cicely, whom he cared for, but that was all. He blamed himself now for not having made provision for such an eventuality. What use to him was his classical education, his reading for the Bar? He should have devoted himself to a more practical method of earning his living. For the rest he did not care: it was not as if his mother were alive.

"He killed my mother!" Mostyn muttered the words between his clenched teeth. He had often felt that such was indeed the case, though he had never allowed himself, even in his own thoughts, to give expression to the belief. "I can see it all now. She never complained—oh, no, she never complained; but it was his treatment of her that sent her to her grave."

Now that he was ready to admit this, little things, small events which he had hardly noticed at the time, crowded into his brain. Again and again he had found his mother weeping: he could remember it even when he was quite a small boy, and she would never explain the reason. He recalled how silent she was in her husband's presence, how she had gradually lost her strength and beauty, how she had quivered under the lash of his stern denunciations. John Clithero had killed joy within her, then he had broken her spirit, till finally she herself had drooped and died. Mostyn remembered the day of her death; it was very soon after he had gone to Oxford. John Clithero had shed no tear, and the day after the funeral he had gone to business as usual.

"He killed my mother," Mostyn repeated bitterly; "he crushed the life out of her; Mr. Royce is right to hate him."

Mostyn glanced at the clock upon his mantel-piece and realised that it was after seven o'clock. At eight the family would meet for dinner: well, they would not have his company, neither to-night nor ever again. He decided that he would leave the house at once, taking with him only a small hand-bag; later on he would send for the rest of his belongings. Cicely would see that they were packed and delivered to him. It was lucky, he reflected, that he was not quite penniless—that he had, in fact, a sum that could not be much under a hundred pounds lying to his credit at the bank, a sum that he had saved out of his not ungenerous allowance; this would do to tide over temporary difficulties, at any rate.

With feverish hands he began to pack, hoping that he would be able to leave before the dinner hour. He would have liked a word with Cicely; but as for his brothers, he trusted not to meet them. He had kept his temper under control in the presence of his father, but it would be different with James and Charles; with them he might express himself in a manner that he would afterwards repent. "The mean sneaks," he muttered to himself; "and Charles, who is so fond of talking about his honour! I am glad to have done with Charles."

There was nothing that he regretted. He could not even feel that he was deserting Cicely. Before very long she would be married to Pierce Trelawny and then she, too, would be free.

As he thought of her, the girl herself burst into his room. Her eyes were tear-stained, and her fair hair was dishevelled. She stood still, breathing hard and staring at Mostyn, who was now struggling with the straps of his dressing-case.

"I've told them what I think of them!" she panted, following the train of her original thought. "It was Charles who gave you away, Mostyn. He went straight up to father and told him that you were at the Derby—the sneak!"

"It didn't matter," Mostyn said, glancing over his shoulder; "the result would have been just the same."

"What are you doing, Mostyn?" Her eyes—they were gentle eyes of china-blue—were round with horror. "Father is still in his study. He hasn't come out, though the dressing-gong has sounded. I heard him tramping about as I passed; was he furiously angry?" Then again, as Mostyn had not yet replied to her first question, she asked, "What are you doing?"

"You see." He tugged viciously at a strap and then stood erect, facing the girl. "I am going, Cicely. I am leaving the house to-night. I am never coming back." With a low cry she threw herself into her brother's arms, and her sobs broke out anew. It was a long while before Mostyn could comfort her. At last he dragged her down on to a sofa by his side, and explained to her that it was for the best that he should go. Luckily the thought of money and how he should work for himself in the future did not seem to occur to the girl; her grief was solely for the loss of her brother, the only one in the household with whom she was in sympathy.

"It'll be all right, dear," he whispered. "You've got Pierce; and when you are married—

She started from him, appalled by a new terror. "When we are married!" she cried; then, her voice shaking with anxiety, "Will Pierce and I ever be married, Mostyn? I—I never thought of it before, but father knows that it was Pierce who took you to the Derby. He won't forgive him either. He will break off the engagement! and I—oh, what will become of me?"

CHAPTER V.

MOSTYN REALISES HIS POSITION.

Poor Cicely was still in tears when Mostyn kissed and left her; but he had been able to show her the necessity of avoiding any further scene, and he had promised to see Pierce that very evening and tell him all that had happened. "Pierce won't give you up, sis," he had comforted her. "Whatever happens you may be quite sure of that."

"But his father didn't like our engagement," she had sobbed. "I know he only gave way because Pierce was so much in love. And now he knows that my father objects—

"You don't know yet that father will object," Mostyn had interrupted. "For my part, I should think it most unlikely. The Trelawnys are wealthy people, and Pierce will come in for a great deal of money some day. And father loves gold," he added bitterly.

Mostyn had decided to spend that night at one of the big hotels in Northumberland Avenue. On the next day he would look out for cheap lodgings, and when he got settled Cicely could send him the rest of his belongings. In the meanwhile, should there be a letter for him the next morning—he was thinking of Anthony Royce's promise to write—would Cicely forward it to him at the hotel? This having been settled, Mostyn, carrying his bag, made his way down to the hall, whistled for a cab, and drove away from the house without any interference with his actions. A new life was about to dawn for him.

He felt strange upon reaching the hotel and engaging his room. He had very little acquaintance with hotels of any kind, save, perhaps, when he had stayed at the seaside in the company of his relations. John Clithero was quite suburban in his ideas of the annual holiday. It was a new experience, then, for Mostyn to find himself alone and independent in one of London's huge caravansaries, and it was not altogether without its element of charm.

He felt himself that evening more the man than he had ever done in his life before; the whole world was before him, and he had to carve out his own path through it.

He dined alone, in the great restaurant, but he was too excited to take any particular notice either of the food that was put before him or of the smart crowd by which he was surrounded. He was anxious for the time to pass so that he might wend his way to the Imperial Club, which was in Pall Mall, and so not very far away, and there talk over the whole matter with Pierce Trelawny. He fancied that Pierce might have friends dining with him, and so he did not like to intrude himself too early at the club.

It was ten o'clock when he gave his name to the hall porter and asked to see Mr. Trelawny. Pierce came to him immediately. His friends had just taken their departure, for they were due at the Empire, where the Derby crowd was sure to collect in force. All of which Pierce explained before he had time to notice how pale and distressed Mostyn appeared.

"It's jolly lucky you found me, Mostyn," he said heartily, "for I might have gone out in another ten minutes. But what on earth has brought you round to the club at this time of the night? I never thought you would have been allowed such a dissipation."

"Take me somewhere where we can have a quiet talk," Mostyn said huskily. "There has been trouble, Pierce, and I want to tell you all about it."

Pierce glanced quickly into his friend's face and realised that there must indeed have been trouble. "Poor old chap!" he exclaimed. "I was blind not to see that there was something wrong. Come along up to the smoking-room; we can find a corner, and you shall tell me all about it."

As they were about to set their feet on the broad staircase they were buttonholed by Captain Armitage, who was coming downstairs to the hall. He laid a hand upon an arm of each of the young men—almost as if to support himself—and began to talk hoarsely of the day's racing.

"I dropped a pot," he muttered. "Infernal bad luck! Didn't even back Hipponous. Lost my money in backing old Rory's horses so often that I couldn't think his luck was going to turn. Damnable—what?"

It was some moments before Pierce could shake him off; then, as the two young men continued their way up the stairs, Pierce commented in no unmeasured terms upon Captain Armitage as a member of the club.

"The fellow makes himself a general nuisance," he grumbled. "He's always hanging over the tape, and forces his conversation upon everyone who happens to come near him. He belongs to the genus 'club bore.' The waiters hate him, too, for he gives endless trouble and never subscribes a cent to any of the servants' funds. Then he is always half-screwed; it's lucky that he doesn't live in town, for if he did he would spend the whole of his time at the club."

"Oh, he was quite a decent sort in his younger days," returned Pierce, "and it's for the sake of old times that my uncle and other good-natured people put up with him. Then they are sorry for his daughter, Rada—she has quaint ways—but they suit her somehow."

"Do they?" Mostyn spoke the words viciously, upon a tone of doubt: from his experience of that afternoon he was not at all inclined to attribute virtues to Rada. He felt, indeed, that he disliked her intensely.

They installed themselves in a recess of the smoking-room, and Pierce, summoning the waiter, ordered a couple of brandy-and-sodas, though it was only after considerable persuasion that Mostyn could be induced to touch spirits. He was not a teetotaler, as his brothers professed to be, but the habits of his home-life dominated him. It was necessary for Pierce to point out that a stimulant was palpably required, and that Mostyn must look upon it as a medicine.

Pierce Trelawny was possessed of a rather dominant manner. He was not built upon such a large scale as Mostyn, though he was well made and athletic. He was equally at home plodding muddy fields with his gun, riding to hounds, or as a young man about town. He had dark hair, very carefully parted on the left side, thin, refined features, and his dress was always immaculately correct in cut and style. He enjoyed a liberal allowance from his father—a good old country squire—and upon the death of the latter he would inherit a property of very considerable importance. He had no profession, finding life quite full enough without one.

Mostyn made no further objection, but took a long draught from the tall tumbler when it was set before him. The piece of ice that floated on the liquid was cool against his lips, and he liked the touch of it.

And so, a little fresh colour creeping into his cheeks, he told his story, and Pierce listened attentively, with only an occasional interruption, an interruption that usually took the form of some muttered comment by no means flattering to Mr. John Clithero.

"He's an impossible man, your father," Pierce exclaimed when Mostyn had concluded, "And the ghastly part of it is that he is quite sincere, fully convinced that he is in the right and that all the world who disagree with him are in the wrong. In a way he's just like my old uncle with his Tory politics. Your father is stubborn and pig-headed in a different and unpleasant direction; that's all there is between them."

"He killed my mother; he bullied her to death. My brothers are his idea of rectitude. That's the kind of man my father is." Mostyn spoke bitterly, as he felt. Never before in his life had he allowed himself to breathe a word against his father, whatever his own feelings may have been; but it was different now.

He gulped down one or two mouthfuls of his brandy-and-soda, then glanced up at his friend, who appeared lost in thought. "I'm not only worrying about myself, Pierce," he said. "It was Cicely who asked me to see you this evening. You see it is quite possible"—he broke off, hardly knowing how to explain himself.

"I see it is." Pierce drummed his fingers restlessly on the ornate little table before him. "Your father knows I induced you to go to the Derby, and he may forbid Cicely to see me again. I'm inclined to think that that's what is going to happen." He frowned, staring at his tumbler. "Of course, I shan't give her up," he went on, "but things may pan out badly for us. My old dad hates your father, and he was wild when he knew that I had fallen in love with a Clithero. I don't know how he'll take it if there should be any opposition on your father's side. He likes Cicely, so he may tell me to go ahead and marry her, or he may say that it's a good thing for me the engagement is broken off. Cicely is under age, too, and won't be free to do as she likes for another year. It's a devil of a mess: anyway, I shall see Mr. Clithero first thing to-morrow morning and have it out with him," he added with decision; "and I rather think the interview will be a stormy one." He pursed up his lips, thinking that he was perhaps better able than Mostyn to hold his own with the redoubtable John Clithero.

"What about yourself, Mostyn?" he asked, after a pause. "It strikes me I've been selfish, thinking of my own troubles, which may or may not eventuate, while you've got a very real one to face. In some ways it may be for the best, for you had a rotten time at home, and the row was bound to come sooner or later. I don't know how you and Cicely were ever born in the Clithero family," he added sapiently. "You are not like the rest of them, and so I suppose you must have got the blood of some more sporting ancestor in your veins. But what do you mean to do?" he went on; "for I don't suppose you have any idea of making up the quarrel?"

Mostyn shook his head. "No," he replied. "I'm going to fight for myself. Unfortunately I don't think I'm good for much. Of course, I shall have to give up the Bar."

"I've got no money of my own except a hundred in the bank. My father won't give me another penny, so I must just put my shoulder to the wheel."

"A clerk on a pound a week, or something ridiculous of that sort," said Pierce half derisively. "That won't do for you, Mostyn. But you needn't worry your head about it; I'll get my father or my uncle to find you something more suitable: I've got plenty of influential friends."

For a moment Mostyn made no answer, but once more lifted his tumbler to his lips; when he spoke it was with decision. "No," he said. "It's awfully good of you, Pierce, and I haven't the smallest doubt that you could do as you say, but there is nothing that your father or your uncle could give me—nothing well paid, at any rate—that I should be fit for. It would be just the same as taking charity."

Pierce was loud in his protest against such principles as these, but he argued in vain. Mostyn had quite made up his mind; he had thought it all over during his solitary dinner, and had decided upon his course of action. He would accept help from no one. He would undertake no work unless it was such as he conscientiously felt he was able to perform. Of course, he had not forgotten Anthony Royce; but if it was money that the latter proposed to offer him, money to be expended upon racing, then, in the light of the present position, Mostyn did not see his way to accept. What, after all, did his foolish words spoken upon the coach matter? They were uttered in a moment of heat, and no one would remember them. He had to think of earning his living now: he had probably been to his first and last race meeting.

He had decided to try his luck with journalism; he had an aptitude for writing, and he had a friend who was on the staff of an important London paper. He would look up Arden Travers on the morrow and take the journalist's advice as to the proper manner of setting to work.

Pierce expressed his opinion that this was a grievous folly, but at the same time he could not help admiring Mostyn's pluck. There was, at any rate, no harm in trying. So nothing was said on the subject of help to be provided from outside sources, and the two young men parted at about half-past eleven, after making an appointment to meet the following evening, when Mostyn would report how he had got on with his journalist friend, and Pierce would relate the result of his interview with John Clithero.

As he was about to leave the club, Mostyn was accosted by Captain Armitage, who was still hovering about the hall.

"Are you going? That's a good thing, for I'm just off, too." The captain's voice had grown still more husky, and he dragged his feet across the stone floor with a shambling gait; nevertheless, he was quite master of himself.

"I'm glad I caught sight of you," he said with assumed geniality of tone, "for I was going away by myself, and I hate being alone. We'll walk together a bit, my young friend, and you shall tell me of your ambitions to run race-horses and to win the Derby." He chuckled as he spoke, with an irritating noise in the depth of his throat, and he passed his arm under Mostyn's, leaning heavily upon it.

"I'm not going far," Mostyn said shortly; "only to Northumberland Avenue. Perhaps I'd better help you into a cab."

The old man shook his head. "I want a little fresh air first," he mumbled. "It does me good to walk part of the way home, and I love the London streets at this time of night." He waved his free hand. "It's life," he chuckled, "and it makes me think of the days when I was a boy and full of life. It's too early to go home yet."

"Bloomsbury," was the muttered answer. "Lodgings—a dirty hole; not fit for a gentleman to live in—not fit for a girl like Rada. People don't know where we stay when we are in London; I keep it dark." As a matter of fact, everybody who knew Captain Armitage knew that his lodgings were of the poorest; he made the same confession to everybody, when, as was usually the case towards night, he exchanged the braggart for a sort of maudling sentimentality. By day he was the old soldier, a man who was as good as any in the land—his swagger was proverbial; at night, or after an exaggerated bout of drinking, his mood would change, and it was sympathy for which he craved. There was nothing he enjoyed more at such times than to dwell upon his bye-gone sins.

"Walk with me a little way, at any rate," he urged. "There is something I should like to tell you."

So Mostyn complied, his good-nature compelling him; and Captain Armitage, with palpable enjoyment, recounted his tale of woe. Of course, it was false for the best part: the man was a failure through drink, a fact that was plainly writ upon his mottled and congested cheeks, which contrasted so forcibly with his fine white beard and moustache. Certainly, he had sufficient means to indulge his passion for the racecourse, though none but himself knew if it was upon this, and this alone, that he spent his income.

Mostyn felt constrained to remonstrate. "I didn't think you were in such desperate straits, Captain Armitage," he said. "What about Castor?"

"Ah!" The old man drew himself up with a sudden jerk. "You remind me: that's just what I wanted to talk about. Castor's my horse, a two-year old; you wouldn't find a better if you searched the United Kingdom from end to end. Old Rory's Pollux isn't in it with the colt. A Derby winner, sir, if I know anything about racing. Well, I can sell Castor if I think fit." He glanced meaningly at Mostyn as he spoke.

"Why would you sell Castor if you feel so sure about him?" queried Mostyn, "There may be a fortune in the horse."

"Perhaps, but I'm broke—broke to the world; things have been going precious bad with me lately." The old man tapped Mostyn on the arm with his bony knuckle. "Now, there's you," he continued, "a young man of promise, a sportsman in embryo, keen as they make 'em. You were saying to-day that you wanted to win a big race. Well, here's your chance. You can have Castor for a song, a mere song. What do you say to fifteen hundred pounds?" He leered insinuatingly. "It's the chance of a lifetime."

Mostyn laughed aloud. Fifteen hundred pounds! He who had but a tithe of that sum in the world. However, Captain Armitage was hardly to be blamed for the error into which he had fallen, for Mostyn had certainly contrived to give a false impression that day. It was all due to that absurd enthusiasm of his.

"I shall never own race-horses," he said humbly. "I've got no money for such things. I was only saying what I felt, not because I hoped ever to do it really."

Captain Armitage's hand dropped from Mostyn's arm. His jaw fell and he muttered something in his beard. He was annoyed at having been deceived; he had taken Mostyn for a young man of wealth and position, or he would not have wasted his breath upon him.

"Call it what you like." Mostyn was not prepared to argue the point. "It's certainly true that I have no intention whatever of going in for racing."

Once again Captain Armitage muttered in his beard, and Mostyn was quite assured that the remark was not complimentary to himself. They walked on a few paces almost in silence, then suddenly the captain turned his head, and muttering, "There's a friend of mine; so long!" waved his hand airily and was hidden in the crowd that thronged the street. Mostyn stood still, and after a moment or so, he saw the unmistakable figure of his military friend disappearing, unaccompanied, under the flaming portals of a public-house.

Mostyn found himself standing alone close to the brilliantly-lit entrance of a well-known music hall, through the doors of which a crowd was pouring out, the entertainment being just concluded. He had never been inside a music hall in his life, and, indeed, the whole aspect of the streets at this time of night was new to him. Tired as he was he watched the scene with interest. Here was Life, as it was understood by most young men of his age.

Over-dressed men and under-dressed women passed across the pavement to the cabs, broughams, or motors which were summoned for them by the liveried messengers. Mostyn, as he stood crowded against the shuttered window of a shop, could see the bare shoulders, insufficiently covered by rich opera cloaks, the glint of jewels, the flushed faces; his nostrils received the vague impression of perfume; his ears were pierced by shrill whistling, by the roar of traffic, by the shouting and laughter, by all the discord—or was it harmony?—of a London night. And ceaselessly the restless crowd of the street surged to and fro: all manner of man and woman—the satisfied and the hungry, the well-clad and the ragged, the joyful and the sad.

It was a different aspect of life from that which he had studied earlier in the day, and it was another emotion that stirred him as he watched. For was it not well that a man should see all sides, that he should judge for himself? The policy of repression, that which he had known all his life long—John Clithero's policy—now, more than ever, Mostyn saw the fallacy of it. The thing forbidden has a fascination which blinds the eyes to its danger; wilful ignorance may engender excess. Mostyn knew what it was to struggle with temptation, but his sense of honour and duty had held him in check. A weaker nature might easily have succumbed. As he watched, he reflected upon the attraction which this scene had had for his imagination; but he was not so sure that he felt the same about it now.

By the curb stood a woman clad in the Salvation Army dress. She spoke to many, but was rudely repulsed. A stout young man, whose face Mostyn had not seen, was assisting a smartly-dressed woman into the hansom which had been summoned for him. The Salvation Army girl approached him. She lifted her arms and extended them straight out to the right and left, finally bringing them forward and pressing them together as if she were striving against a great weight. In that gesture she seemed to concentrate upon one man alone all the veiled sin, the careless folly of the scene.

He repulsed her roughly, muttering an oath. He pushed her from him into the gutter. Mostyn sprang forward, fearing that she would fall, and at that moment, as he dragged her back to the pavement, he caught a glimpse of the face of the young man who had acted so brutally.

There could be no mistaking those pale, pasty cheeks, nor the thin streaks of nondescript coloured hair hanging over the forehead—it was Mostyn's brother Charles—Charles, whose idea of honour had impelled him to play the part of tale-bearer and slanderer.

Recognition was mutual. For one moment Charles stood staring at Mostyn in petrified dismay, then, without a word, he plunged after his companion into the hansom and was whirled away.

As the cab drove off, Mostyn laughed aloud. He was not really surprised. He had often had his suspicions of Charles in this particular direction, though he had never voiced them. Charles professed to be keenly interested in some East End Mission work, and it was understood that he stayed occasionally with his friend who conducted the Mission. Mostyn remembered that he had arranged to be absent that particular evening. Well—it all fell in with Mostyn's reflections. Charles was a weaker spirit, and he had yielded to temptation—yielded dishonourably, hiding his weakness behind a lie.

Mostyn was not vindictive by nature, but he was human enough to be glad that Charles had recognised him. Charles—judging according to his own nature—would certainly conclude that his brother would retaliate upon him, and he would suffer accordingly. "Serve him right, too," was Mostyn's reflection. "Charles won't enjoy being found out—and by me. I hope his conscience will prick him—the sneak!"

"Paper, captain? last extry speshul?" A small newsboy, keen-eyed and ragged, thrust his wares before Mostyn, who fumbled in his pocket and produced a coin. He did not really want a paper, but he thought the lad looked tired and hungry. He folded his purchase, thrust it away, and forgot all about it till he was back at the hotel and in the solitude of his own room.

As he undressed he scanned the pages carelessly, his thoughts in reality far away. But suddenly an item of intelligence, under the stop-press news attracted his attention. He carried the paper under the electric light, and, with a gasp of dismay and genuine regret, perused the paragraph.

"At a late hour to-night, intelligence has come to hand of a fatal accident to the well-known American financier and explorer, Mr. Anthony Royce. Particulars are still wanting, but Mr. Royce's death is reported to be due to a motor-car mishap."

The paper dropped from Mostyn's hand. Anthony Royce, in whose company he had been that very afternoon, who had evinced so much interest in him for the sake of his dead and gone mother—who had instigated Mostyn's wild speech about winning a Derby—Anthony Royce had met with a sudden and tragic death!

Whatever scheme may have been in the financier's mind, whatever the suggestion that he wished to propose to Mostyn, here was an end to it all. Anthony Royce had carried his plan with him to the grave.

CHAPTER VI.

MOSTYN IS PUT ON HIS METTLE.

Some four or five days later, Mostyn found himself in the private office of Mr. Gilbert Chester, head partner in the well-known firm of Chester and Smithers, solicitors. He had received a mysterious letter from the firm, requesting him to attend that day upon a matter of the utmost importance to himself—a matter which would be explained in full when he visited the office.

The letter had necessarily reached him in a round-about way, for it had originally been addressed to his father's house in Bryanston Square, and had then been sent on to him to his lodgings—for he had allowed no delay before settling himself in an unpretentious apartment—by Cicely, to whom he had confided his address, and who had seen to it that the rest of his personal belongings had been packed and delivered up to him. Mostyn had at first imagined that the solicitors may have had some communication to make to him on behalf of his father, but this would have been strange, for the latter had never employed the firm of Chester and Smithers.

As he sat with other waiting clients in the outer office, Mostyn reviewed the circumstances of the last few days. These had been anything but satisfactory, and, indeed, he had already made a great gap in that hundred pounds of his, for he had remembered certain debts to tradesmen which it was incumbent on him to pay since he wished to begin his new life with a clean sheet.

He was very disappointed—he had found that his journalist friend was not in London, having been sent to Scotland to report a big case at Edinburgh; it might be a week before he returned. In the meanwhile Mostyn, in his humble lodgings, was occupying himself by studying journalism according to the rules laid down in certain books which he had purchased, and which professed to give complete instruction in the art. He varied this by visits to the British Museum, which was close at hand, with some vague idea in his mind that this was a spot he would have to frequent in the future, and that it was well to get accustomed to it at once.

As he had feared, matters had gone wrong, too, with Cicely and Pierce. The latter had lost no time in visiting John Clithero. There had been an angry scene between the two men, and Pierce had been incontinently shown the door. Mr. Clithero had declared that he would never give his consent to his daughter's marriage with such a man as Pierce Trelawny while he had any say in the matter, and if Cicely chose to disobey him—well, it would be at her own risk.

Under these circumstances, Pierce had decided to go and see his father, who lived at Randor Park, in Worcestershire. What the result of this visit would be was an open question, and as yet Mostyn had received no news, though his friend had been gone a couple of days.

At last Mostyn was summoned to the presence of the great man. Mr. Chester received him with peculiar warmth.

"I am glad you have taken an early opportunity of seeing us, Mr. Clithero," so Mr. Chester began. He always spoke of himself as "we" or "us," though, indeed, Mr. Smithers, the other partner of the firm, had long since retired. "We have some very important intelligence for you." He cleared his throat with a little suggestive cough. "Very important indeed."

"Indeed?" said Mostyn interrogatively, seating himself in a chair indicated to him by the solicitor. "I am very much in the dark, Mr. Chester."

"The matter concerns the testamentary disposition"—Mr. Chester was very precise in speech—"of our late client, Mr. Anthony Royce." The solicitor toyed with his gold-mounted glasses as he spoke, and stared hard at his visitor.

"Mr. Royce?" Mostyn repeated the name in amazement. "Why, I only met Mr. Royce once," he stammered, "and that was on the day of his death."

"Nevertheless you have an interest—a very considerable interest indeed—in Mr. Royce's will, and this will, or, rather, codicil, I may inform you, appears to have been written hastily, although duly signed and witnessed, upon the day that ended so tragically for our client." The solicitor carefully polished his glasses with the border of a silk pocket-handkerchief.

"But this is extraordinary—inexplicable!" Mostyn could hardly believe his ears. It was true that Anthony Royce appeared to have taken a peculiar interest in him that Derby Day, and then, of course, there was the story about his having once been in love with Mostyn's mother, but that he should have gone straight home and made a new will, almost as though he had anticipated the tragedy that was to come—this was past understanding.

"Our client was always a man who acted immediately upon any resolution he may have taken," Mr. Chester explained. "He had evidently made up his mind that afternoon, the day upon which he met you, and, as usual, followed his impulse. Of course, poor man, he could not have anticipated that he was to meet his death that night; indeed, as we happen to know, all his preparations were made for a second expedition into the heart of Africa. A fine fellow, Mr. Clithero, a man of sterling merit, and no one regrets his loss more than we do. It was a shocking accident: you know all the particulars, of course?"

Mostyn nodded: the papers had been very full of the disaster on the day after it had happened. Anthony Royce, it appeared, had dined at his London house after his return from the Derby, and then, at a later hour of the evening, had left London in his motor-car for his country residence, which was in the neighbourhood of Ware; it was upon the road that the accident had happened. The night had been very dark, and Royce, who was driving himself, had apparently, through some accident to the machinery, lost control of the car upon one of the steep hills in the neighbourhood. The motor had dashed into a wall; Royce had been thrown out, receiving a terrible blow upon the head, the result of which had been almost immediately fatal.

"Let us come to business, Mr. Clithero," the solicitor resumed after a brief pause. "I have here a copy of the codicil to Mr. Royce's will—the codicil which affects yourself. You will observe that certain other legacies—legacies mainly to public bodies—are withdrawn in order to make room for yours. Mr. Royce was a bachelor, and apparently he has no relatives in the world, any whom he, at any rate, cared to benefit. This is perhaps lucky for you," Mr. Chester added meaningly, "for, as you will see, the will is a peculiar one, and might possibly have been contested."

Mostyn was gazing at the paper before him, but at the moment he could not make head nor tail of it—the words all seemed blurred and jumbled together. "What does it mean?" he asked helplessly.

"Mr. Royce bequeaths to you the sum of two and a half million dollars," Chester explained slowly, tapping the table with his knuckles as though to enforce the significance of his words. "But there are certain conditions—certain conditions," he added, "and you will, no doubt, find some difficulty in complying with them."

"Just so. The capital sum of which I have spoken is not to be handed over to you for the space of a year, though you may enjoy the interest upon it. Within this period it is incumbent upon you to win any one of certain races, the names of which are formally enumerated. Some dozen are mentioned, and they include the principal events of the year, together with the five classic races. A sum of one hundred thousand dollars, in addition to the interest upon the millions, is to be placed at your immediate disposal, so that as far as money goes, Mr. Clithero, you should be well equipped for your task. Finally, Mr. Royce leaves to you absolutely his property in Cambridgeshire known as Partinborough Grange." Mr. Chester ceased drumming on the desk with his finger, and adjusted his pince-nez upon his nose. "I trust you are already well conversant with sporting matters, Mr. Clithero?" he added.

"Good heavens, no!" Mostyn stared aghast, the corners of his lips drawn down. "I'm as ignorant of sport as the babe unborn! I don't even know what the classic events are. The whole thing is so extraordinary that I don't know what to say about it; you have dazed me—taken my breath away!"

"Of course we cannot say what actuated our client to make such a bequest," said the lawyer smoothly. "We have only to deal with facts, and there is no doubt in the present case everything is in order. It is a strange will, but it is not likely to be disputed. I presume, Mr. Clithero, ignorant of sport though you may be, that you will do your best to carry out Mr. Royce's wishes?"

"I—I suppose I shall." Mostyn had taken up the paper from the desk and was pretending to read it; this, however, was to hide his embarrassment, and to give him time for reflection. It was beginning to dawn upon him that the extraordinary legacy was a result of the scene upon the coach when he, Mostyn, prompted by Royce, had undertaken to win a Derby in five years' time. This eccentric friend of his had wished to give him a sporting chance of doing so. But that Royce should have executed a will that same day, containing, moreover, such drastic stipulations, that was the inexplicable part of the whole thing.

Of course there was no question, however, as to what he must do. He was put on his mettle; the means were given him of carrying out his own challenge. A sense of exhilaration seized him. Suddenly, and for no particular reason, Rada's derisive words flashed into his mind: "You silly boy, you couldn't win a Derby if you lived to a hundred." He had felt those words very deeply, they had stung and wounded him—but now, in an extraordinary manner, the means had been placed at his disposal, and Rada—not only Rada, but the whole world—should see what he was made of.

He pulled himself together and sat upright in his chair. "Mr. Royce wanted to make a sportsman of me," he said, "I can see that. Well, I shall do my best to realise his ambition."

Mr. Chester smiled, the smile that he reserved for his most important clients, to which number he hoped that Mostyn would be added. "Well, I'm sure we wish you all success, Mr. Clithero," he said. He rose and extended a white hand. "Come and see us again to-morrow—let me see—yes—at 11.15, and we will discuss the matter at length. By the way," he added, "since you will, no doubt, wish to visit your new property shortly, we'll write to the gardener, whose name is Willis, and who has the charge of it, to notify him that you may be expected at any time."

As Mostyn reached the door Mr. Chester, suddenly recollecting a duty omitted, called him back. He searched for a moment among the papers of his desk, and finally produced a sealed letter which he handed to Mostyn. "This was brought to us to-day, Mr. Clithero," he explained. "It was evidently written by Mr. Royce on the day of his death, and should have been posted in the ordinary way. You see it is stamped though it has not passed through the post. Mr. Royce may have intended to drop it in the box himself and accidentally omitted to do so. It appears to have been found in his study. At any rate, it is addressed to you, and perhaps it may throw further light upon the matter of your inheritance." With which Mr. Chester bowed Mostyn from the room, and called to his head clerk that he was ready to see the next client.

Mostyn returned to his humble lodgings, the spirit of elation still upon him. What an extraordinary twist had come into his life! There was no fear of poverty—no need to depend upon the charity of his friends—for a year, at least, he was rich and independent, and ultimately—unless he failed to carry out what was imposed upon him—the laugh would be with him and not with Rada. He wondered why he should think so much about Rada, but of course it was because she had insulted him, and he had conceived such an antipathy to the girl.

Alone in his own room he opened Anthony Royce's letter, a letter written, no doubt, when there was no thought in the writer's mind of the fate that awaited him.

"My dear Mostyn," so he read, "You have bound yourself to-day to win a Derby in five years. I suggested ten—but that is immaterial. Well, I have my own reasons for wishing to help you to do so. I am going out of town to-night, but I shall return to-morrow; come and see me the day after, and we will discuss ways and means. I have not the smallest doubt that when your father learns of your escapade to-day he will turn you out—cut you adrift—but if he does not do so, my offer may still be acceptable to you.

"You have the true instincts of the sportsman in you, I have seen that for myself. Besides, you are your mother's son and I took to you instinctively from the first. That is why I feel justified in helping you to a sporting career. I don't know what we may decide between ourselves, but since I am a man who takes no chances, I have this evening added a codicil to my will, and what I shall propose to you will be much upon the same lines."

Here followed a recapitulation of the codicil. "You will see from this," the letter continued, "that I have no intention of making things too easy for you. It is a hard task for any man—even with unlimited capital—to pull off one of these races in a year. But if you succeed, well—you will earn a big fortune, and you may be able to manage the Derby within the stipulated time. In any case it gives you a sporting chance.

"You will ask why I do this, and if it is only out of regard for yourself and for your mother's memory. It is not only that, Mostyn. I will confess that it is by way of revenge upon your father, whom I have good cause for hating. You will understand this when I tell you that he lied about me to the girl to whom I was engaged—your mother; that he took advantage of my absence from England to spread a calumny which he, better than anyone else, knew to be absolutely false. I returned to England to find my good name injured and the woman I loved the bride of the very man who had wrought me this wrong. I could do nothing at the time, there were reasons which made me helpless—I was driven from England, and became a naturalised American.

"But my hatred endured, and, through you, I may obtain the kind of revenge that is dear to my heart—no very bitter revenge perhaps, but one that appeals to my sense of humour. Narrow-minded Pharisee as is your father, nothing will gall him more than that a son of his should become known in the world of sport—and if you accept my offer you will have to steep yourself in racing. However, we will talk this over when we meet—it is not very likely that you will be bound by the terms of a will drawn up by a man in rude health like myself. I hope to live to see you win your Derby, my boy—and for many years after that. But, as a safeguard to yourself, it is just as well that the will is there."

A few words of friendship followed, and the letter closed with Anthony Royce's bold signature. Mostyn, having read it through several times, threw himself back in his armchair and gave himself up to reflection.

He realised that the plot was aimed against his father. He remembered how Royce's sides had shaken with silent laughter—the American was just the sort of man to devise so subtle a revenge. Had Royce been still alive—had John Clithero been kinder—Mostyn might have hesitated before accepting, but now he had no compunction.

"Anthony Royce loved my mother," he muttered to himself, "and she—my father killed her by his cruelty. Yes, I'll steep myself in racing—I'll do all that is desired of me. I'll keep my word to Rada, too, and win the Derby. She won't scoff at me again. Ah, Miss Rada, it will be my turn to laugh!"

Suddenly he sprang to his feet and clapped his hands boyishly together. "Castor!" he cried. "Captain Armitage's colt! The very thing—entered for the Derby and all! Rada thinks a lot of the horse—I heard her say so. So does Sir Roderick. And the captain wants to sell—fifteen hundred pounds—what's fifteen hundred pounds to me now?"

He thought intently for a moment. "Jove, how it all works out!" he cried. "The Armitages live at Partingborough, and now I'm a man of property in that neighbourhood. I'll go and take possession of the Grange—I'll go to-morrow. Then I'll make my first investment—I'll buy Castor. Oh, Rada"—he laughed aloud in his glee—"I wonder what you'll say if I win the Derby next year, and with the horse you think so much of?" His face grew reflective. "I can't make up my mind what I think of you really, Miss Rada Armitage," he said slowly, "I ought to hate you, but I'm not sure—I'm not sure. Yet I feel this; you have come into my life—you have influenced it—and we have not done with each other yet. You've put me on my mettle, Rada, and it's going to be a tussle between us."

CHAPTER VII.

MOSTYN IS SURPRISED.

On the following day Mostyn travelled down to Partingborough, in Cambridgeshire, by a late afternoon train. He had paid a visit to Messrs. Chester and Smithers that morning, had fully discussed his plans with Mr. Chester, had learnt that a large sum of money would be placed to his credit that day, and that he could draw upon the firm for more should he require it; then he had broached a subject which had been worrying his mind during the night.

"If the details of this extraordinary will are given to the public," he said, "it's very plain that my task will be made more difficult—for me. Dealers will ask what they like for their horses because they will know that I simply must purchase. Every swindler in England will be on my track. I shall be exploited right and left. That's clear, I think. Now, Mr. Chester, is it essential that the will shall be published before my year is up?"

Mr. Chester gave the matter his very careful attention. It was palpably a point of importance. When he spoke it was in his usual oracular vein.

"What you say is very reasonable, Mr. Clithero, and, upon consideration, we think we can meet you in the matter. There will be no difficulty in realising the estate of the late Mr. Royce, since it is mainly in American gold bonds, payable to bearer; and, since the ultimate trusts are of such a nature that they will not come into force for a full year, we see no reason why probate should not be delayed for the period you require. This must, of course, be subject to the consent of the American agents, but we do not anticipate difficulty with them."

Mostyn felt intensely relieved, and said so. He had been dreading the amount of public interest that would certainly have been aroused in his undertaking. Now he would confide in Pierce and Cicely, but in no one else.

This point settled, Mostyn took his departure, after announcing his intention of going down to Partinborough that day. He had an idea in his head that Mr. Royce may have had some subtle object in mind in bequeathing him this estate, situated, as it was, so close to the home of the Armitages. Was it perhaps Castor of which he had been thinking—or could he have desired to throw Mostyn and Rada together? It was impossible to guess. All Mostyn knew of his property was that it had been rarely occupied by the American, and that the house was an old one, only partly furnished and very much out of repair.

Mostyn studied racing literature as he travelled down in the train, totally ignoring magazines, of which he was usually fond, and every form of light reading. He had purchased the evening paper solely with the object of absorbing the sporting intelligence. Ruff's Guide and a stud book bulged prominently in the pocket of his blue serge coat; he had promised himself that these works should be his inseparable companions during the months to come. Oh, yes, he would soon be well up in sporting technicalities; he laughed at himself now as he remembered his blunders on Derby day. To have asked the age of Hipponous—to have suggested that Hipponous should run in the Oaks—and above all to have been taken in by that old joke about the Waterloo Cup—his cheeks reddened even now as he thought of it.

He wished he had been able to talk it all over with Pierce, but Pierce was still away at his father's house in Worcestershire: Mostyn had received a letter from him that afternoon, just as he was leaving for the station. He had perused it hastily, and then thrust it into his pocket. Now, having time at his disposition, he drew it out and read it for the second time.

"Poor Pierce," he muttered to himself, "poor old chap!" The letter was not a cheerful one, as, perhaps, was to be expected. Old Mr. Trelawny had not shown himself very amenable, this although he was admittedly fond of Cicely for her own sake. He was a bluff old gentleman of the old school, a thorough sportsman, and he cordially despised John Clithero and John Clithero's doctrines. He listened with considerable interest to the story of Mostyn's rebellion and the refusal of the latter to submit to his father. "A brave lad!" he had cried, "I like his spirit." He had repeated this several times, somewhat to Pierce's annoyance, whose thoughts were concentrated upon his own affairs.

Finally, Pierce had obtained a concession. Since Cicely would not be twenty-one till the expiration of another twelve months, Pierce was to wait a year without seeing or writing to the girl, and if he was of the same mind at the end of that time, Mr. Trelawny would offer no further opposition. Pierce might marry his sweetheart, regardless of John Clithero's disapproval. But the year's probation was to be a sine qua non .

"If you deceive me over that, my boy, there'll be a row," so the old gentleman had asserted with a good deal of vigour and a quaint raising of the eye-brows that was peculiar to him. "Jove, I'll cut you off like Clithero has cut off Mostyn. Remember that. Write to Cicely and tell her what I say—and then not another letter. That's my decree, and you'd better stick to it."

"I can't quite make the governor out," so Pierce wrote. "He spoke very decidedly, but there was a queer look in his eyes, as though he thought it was rather a joke to forbid me seeing the girl I love for a whole year. I suppose he thinks I shall find someone else in the meantime, but I won't, and that's very certain. We shall just have to wait the year—and that will be hard enough for both of us."

Mostyn, having read the letter with genuine sympathy, put it carefully away, reflecting that it was strange that Pierce, like himself, should have a year's probation before him. He had written to his friend the night before, telling him, in confidence, something of his accession to fortune and the conditions imposed thereon, inviting him also to come to Partinborough Grange and talk the future over as early as possible.

Partinborough station reached, Mostyn descended from the train and looked about for Samuel Willis and the conveyance which he had asked by letter to be sent to meet him. But Samuel Willis was conspicuous by his absence, nor was there a sign of any kind of carriage on the long level road outside the little wayside station. Could it be possible that his letter had miscarried, and that the gardener had not been warned of his coming?

Under these circumstances it was necessary for Mostyn to hire a cab, and there was a delay of some twenty minutes—which Mostyn spent at the Station Hotel—till the ramshackle old conveyance was brought round. The little town of Partinborough, he learnt, lay about a mile from the station, on the main road to Newmarket, and the Grange occupied a rather isolated position another mile further on.

It was nearly seven o'clock when, having passed through the little town and then negotiated some extremely narrow and rutty lanes, the cab came to a halt for a moment, while the driver descended from his box to open a wooden gate that gave access to a drive through a small wood.

Mostyn concluded, and concluded rightly, that he was now upon his own property. He gazed about him with curiosity. The road branched, and the wood was denser than he had first thought. To the left there was an incline, below which, and just visible through the thickly-massed trees, Mostyn could discern the glimmer of a little stream. Upon the other side the trees became gradually less dense, till between them an open space, evidently an undulating lawn, could be distinguished. Presently, the road made an abrupt turn in this direction, and the house came in sight.

Even at a cursory view it was evident that Partinborough Grange was of considerable antiquity. It was a house of no great size, but it had many gables and was pleasantly irregular in proportion. It was ivy-covered, too, almost to the roof, and the windows were framed with rose creepers. The porch before which the carriage drew up was a veritable mass of white and red blooms.

Mostyn's heart leapt delightedly within him. He had often pictured to himself a house like this, and now his dreams were realised. Partinborough Grange was his own—absolutely his own—and not only the Grange, but this wide expanse of wood, this spreading lawn with its carefully-tended flower-beds, and its pergola of roses; however negligent Samuel Willis, the gardener, may have been in not attending to instructions as to meeting the train, he was undoubtedly accomplished at his craft.

Mostyn alighted from the carriage, and almost as he did so, the door was thrown open, and a tall man, curiously thin and cadaverous of face, made his appearance. His manner was nervous, but he spoke civilly, and was evidently anxious to appear at his best.

"You had my letter?" interrupted Mostyn, seeing that the man hesitated as though at a loss for words. "I expected that you would have sent a cart to meet me. I mentioned the time that I should arrive."

"Yes, sir." The man blurted out his explanation. "But unfortunately I didn't get your letter till about half an hour ago. It was like this, my boy, who's workin' for Colonel Marchmont at Mowbray Hall, a couple of miles on the other side of Partinborough, met with a bad accident last night, and me and my missus went out early this mornin' to be with him. That's how it was, sir, that neither of us saw your letter. It's a good thing I came back when I did. I meant to fetch the cart and bring him home, for the doctor says he must lie up a bit."

"I see," said Mostyn, pleasantly, evincing no annoyance whatever—this, evidently, very much to the gardener's relief. "I found my own way up quite safely, you see. And I am very sorry to hear about your son—I hope he isn't seriously hurt."

Willis replied that he anticipated no danger. The boy was raw at his work, and had carelessly damaged his foot with a scythe. The doctor had patched him up, and he would be on the mend in a day or two; but in the meantime, there was the necessity of driving over to Mowbray Hall that evening to fetch both Willis's wife and his son back to the cottage.

"You can go as soon as you have shown me over the place," Mostyn said, "I don't the least mind being left alone—that is, if I can get something to eat, and if there is a bed ready for me to sleep on. What time do you expect to return?"

"Well, sir, the doctor's coming round again a little before nine, he said. I expect we could be back at the cottage by ten. In the meanwhile, I can arrange for your dinner, and make you quite comfortable for the night."

"That's all right, then," agreed Mostyn, "I shall manage quite well for myself after you have gone." He turned and settled with the driver of his cab, paying him liberally out of the fulness of his heart, and then requested Samuel Willis to lead the way into the house. His luggage—such as it was, for he had not thought well to bring much with him, being uncertain as to the length of his stay—had already been carried into the hall.

"You know all about my having become the owner of the Grange?" Mostyn said, as he followed the gardener. "I suppose Messrs. Chester and Smithers gave you the full particulars."

"Yes, sir," returned the man civilly, "but we did not expect that you would be coming down so soon, or I should have been on the look out for a letter."

Mostyn made some complimentary remark about the garden, and then added with a laugh, "I understood that the house was in a dilapidated condition, a sort of ruin, in fact. I am pleasantly surprised to find it so well kept."

"It's better from the outside than within," returned Willis, "as you will see for yourself, sir. My wife does her best, but there's more work than one woman can manage. There are only some four or five rooms furnished, and the others—well, they would need a lot of doin' up before they could be occupied. As for the garden—well, I can manage that, and I love my flowers."

Mostyn was staring round the hall in which he stood. It was square of shape, panelled in oak, and a gallery ran round two sides of it—a gallery which was approached by an uncarpeted flight of stairs at the far end. There was but little furniture, though everything that Mostyn's eyes rested upon was quaint and old-fashioned. There were high-backed chairs, elaborately carved, a great oaken coffer, and a fine old grandfather's clock, the loud ticking of which sounded pleasantly to the ear. The fireplace was large in proportion to the size of the hall, and the hearth was broad; there were delightful ingle nooks to either side of it. Against the opposite wall there was an organ, a small affair, and evidently of modern make: its pipes, which had been gilded and painted, were now discoloured, and harmonised quaintly with the more antique decorations of the hall. The floor was uncarpeted, but a few fine rugs, bear and tiger skins, lay about. A large lamp was suspended in the centre, and Samuel Willis now occupied himself with the lighting of this, for the dusk was closing in.

There were two other rooms upon the ground floor which had been furnished, and these were just as quaint and old-fashioned, both in design and equipment as the hall itself. The broad oaken beams that traversed the ceilings indicated their age. Of the two, the drawing-room presented the greater semblance of comfort and modernity. It had pretty chintz furniture, comfortable arm-chairs, and the pictures on the walls were bright water-colour landscapes. The walls themselves, above the oaken panelling, were distempered in white, and, unlike the other rooms, there was a good carpet covering the whole floor. The windows gave direct access to the garden, and as it stood partly open, the scent of roses was pleasantly wafted to Mostyn's nostrils. There were a couple of shaded lamps, which the gardener proceeded to light, and some of the tall vases that stood upon the mantel-piece and in other parts of the room had been filled with bunches of great red roses; Mostyn imagined that this had been a kindly attention upon the part of Willis, and felt grateful to the man.

The dining-room was not altogether so cheerful an apartment. It was panelled from floor to ceiling in oak, which in places was very palpably rotting away. There were no pictures upon the wall, nor any attempt at the lighter ornamentations which prevailed in the other room; the ceiling was dingy and discoloured between the great beams which traversed it, and the floor was carpetless—little holes appearing here and there in the boards close against the wainscotting—to Mostyn's mind, unpleasantly suggestive of rats. A fine table occupied the centre of the room, and upon this a white cloth had already been spread.

"I've done my best about your dinner, sir," Willis said deprecatingly, "but I'm afraid, since I had no notice of your coming, that there is not much that I can do. I don't understand cookin'——"

"Never mind," Mostyn laughed, "I can manage with anything you've got, or can go down to the inn for the matter of that."

Willis explained that he had brought up a cold chicken and some accessories, also that Mr. Clithero would find that there were bottles of good wine in the cellar; if he could do with these.

Mostyn declared that he could do with these quite well. In fact, he would need nothing else that night, and on the next day he could have a long chat with Mrs. Willis and make all the necessary arrangements.

After this the bedrooms were explored, to reach which it was necessary to pass along the gallery that skirted the hall. Of these only a couple were furnished, all the other rooms being in a state of deplorable decay.

"Mr. Royce was always going to furnish the house," Willis explained apologetically, "but when he gave up racing he didn't seem to care to come down any more. He took the Grange because it is near the training stables, you know, sir. William Treves has a big place just outside Partinborough."

The beds were made in both rooms; and Willis explained that his wife had seen to this when she heard that the Grange had passed into other hands, and would probably be shortly occupied. "She has tidied up the place as well as she could," he added. "I hope you'll be all right and comfortable, sir."

Mostyn glanced round the large airy room which he had selected, and told himself that there was every prospect of his comfort. The room, indeed, had not the appearance of having been long unoccupied, and Mostyn noticed, somewhat to his surprise, that the attentive Willis—or could it have been Mrs. Willis?—had even been thoughtful enough to fill the vases here, as in the drawing-room, with rich and fresh rose-blooms.

"It's awfully nice to have these flowers," he commented; "I must really congratulate you, Willis, upon having arranged things so comfortably for me."

A tinge of colour came into the gardener's sallow face, and he turned away, as Mostyn thought, a little nervously.

Mostyn enjoyed his dinner, impromptu meal though it was, nor did he neglect an excellent bottle of claret that Willis produced from the cellar. He felt quite contented and happy, nor had he any sensation of loneliness when, a little later, he heard the dog-cart pass the front door and knew that Willis had taken his departure. Mostyn had told the gardener that there was no need either for him or for his wife to return that night. Their cottage, he had learnt, lay within the little park by which Partinborough Grange was surrounded, some five or six minutes' walk from the house.

After a while he amused himself by once more exploring all the rooms on the ground floor, and then he mounted to his bedroom, determined to unpack and put everything straight for the night. After that he thought that it might be pleasant to have a stroll amid the roses of the now moon-lit garden.

He found, however, that it took longer to put things tidy than he had anticipated, and, furthermore, he made one or two curious discoveries in the room which he had determined to occupy. There was a large hanging cupboard, and here, very much to his amusement, he came across some articles of feminine apparel—a jacket, a cape, a straw hat, and sundry other garments which he did not venture to examine more closely.

"I think it must be true," he smiled to himself, "that this room has not really been so long unoccupied. No doubt Mrs. Willis finds it more to her taste than the cottage. Or perhaps Mrs. Willis has a daughter," he added, as he glanced critically at the dainty straw hat and marked the juvenile cut of the jacket. "I really don't think that Mrs. Willis can be the owner of these!"

A little later he found a hairpin lying on the floor, and became still more convinced that his room must have been occupied by some member of the Willis household. The fact troubled him, however, not at all, and he laughed to himself as he recalled the gardener's nervousness of manner when he had drawn attention to the roses upon the mantelpiece. "Whoever has made herself at home here," he told himself, "must at any rate have a nice idea of comfort and the beauty of things. I can make every allowance for people who like flowers."

He was stooping over the portmanteau which he was engaged in unpacking, and, at that moment, it seemed to him that he heard a faint sound in the house, as of the opening and shutting of a door. He raised himself to his knees and listened, but all was still.

"I didn't think I was so imaginative," he muttered, after a moment. "I suppose that comes of being alone in a half-furnished house—so far away from everything, too." He glanced round the room and at the open window, which looked out upon the lawn—a lawn intersected by dark shadows and silver streaks of moonlight. "It never struck me before, either," he went on, "that there might be a ghost at Partinborough Grange; it's just the place for one." He laughed at himself, not being in reality nervous, and, if anything, rather enjoying the sense of his isolation. He decided that he would finish his unpacking quickly, and then make his way to the garden. The night was soft and balmy, and the air was fragrant with roses. It would be better there than in the house.

He bent himself once more to his task, throwing out his belongings to either side of him in the careless way of a man. Then of a sudden, he paused, a pair of shoes in one hand, a case of razors in the other, and listened attentively. Another moment and he had dropped shoes and razors and started to his feet.

He did not know if he was afraid, though certainly at the first moment a cold shiver had run down his spine, and there had been a peculiar sensation as if perspiration were about to break out on his brow. He felt hot and cold at the same time, and yet he was not conscious of any actual fear.

It was such a strange thing to be happening in an empty house, and, at first, Mostyn had hardly believed his ears. But now there was no doubt about it—someone was in the hall, and that someone was playing the organ.

The sound had at first come so softly that it had been really like a breath of wind stirring in the pipes; Mostyn had thought that it must be something of the sort, till he had remembered that there was practically no wind that night. Yet it was possible that the sound was due to some perfectly natural cause quite apart from human agency.

He listened with hazy ideas of the kind in his mind, until it was evident that something like a tune—a weird, dreamy tune, certainly, was being developed, and that it was impossible to doubt any longer that human fingers were touching the keys of the organ.

But who could it be? Who could have broken in and disturbed his privacy in so extraordinary a manner?

Mostyn opened the door of his room and stole out upon the balcony, moving as stealthily as he could, anxious to see without being seen. He did not feel afraid—he was actuated by wonder and curiosity.

The great lamp that hung from the ceiling above illuminated the hall. Mostyn looked straight down over the banisters at the mysterious player of the organ.

It was a girl, and, as Mostyn recognised at once, there was nothing ghostly or fantastic about her neat and well-fitting coat and skirt, which were of some light material. Her head was averted, and she seemed to be allowing her fingers to roam over the keys half unconsciously, as though she were simply giving way to her fancy. She was wearing a hat, a neat straw, not very dissimilar to the one which Mostyn had found in his room, and it was evidently she whom he had heard enter the house not very long before.

Presently, as he stood there, silently staring at his strange visitor, she turned her head, her attention attracted perhaps by the light from the door which Mostyn had left open behind him.

Their eyes met. The girl gave a sharp scream and started up, overthrowing the carved music stool upon which she had been seated. It was very clear that the apparition of a man in the gallery was as unexpected to her as was her appearance in the hall to Mostyn.

And, simultaneously with her cry, an exclamation of surprise and wonder escaped Mostyn also. He could not help himself.

"Rada, by all that's holy," he cried. And then, involuntarily, the girl's name came again to his lips. "Rada!"

CHAPTER VIII.

MOSTYN ENTERTAINS A GUEST.

For a few moments they stood, the man in the gallery, the girl in the hall, staring at each other in petrified astonishment. Neither the one nor the other seemed capable of moving.

It was the girl who recovered herself first and broke the silence. She was evidently possessed of a fine spirit. "Who are you?" she cried, her voice faltering a little, but raised sufficiently for him to distinguish what she said. "Who are you, and how dare you come here?"

This was good, considering that it was Mostyn's own house, and the incongruity of the question restored him to his normal power of reflection. It was Rada who was the trespasser, not he; there was evidently a misunderstanding upon both sides, a misunderstanding that must be explained away; but it was very awkward that it should be Rada Armitage of all persons in the world with whom he must parley—Rada, his pet aversion.

He drew close to the banisters, leaning over so as to make his voice quite audible; even to himself it sounded hoarse and strained, echoing through the emptiness of the house. "My name is Mostyn Clithero," he said, "and I have every right to be here. We have met before, Miss Armitage. But please wait, and I will come down to you." He spoke the last words rather hurriedly, having some fear in his mind that she might run away, make her escape by the front door before he could reach her side.

This, however, she did not seem at all disposed to do. Instead, she broke out into a soft laugh—a laugh that was musical in tone, but which grated upon Mostyn's ears, for it reminded him of her attitude towards him upon Derby day. She had remembered him, then, as soon as he had mentioned his name, and the recollection was one to arouse her laughter.

Mostyn set his teeth firmly, and descended the broken and rickety staircase with all the dignity that he could muster.

Rada was still standing beside the organ. She had picked up the fallen music-stool and replaced it in position. She stood almost directly under the over-hanging lamp, a lamp shaded in red, which added its lustre to the rich colouring of her face. An unruly lock of black hair hung over her forehead, and she was still smiling as Mostyn approached her—smiling, her lips parted over a row of white, even teeth. She had quite recovered her self-possession, whereas Mostyn felt that he was trembling, partly with nervousness and partly with indignation.

"I thought you were Willis, the gardener, when I first saw you up there in the gallery, and had got over my surprise. You made me jump, you know, because I imagined I was all alone in the house." She was quite taking command of the situation. "So you are Mr. Mostyn Clithero," she went on. "I remember you quite well, though what you are doing in Partinborough Grange at this time of night is a mystery to me."

She had waited till Mostyn had reached the bottom of the stairs before speaking; now she seated herself upon the music-stool, leaning an elbow upon a corner of the organ, staring Mostyn fully in the face, with a great assumption of ease and self-confidence.

Mostyn felt himself in a ridiculous position. It was he who was being called upon to give an explanation, and yet Rada Armitage was so palpably the intruder, the one who should be summoned to explain.

"I am here," he faltered, almost apologetically, "because the house is mine, and I have to-day come down from London to take possession of it."

"Partinborough Grange yours?" Rada had ceased to smile, but she was in no way disconcerted. "How can that be? The Grange belonged to Mr. Royce. He was no relation of yours, was he?"

"He left me the house by will," Mostyn explained; "that is the simple truth. And now, Miss Armitage——"

He was about to ask her to account for her presence, but she interrupted him sharply. "And how dared you call me by my Christian name just now? I don't think I have allowed you that privilege!"

She did not speak as though she were annoyed. In spite of the sharpness of her tone there was a curious laughing light in her eyes, a half-mocking expression, which Mostyn could not understand, though he felt that he was blushing scarlet, and was proportionately angry with himself.

Why should he have called her Rada? Why had he, ever since that day upon the coach, thought of her by that name? The word had escaped him involuntarily, and no doubt the girl had every right to be indignant.

"I beg your pardon," he said humbly. "I must apologise for that. It was in the surprise of the moment——"

"I see." Her eyes were still sparkling, and she was palpably enjoying Mostyn's discomfiture as well as the whole situation. She stretched out her hand, a daintily-fashioned hand with small, cool fingers. "I'll forgive you, Mr. Clithero, and I suppose it is I who must humbly ask your pardon for my intrusion. Awfully unconventional, isn't it? But I'm not a lady burglar come after the silver—there is none, by the way—or anything of that sort. I'm quite a commonplace little person, really."

Mostyn took the girl's hand in his and held it, perhaps a little longer than he needed. "You're not commonplace," he faltered awkwardly; "you're anything but that. You're more like a sprite or a pixie."

It was curious how she attracted him, and yet he was quite sure she was mocking him all the time, laughing at him in her heart. He would have liked to have refused her hand, to have spoken formally, to have shown her that he was not the sort of man to be made mock of: and yet all these impulses were put aside by that extraordinary fascination which she had over him, and for which he could not account, the fascination which had made him think of her so often during the last week, and which had brought her Christian name to his lips in the first moment of surprise. He was sure that he hated her—and yet he had held her hand longer than he need have done, and perhaps with firmer grip than was necessary.

The worst of it was that Rada seemed to understand this, to have the knowledge of her power: she would only laugh at him all the more.

"Call me a mischievous imp," she retorted, brushing back the recalcitrant curl, "if that's what you mean. Don't be shy, Mr. Clithero. After that I'll explain why I'm here, and then go."

Of course she must go. What else could be suggested? That is what Mostyn thought, yet when he came to speak he gave expression to a very different sentiment. "I—I'm sure I don't know why you are here, Miss Armitage," he faltered; "but if you really meant to stay—well, I can clear out, you know, for to-night anyway. I believe there's an inn at Partinborough."

She laughed musically. "Well, we'll see. But let's go into the drawing-room to talk: it's more cosy there, and I can make myself comfortable in my favourite chair. This hall's always full of shadows, and we look like a pair of ghosts. Then there are the roses in the drawing-room that I put there myself this morning." She spoke as though she were the hostess, and with complete self-possession. It was she who led the way and Mostyn who followed, still bewildered, and at war with himself.

So there was no doubt about it now; it was Rada who had filled those vases with flowers, and who had evidently occupied the room which he had selected for his own. But why on earth had Willis not given some explanation?

They entered the drawing-room, and Rada installed herself in one of the comfortable chintz-covered arm chairs. She was seated with her back to the unshuttered window, through which the moon, fully risen by now, could be seen riding in a cloudless and star-sprinkled sky. At that moment a rumble of carriage wheels made itself heard along the drive.

"It's the Willis's driving back to their cottage," said Mostyn shortly. "Their son met with an accident, and they had to bring him home. Since you seem to be a regular visitor here, Miss Armitage, I cannot understand why Willis said nothing to me about you." As he spoke the dog-cart with its three occupants passed the window and disappeared, the noise of wheels gradually dying away in the distance.

"I am never here for more than one night at a time," explained Rada, "and I suppose, since I slept here last night, that Mr. Willis did not expect me to turn up again. I was about the garden all the morning, and wondered what had become of him. I put the roses in the vases, but I suppose he thought they were yesterday's."

"I see." Mostyn slowly nodded his head. He had seated himself facing the girl, and he could not withdraw his eyes from her face. How bewitchingly elf-like she looked, as she sat there with the light of the moon shining upon her—for the room was but dimly lit by the shaded lamps at the far end. Yes, elf-like was the word, or perhaps Rada was even more correct in describing herself as an imp. She had taken off her flower-bedecked hat, and her black, glistening curls framed a face that seemed to glow with life and mischief.

"It's all very simple," she went on. "You see, Mr. Clithero, we live, my father and I, not very far from here. It's only a couple of miles across the fields, though a bit longer by road. Barton Mill is the name of the place; it was once the old mill-house, but the mill's been disused for years. We are not well off, and my father got the house for next to nothing."

Rada bit her lip, as though her explanation was not as easy as she had thought, then continued: "My father's a queer-tempered man, and I suppose I'm rather an impossible person myself at times. We are apt to have little quarrels." She flushed slightly, a very unusual thing with Rada, as she made the admission. "When there's any little difference between us," she went on, "I run away, and instal myself here for twenty-four hours or so; then, when I go home things are all right again. I'm great friends with Mr. and Mrs. Willis, and they are accustomed to have me about the place."

Mostyn, from his own experience with Captain Armitage, could easily appreciate the discomforts of the girl's home. Rada's father was a drunkard—there was no other word for it—and it was easy to imagine that there were times when he would become quite unbearable: it stood to reason that the girl must sometimes have a hard time of it.

"I'm quite a wild creature when I'm in the country, you see, Mr. Clithero," Rada resumed; "not at all the same girl whom you saw in London playing at gentility." She was speaking earnestly now, the mockery of her manner put aside. This was an extraordinary characteristic of Rada's, and one that Mostyn had already noticed. She would pass quickly from mood to mood; she was just as capricious as an April day.

She sighed, and glanced round the room. "I have almost come to look upon everything here as my own," she said, "and I shall feel having to be shut out in the future."

Mostyn leant forward, speaking eagerly, and again expressing himself with words that he had no intention of saying. "I hope you will come here as often as you like, Miss Armitage. I am glad to know that we are such near neighbours. I shall probably live here, because I want to be near the training stables. I am going in for racing," he added impulsively.

Once more she broke out into musical laughter, laughter which had the ring of derision in it. Mostyn drew himself up stiffly; the momentary spell which had fallen upon him was broken.

"You are going in for racing, Mr. Clithero—you!" There was painful emphasis upon the pronoun. "Do you mean to say that you've taken up my challenge of the other day seriously? You are going to win the Derby in five years' time? Forgive me laughing, but really, I'm only a girl, but I'll back myself to win the Derby before you, and with some hope of success."

She spoke without measuring her words, and perhaps without the intention of giving offence. "Are you going to enter a horse for the Waterloo Cup too?" she queried; this amid peals of soft but impudent laughter.

Mostyn drew himself up, but the worst of it was, that in the presence of this girl, he could make such a poor show of dignity. He could not even restrain himself from that absurd habit of blushing. "I made a fool of myself that day, I know," he said heatedly, "but it isn't generous of you to recall it; it isn't as if you knew all the circumstances—I——" He broke off suddenly, staring fixedly at the window before him.

Rada saw that her words had stung and wounded. She was not spiteful at heart, though despite herself her tongue would run away with her. She had no dislike for Mostyn; on the contrary, she had told herself that day upon the coach that he was quite a good-looking boy, and that she would have preferred his company to that of young Caldershot, who was, after all, nothing but an empty-headed fop, whose conversation was all about himself. Rada had quite decided in her own mind that Mostyn was to be her cavalier that day, and she had been more than a little piqued at his lack of attention, which perhaps accounted for the snubbing he had received.

"Don't be cross," she began, a little conscience-stricken. "I didn't mean——" Suddenly she realised the fixity of his gaze upon the window. "What are you staring at?" she asked, turning her head and following the direction of his eyes.

Mostyn sprang from his chair, and without answering her strode across to the window, throwing it open, and gazing out into the night. He had imagined, just as he was replying to Rada, that he had caught sight of a face, the face of a man, staring in at the window—a face flattened against the glass, appearing through it distorted, malignant, and hideous.

He had been so occupied with his own sense of wrong that it had been a few moments before he had actually realised the face. The ivy and creepers grew thick about the window, and as he stared vacantly he had thought that what he saw was merely due to the peculiar form taken by an overhanging spray of ivy. But, as he looked, the face had taken shape; he had seen a pair of glistening eyes, a flattened nose and an ugly, grinning mouth. It was then that he sprang up and made his sudden dart to the window.

But when he opened it and stepped out upon the soft grass there was no one to be seen. He looked up and down the road; he took a few steps in either direction, then told himself that he must have been deceived: it was the ivy, after all, which had caused the delusion. He stepped back into the drawing-room, closing the window after him and attempting to put up the shutters, which had evidently not been touched for years.

"I don't know; I can't describe him, for the face was contorted by the glass. But it was all an absurd mistake of mine, and there wasn't anything there really, but just the ivy."

"I wonder." Rada's voice shook. "This is a lonely place." She glanced at a little gold watch which she wore. "It is nearly ten o'clock," she went on nervously, "and we have been sitting here talking without making up our minds what we are going to do."

"Let me go to the inn," Mostyn said; then he glanced doubtfully at the girl, "though I don't think it's right that you should stay in a lonely house like this all by yourself," he added.

"I've done so many times before." The girl spoke with some defiance; then her eyes turned nervously in the direction of the window, before which Mostyn was vainly struggling to fix the shutters. "But I don't know that I care to to-night," she added, the look of challenge fading from her eyes with one of those rapid changes peculiar to her. "I—I think I'm frightened."

Indeed she looked frightened, more frightened, perhaps, than the occasion demanded, and it was quite useless for Mostyn to try and argue that what he had seen was in reality nothing more than a cluster of ivy.

"You must walk with me to the Willis's cottage," she said. "We know that they have returned, and I shall be quite safe there." Her eyes were timorous, and she trembled as she stood by his side. It was as though she was conscious of some personal danger, of a threat, a menace, to herself. All Mostyn's anger faded away.

And so it was arranged. Rada was restless and nervous, unable to talk on any topic whatever, quite incapable of listening to the explanation which Mostyn had desired to make as to his taking up racing. He would have liked to have told her, too, about Castor, and the offer which had been made to him by Captain Armitage. It seemed only fair to do so, for he had an idea that she might not approve of the captain's decision to sell his horse. Not that Mostyn would allow this to affect him, so he told himself. He had been challenged by Rada to a sort of contest, a challenge repeated that day, and he could use any tactics he chose, as long as they were straight and above-board.

But she gave him no opportunity to speak. She hurried him down the broad drive, a road which was as yet strange to him, and which, like the one that he had already traversed, skirted the lawn and then plunged into the wood, leading direct to the Willis's cottage, which was on the further boundary of the estate.

As they stepped rapidly among the trees, she kept turning her head to the right and the left. "What's that?" she would say, and then, gripping his arm with real alarm, "I'm sure I heard footsteps following us; there's someone hiding in the wood!"

Perhaps Mostyn caught the infection of her nervousness; at any rate, there were moments when he, too, heard, or imagined he heard, the sound of the cracking of dry wood, as if the twigs were being broken under a heavy heel. Once he halted and cried out, "Who's there?" but there was no reply, and he comforted his trembling little companion with the assurance that they were both in safety.

It was he who was self-possessed now, for they stood in a different relation to each other. He was the man, and Rada was just a sensitive, frightened girl, who needed his support and protection. That walk through the wood, small event as it was, was not without its effect upon Mostyn's subsequent relations with Rada.

Whether they were being followed or not, they reached the gardener's cottage in safety, and presently the door was opened to them by Mrs. Willis herself, a homely, comfortable woman with an engaging smile.

Rada quickly explained her wish to stay at the cottage; then she turned to Mostyn, and once more extended her hand. "Thank you for bringing me," she murmured, "and if I said things to make you cross, please forgive me." She was altogether charming at that moment, and once more the touch of her fingers sent a thrill through Mostyn's whole being.

"I don't know." She shrugged her shoulders. "I may go back home, I may not; I always act on impulse." She was smiling now, secure in the company of the gardener's wife. Presently, with a nod and a smile, she disappeared into the cottage, and Mostyn was left to make his way back to the Grange alone.

This time there was no sound in the wood on either side of him, and he was quite certain that his footsteps were not dogged. It must have been imagination, after all.

He thought of Rada as he walked. "What a witch she is," he muttered, "and how she fascinates me! Do I hate her, I wonder, or——" He did not finish the phrase, perhaps because he could not answer the question.

CHAPTER IX.

MOSTYN MAKES A PURCHASE.

At an unreasonably early hour the next morning Mostyn, who had slept peacefully enough in his new quarters, was aroused by the advent of Willis, the gardener. The latter, as on the day before, seemed concerned as to the reception which might be offered him. He rubbed his lantern jaws nervously with a work-hardened forefinger while he informed Mostyn that it was a fine day, and that he had brought up the hot water for shaving.

"Nicely, thank you, sir." Willis drew a breath of relief. No doubt he had expected to be taken severely to task for not having revealed to his master the fact of Rada Armitage's frequent occupation of the Grange, a trespass which he had palpably condoned. "Miss Rada's been very good to him, pore lad, and is goin' to send him some books to read. Reads a treat, does our Jim." Willis spoke Miss Armitage's name as though to give the necessary opening for explanations. And these were immediately demanded by Mostyn, who woke up completely at the mention of the girl's name.

The explanation was as Rada had hinted. Her appearance had not been looked for since she had slept at the Grange the night before, and had never yet spent two consecutive nights there. Willis meant to have taken the earliest opportunity of warning her that the Grange was no longer unoccupied; he had thought it would not be necessary to mention the matter to Mr. Clithero at all. As for the clothes in the cupboard, he had quite forgotten all about them, and he had thought that the roses in the vases had been left from overnight. He was very penitent, as was his wife, and they both hoped the matter would be overlooked.

Mostyn took it all as a joke, much to the gardener's relief. It was a perfect June morning: the sun shone in at the latticed window, bearing the scent of roses and jasmine, and he felt that he had awakened to a new day, a new life. How different this was to his dingy London lodgings! How different, even, to the pretentious gloom of his father's house! Yet everything about him was his own, absolutely his own! The blood coursed quickly through his veins. How could he be angry with Willis?

Mostyn proceeded to put some questions as to Rada. The girl's name came glibly to his lips. A desire had come upon him, born, no doubt, partly of that strange fascination which she exerted and partly of the revelation of his own masculine power which had followed her fear of an indefinite danger, to master the little vixen, as he mentally described her, to curb and break her in as an untrained filly—he was already beginning to use sporting metaphor, even to himself.

But Willis, who appeared very ready to discuss Rada, almost took Mostyn's breath away by his first statement.

"A hangel," repeated the gardener, laying great stress on the aspirate. He proceeded to sing Rada's praises with evident enjoyment, and palpably from a sense of conviction. She was, it appeared, although as poor as a church mouse, the Lady Bountiful to all the cottage folk in the neighbourhood, by whom she was simply adored. She would minister comforts to the sick and needy, often little more than a cheerful word and the sunlight of her presence, but no less welcome for all that. She would take charge of unruly children and attend to the house-keeping in the unavoidable absence of the mother; she would cook little dainties with her own hands; she had an extraordinary capacity for lulling restless babies to sleep. Willis declared stoutly that she had pulled his own little daughter through a fever when the doctor had been despondent, and she was not afraid of infection either, he added proudly.

Here, indeed, was Rada in a new light! What a queer and complex little creature she must be! She had treated him with such shocking rudeness: he had thought her the very contrary to the "hangel" described by Willis, but now it was evident that there were depths in the girl's nature which had not yet been revealed to him.

Having praised Rada to the full, Willis proceeded to abuse her father, and that in no measured terms. He was a shiftless, idle ne'er-do-well, who had lost all pretensions to being considered a gentleman, though up in London, Willis had heard, he did play the "high and mighty." He went about to race meetings when he could, and had sometimes been away for days without leaving provision for his daughter. He kept one or two race-horses at Treves's stables, but had not brought off a win for some time past. When at home he lounged about in his shirt-sleeves, read the sporting papers, and drank himself silly. Rada, very naturally, found her own distractions, and her chief joy was to career about the country upon her black mare, Bess, a creature as wild as herself.

"The captain don't take no stock of his girl," said Willis emphatically, "an' he'll be sorry for it one of these days. I see her about with young Jack Treves more'n enough, an' Jack ain't the right sort for her, not by a long way."

This was a revelation at which Mostyn felt vaguely annoyed. He took an immediate dislike to Jack Treves. Yet why should he worry himself over Rada's flirtations?

Later that morning, while he ate a comfortable breakfast served up by Mrs. Willis, he heard all the gardener's ideas recapitulated by the good woman. She was just as emphatic on the subject of the captain as her husband had been, nor did she swerve from her opinion when she learnt that Mostyn was already acquainted with the Armitages, though the knowledge of this fact reduced Willis to awkward silence and to much rubbing of his jaw.

Rada, it appeared, had left the cottage early that morning, probably, Mrs. Willis opined, to return home, though it was quite possible she might have gone to other friends. Captain Armitage had been on the drink, and was best left alone.

After an hour or so spent in surveying his new domain, and in discussing plans for the future with the Willis's, Mostyn set out to pay a visit at Barton Mill House. Captain Armitage might be in an objectionably bibulous condition, but Mostyn was not afraid of meeting him.

Of course, he told himself that he wanted to discuss the matter of Castor, and that there was really no time for delay; also that Captain Armitage might very well introduce him to the trainer, William Treves; all of which was good and plausible, but it was neither of the horse Castor nor of the trainer that Mostyn thought, as with some difficulty he found his way through the narrow lanes to Mill House: his reflections were concentrated upon Rada.

He found Captain Armitage at home, but to his great disappointment Rada was not at the Mill House, nor had Captain Armitage the smallest idea where she had gone to. He didn't seem to mind. He laughed immoderately when he heard the story of the rencontre at the Grange the night before, and conjectured that Rada must have gone off to stay with some friends of hers, some folk who were accustomed to her erratic ways, and who lived in the neighbourhood of Newmarket. She had turned up at the Mill House, it appeared, quite early in the morning, had selected some books from her little library, had had Bess saddled, and had then ridden off. Captain Armitage had not seen her because he was in bed.

"We don't always hit it off together," he explained jerkily, "and Rada's quite capable of taking care of herself. She is a little devil, but I like her spirit."

Mostyn found it difficult to reconcile the divergent views of his gardener and of Captain Armitage as to Rada's character, but he did not feel called upon to make any comment upon the subject. Personally he was inclined to agree with the captain.

Of course Captain Armitage was very surprised to receive a visit from Mostyn, and he broke off into a volley of oaths when he learned that the latter had profited under the will of Anthony Royce; this, though Mostyn did not give the full particulars as to his strange bequest, seeing no reason why he should do so, but merely mentioned that he had inherited the Grange and a certain sum of money as well.

"He never left me a penny, not a brass farthing," said Captain Armitage solemnly, "yet I was one of his oldest friends, a school-fellow and all the rest of it." This was a lie, and Mostyn knew it to be a lie, but the matter was not worth discussing.

The captain did not present an imposing figure that morning. Mostyn found him lounging in a disreputably worn arm-chair, clad in a soiled but brilliantly-flowered dressing-gown, smoking an old meerschaum pipe, and perusing a sporting paper. His white hair was untidy, his beard unkempt, and his slippers down at the heel. The little sitting-room was dingy and uncared for; Rada had evidently abandoned the hopeless task of tidying it.

"I told you that I was a poor man, Mr. Clithero," Captain Armitage said, waving a deprecating hand round the room, "and now you can see for yourself." Suddenly his dull eyes brightened. "You say Royce has left you some brass," he insinuated. "Have you thought better of that offer I made you the other day?"

"That's what I'm here for," explained Mostyn. "Are you still willing to sell Castor, Captain Armitage?"

"I should say I was, my boy." The old man sprang from his chair with something of the nervous energy that Mostyn remembered he had displayed when on the coach. "Fifteen hundred pounds! Why, it would be the making of me just now." He spoke eagerly. "I know how I could turn it into five, into ten thousand. There's Cardigan, a sure thing for the Liverpool Cup, and Boscowen, a perfect snip at Sandown. Give me fifteen hundred down, and I'll make a fortune. You shall have the tips, too; I'll throw them into the bargain."

So it came about that, without loss of time, Captain Armitage, muttering and mumbling to himself, had shuffled out of the room, leaving Mostyn to gaze out of the uncleaned window over a strip of garden where the grass grew rank, and where weeds choked the few hardy flowers that had endured. Whatever she might be elsewhere, Rada evidently took no pride in her own home; Mostyn told himself that the Mill House, practically little more than a tumble-down cottage, was one of the most dreary spots he had ever visited.

It was not long before the captain reappeared, a little more spruce in his attire and ready to go out. It was, it appeared, not more than half an hour's walk to the training stables, and there was no reason why the bargain should not be clinched at once.

This was all very well, but Mostyn did not feel capable of relying upon his own judgment, nor did he trust Captain Armitage's word. Fifteen hundred pounds was a large sum, and not to be merely thrown away to put cash into the pocket of a drunkard. Would he do well to purchase Castor? Certainly Sir Roderick had admitted the value of the colt. That went for a good deal, but at the bottom of his heart Mostyn knew that his desire to own the horse had something to do with the struggle which he felt, in an indefinite sort of way, had commenced between himself and Rada. "I'm a girl, but I'll back myself to win a Derby before you!" she had cried contemptuously, and the words had galled and stung him. She had great faith in Castor, he knew that; well, it would be a fitting punishment upon her if, by extraordinary luck, he contrived to carry off the race with that particular horse. Mostyn was not spiteful by nature, but he was very human.

As they walked together, passing through the little town and then emerging upon open country, Captain Armitage exerted his powers of persuasion to the full, and he had a plausible tongue. Mostyn had an eye for a horse, so the old man asserted, and he had recognised that fact upon Derby day, or he would not have dreamed of making his offer. He had taken a fancy to Mostyn from the first, especially because the latter had taken his joking in good part. What he was doing was purely out of personal consideration.

"Look here, Clithero,"—he halted in that sudden and abrupt manner peculiar to him, and seized the young man by the arm—"we don't want a lot of palaver over this business. Treves will tell you that the colt's all right, and his word's as good as gospel. Settle on the nail and we'll cry quits at a thousand."

They reached the training stables at last, a low narrow building, lying a little back from the road, a building that formed three sides of a square and was approached by a large gate. Beyond it, and indeed, on either side of the road, was open level country. "A capital pitch for exercising," as Captain Armitage put it, pointing to a row of horses that were following one another in steady line over the down.

Castor had just returned from exercise, and they found him in his stable where he had been groomed by one of the boys. William Treves himself, an important personality, a man who had accumulated a considerable fortune, but who had no pride about him, and who was not ashamed of his humble origin, nor of the fact that he had never acquired a mastery of the king's English, discoursed volubly on the perfections of the colt. Apparently he already knew of Captain Armitage's desire to find a purchaser. The man gave Mostyn the impression of honesty.

As for Castor, little as Mostyn knew of horses he was impressed by the animal's appearance. Stripped of his clothes, he appeared a black colt of such magnificent proportions as to give one the idea that he was a three-year-old, instead of a nursery youngster.

After much talking, in which Mostyn took small part, the bargain was struck. In return for his cheque for a thousand pounds, Mostyn became the proprietor of "as fine an 'oss as the eye of man could look upon;" so William Treves put it.

"'E 'as a terrific turn of speed," the trainer continued, "and there isn't a three-year-old in this country that can 'old 'im at a mile at weight for age. I borrowed a couple of Colonel Turner's youngsters the other day to try 'im with, an' 'e left 'em fairly standing still, and the Colonel's 'ed man went 'ome with a wonderful tale about 'em, although 'e didn't know I'd put an extra five pound on Castor. Take my advice, if you're set on winnin' next year's Derby, don't pull 'im out too often this year. 'E's entered for the Eclipse at Sandown and the National Produce Breeders' Stakes, and you might let 'im run about four times just to give 'im a breather and get 'im used to racecourse crowds. No man livin' can say to-day wot will win the Derby next year, but if 'e trains on and puts on more bone, as I expect 'e will, 'e must stand a grand chance."

"You hear that? He'll win the Derby for you." Armitage smote his young friend heartily on the back as he spoke. "Take my word for it."

Mostyn was content with his purchase, proud of himself. There was but one hitch, and that occurred later in the morning when Armitage and Treves had moved away to inspect a new arrival at the stables, leaving Mostyn standing alone, a little awkwardly, in the great square yard.

A young man approached him, a tall, broad-shouldered youth, good-looking after a coarse and vulgar style. He was aggressively horsey in his attire, and wore a cap set at the back of his head, displaying sleek hair plastered down over his forehead. This, as Mostyn was subsequently to learn, was Jack Treves, the son of the trainer. He had a familiar way of speaking, and made use of slang which jarred at once upon Mostyn's ears.

He began by making a few casual remarks, then he jerked his head in the direction of his father and of Captain Armitage. "I hear you've bought Castor," he said. "A fine horse, sir."

"Well, it may be all right." Jack Treves shook his head doubtfully. "And of course the captain can do what he likes with his own—that is, if it is his own—but I'll bet there'll be ructions, for Castor's entered for the Derby in the name of Miss Armitage, and she's always looked upon him as her particular property." He stooped and picked up a wisp of straw, passing it between his fingers.

Jack Treves nibbled at his straw. "The captain didn't tell you then? I thought not. You see, when he went broke three years ago and appeared in the forfeit list at Weatherby's, she sold all her mother's jewels and paid his debts, and it was then that she registered her colours—

" Her colours!" gasped Mostyn. "Do you mean to tell me that Rada—er, Miss Armitage—has registered racing colours?"

"Lor lummy, yes!" was the reply, spoken with a certain malice. "A bit young, of course, but she's not like other girls. She's not had the best of luck, though, up to date, and that's why she's so keen on seeing the lemon and lavender carried to victory at Epsom next year. She simply dotes on Castor, and considers that the colt is hers in return for that jewellery."

Jack Treves threw his whittled straw away. "I guess," he said, "there'll be the devil of a row."

CHAPTER X.

MOSTYN LEARNS HIS ERROR.

Some seven or eight days after the sale of Castor, Captain Armitage reclined at his ease in the dilapidated arm-chair which he particularly affected. He had grown to like the untidiness and the dirt of his dismal little sitting-room, and he would not have altered his immediate surroundings for anything better, even had he been able to do so.

It was about nine o'clock at night. He had partaken of a meagre supper—he never ate much at the best of times—served up in haphazard fashion by the one wretched serving maid, a poor little slut, who did the whole work of the house. The plates and dishes had not been cleared away but were piled up anyhow on a clothless table by his side, and within easy reach of his hand was a bottle of champagne, three parts empty, with which he had been regaling himself. Close by, too, was another bottle which contained brandy; Captain Armitage was very fond of champagne, only he used to say that he preferred it diluted—but he was accustomed to dilute it with brandy instead of water.

He had returned from London the day before, where he had had what he would himself have called "a good time" upon the proceeds of Mostyn's cheque for a thousand pounds. What had become of the money and how much remained over was a secret only known to Captain Armitage; at any rate, to judge by his complacent smile, the smile of a man who was three parts intoxicated—he was not suffering from any pricking of conscience for having disposed of property which did not actually belong to him. He knew that there would be an unpleasant scene when Rada returned, and there were times when he was a little afraid of his petulant, self-willed daughter; but Captain Armitage was the kind of man who lived in the present, and did not unnecessarily worry himself about what might come to pass in the future. He had had his thousand pounds, and that, after all, was the great point.

He had been obliged to tell a lie or so, but that was a matter of very minor importance. He had explained to Mostyn, who had come to him hot with excitement, and dragging young Treves in his wake, to demand an explanation, that it was by Rada's own wish and permission that he had sold the horse. This was the same tale that he had spun for the benefit of old Treves when the idea of raising money upon his daughter's property had first occurred to him. Mostyn had been silenced, but the ominous giggle which had followed him when he turned away was by no means reassuring. He had felt a strange desire to turn back and punch Jack Treves's head, all the more so since the latter had spoken of Rada in a familiar manner, which he resented; but he had restrained himself for the sake of his dignity.

In the days which followed Mostyn had worried Rada's father not a little. He had wanted the girl's address in order that he might write to her, but this Captain Armitage had professed himself quite unable to supply. The girl came and went as she chose, he didn't worry his head about her. She was all right with her Newmarket friends—but he couldn't even remember their name. Finally Captain Armitage departed for London, and then Mostyn hung day after day about Barton Mill House keeping watch for the girl's return. He felt certain that her father had made no provision for her if she arrived home before he did. Very often Mostyn called himself a fool for his pains, for what, after all, was Rada to him? It was all very well to tell himself that he wanted confirmation of her father's story about Castor from her lips—that was true enough, but he wanted more besides, and knew it. It was the magnetic thrill of his whole being induced by her presence that he desired, and, though he could not account for it, the feeling was there and had to be recognised.

Captain Armitage, alone in his dingy sitting-room, had just drained his glass, crossed his slippered feet, which were stretched out upon a second chair, dropped a stump of his cigar—it had been a fine cigar—one of a highly-priced box that he had brought back with him from London—and closed his heavy lids, preparatory to slumber, when Rada herself swept into the room.

She came in like an avalanche, slamming the door behind her; for a moment she stood contemptuously regarding the semi-intoxicated man, then she unceremoniously aroused him to full consciousness of her presence by jerking away the chair upon which his feet reclined. Captain Armitage sat up grumbling and rubbing his heavy eyes.

The girl stood before him, indignation plainly written on every feature. "Father, you've sold Castor!" she cried. "I met Jack Treves not half an hour ago, and he told me. It's the truth, I suppose?"

The man gazed at her vacantly. He had not expected to see his daughter that night, and he was not prepared with any explanation. Weakly he tried to turn the tables. "Where have you been?" he asked, plaintively, "leaving your poor old father all alone like this——" She deigned no reply. He knew where she had been.

"It's the truth, I suppose?" she repeated. "I want to hear it from your own lips."

"Is it true?" Rada's lips were compressed together; she was drawing long deep breaths.

He went on mumbling. "We must live. I had debts. They had to be paid somehow. A thousand pounds——"

"So it is true. You've sold Castor for a thousand pounds! You pretended that you were doing it with my permission. Oh father! oh father!"

Her mood changed with its usual lightning velocity. Her eyes were brimming over with tears. Her father was the one man with whom she always sought to hold her temper in sway. It was the instinct of a lifetime. Pitiful, degrading object as he was, long ago as she had given up all hope of effecting any reformation in him, of making him, at least, clean, and manly, and wholesome, he was yet her father, and she had lived with him ever since the death of her mother when she was little more than a child. His deterioration had been gradual; she had fought and struggled against it. She had taken upon herself responsibilities unsuited to a girl of her age, but all her efforts had been in vain. She despised the degraded old man, and that because she saw him with no prejudiced eyes, she saw him for what he was, but at the same time—he was her father.

Regardless of his protests she began to clear away the bottles from the table; she did so by force of habit, though she knew quite well that as soon as her back was turned he would be after them again; there had been times, however, when he had not allowed her to exercise even this authority, when he had stormed in violent fashion, when he had even struck her. On this occasion, however, he ventured nothing more than a feeble protest, lolling back in his chair, smiling foolishly.

"A thousand pounds, my dear, think of it!" he muttered with a drunken chuckle, "think of it! Needs must when the devil drives, you know, and he's been driving at me, goading at me—oh, yes! an ugly devil, and a lot of little imps besides. They wanted gold, and they've got it. But we're going to make our fortunes," he went on, in maddening sing-song monotone, "for there's enough left to back our luck at Sandown and Ascot. That's what I had in mind, my dear. A quick fortune—cash in hand in a week or so—not to wait a whole year for the Derby, and then perhaps come down. There's Pollux, remember—old Rory's Pollux." His head lolled over to one side, and he spoke sleepily. "Besides, young Clithero will give you the colt back when he knows the truth—it's ten to one on that. It'll be all right for you, my dear, and you needn't worry about me."

"Listen to me, father," said Rada, biting her lip to restrain an outburst of anger and disgust at the meanness, the vileness of the whole thing. Her father had calculated upon Mostyn Clithero giving her back her horse when he found out how he had been defrauded. He did not mind what might be thought of himself—he had had his thousand pounds. She dashed her tears away, and stood up by the cupboard before which she had been stooping, attempting to hide the bottles away. "Listen to me," she went on, "try to understand me if you can. Castor was my horse. You gave him to me when he was foaled. Now he has a big chance for the Derby. He was entered in my name. I was his registered proprietor—he was to be ridden in my colours. All my dreams were of Castor; I would sit building castles in the air by the hour together. It brought colour into my life and made me glad to live. You don't know what it has been to me; you cannot understand how I delighted in watching Castor at his gallops, whispering to myself, 'The horse is mine—mine—and in two years' time—in eighteen months' time—in fifteen months' time—I shall watch my horse winning the big race!'—that's how I used to go on; I counted the months, the days, even the hours. All my pride was centred in Castor; and you have sold him—sold him for a thousand pounds!"

Her voice quivered and shook. She was speaking with an intensity of feeling unusual to her. "I watched the little colt as he grew up," she went on, and her tone was low and plaintive now. "I fed him with my own hand, just as I feed Bess, and he got to know and to love me. I gloried over him as I saw him growing handsomer and stronger—growing into what I had expected he would. I knew he would win the Derby for me, every instinct I have told me so. And do you know, father"—she drew a little closer to the old man's chair, but she was not looking at him, she was absorbed in the train of her own thoughts—"it was not only pride that possessed me; Castor was going to make our fortune for us—I felt that, too—and the money would be mine, mine to do with as I wished. I used to sit and dream of the way I should spend that money. We were going to leave this ugly cottage, and have everything nice and pretty about us; we were going to start a new life altogether." Poor Rada! It was such a vain, such a hopeless dream! for, as far as her father was concerned at least, any new life was out of the question.

She caught her breath, and went on speaking, more to herself than to him, quite heedless of the fact that she received no answer. "Oh! it would have been my money—mine, just as Castor was my horse. If you knew, if you could guess, how I have built upon this! But now there is to be no more dreaming for me: the gold has been fairy gold, it has slipped through my fingers like so many dead leaves. You have taken Castor from me—you have sold him for a thousand pounds! And now what is to be done?"

She choked down her sobs, clenched her little fists with characteristic energy, vaguely conscious of the futility of her emotional outburst, and her natural energy of disposition once more coming to the fore, she took a quick step towards her father. "What is to be done?" she repeated.

There was no reply, save for a dull, unintelligent grunt. Captain Armitage's head was lolling over the side of his chair, his eyes were closed, his mouth open. He was asleep—he had been asleep all the while.

Rada's first impulse was to take him by the shoulders and to shake him violently, for, small as she was, she knew that she possessed more strength than he. Her nerves were tingling with suppressed passion, her cheeks were suffused with colour. She touched him on the shoulder; he stirred and muttered, then his hand went out instinctively towards the table as though in search of his glass.

Rada drew back, nauseated. She knew that it was hopeless to protest with such a man as her father—she must leave him to himself. It was for her alone to act.

A few moments later, having loosened his collar and settled him as comfortably as she could in his chair, a horrible task to which she was no stranger, she stole quietly out of the room.

That same evening, Pierce Trelawny, who had been detained by his father at Randor Park, arrived to stay the night with Mostyn at Partinborough Grange. It was too late to visit the paddocks that night, and, unfortunately, Pierce had to hurry on to London by an early train the next day; but it was arranged that Willis should take charge of his bag, so that a hurried inspection of Mostyn's purchase might be made the first thing in the morning, after which Pierce could walk or drive to the station.

The two young men had discussed the situation as they sat together in the drawing-room of the Grange after dinner. Pierce had learnt the full facts by letter, and, acting upon Mostyn's instructions, he had kept the secret to himself. He agreed with Mostyn that this was the wisest plan, though he asked, and obtained, permission to reveal everything to his uncle, Sir Roderick, who, he opined, might be of considerable assistance—if he chose—to Mostyn in a difficult task.

For himself, he was prepared to lend all the help in his power, and place his experience—such as it was—quite at Mostyn's disposition. It would distract his thoughts from Cicely, and from the hardship of his own year's probation. "The governor hasn't yielded an inch," he explained mournfully. "And, of course, I've written everything to Cicely. I can't make the old man out. He threatens me with all sorts of horrible consequences if I disobey him, and all the time there's a sort of twinkle in his eye, as if he found it amusing to bully me. But about yourself? You've got to buck up, you know. There's no time to be lost."

Mostyn acquiesced. "I've made a start by purchasing Castor," he said. "That has cost me a thousand pounds."

"Cheap, too, if the horse is all you tell me," commented the other. "Well, you may run Castor for the Guineas and for the Derby, but you mustn't neglect your other chances. What about the Royal Hunt Cup? That is the race which falls first upon your list, I believe."

Mostyn quite agreed that the Royal Hunt Cup must not be overlooked, although there only remained a fortnight or three weeks in which to purchase a horse, already entered, for this race. "I suppose I ought to have set about it before," he said rather limply, "but the fact is, you see, I've been busy getting this house in order, and——" he broke off suddenly. He did not like to tell Pierce the actual reason for which, having purchased Castor, he had remained on at Partinborough. The fact was that he had been on the look-out every day for Rada, that he could not tear himself away.

Suddenly he blurted out the truth. "The girl fascinates me," he said, in conclusion. "I can't understand how, or why. I don't quite know if I hate or love her, but I'm quite sure that I want to master her, to punish her somehow for having mocked me. She has challenged me twice, and I want to be even with her. That's how we stand." He blushed as he spoke, staring viciously at the toe of his shoe.

Pierce gave a low whistle. "You're in love, Mostyn," he said, "and you've taken the complaint rather badly and in a particularly dangerous style. I shall have to get you out of this, and as quickly as possible: you may think of Rada as much as you like next year, or when you've won your title to the legacy, but till then you must be on probation, old chap, just as I am."

Mostyn agreed that his friend was right, and so it was decided between them that he should join Pierce in London in two or three days' time, and that they should devote their energies to finding suitable horses to run for the Hunt Cup as well as the Goodwood Cup a little later on. As a necessary preliminary step, Pierce had already entered Mostyn for the National Sporting Club and also for the Albert and the Victoria, and the sooner he put in an appearance there, to make the acquaintance of the leading sporting men, the better.

The two friends reached the paddocks very early the next morning, and Pierce looked Castor over before the colt was led out of his stable to exercise. He scrutinised the animal with the eye of a man of experience, and commented upon this and that point in a manner which filled Mostyn with envy.

"Plenty of mettle and spirit," he said, dodging quickly out of the way, as Castor, conscious no doubt of a strange hand upon his hock, pranced to and fro in his stall. "In fine condition, too. I can see nothing to carp at; if half of old William Treves's tales are true, I should say you've got a good thing, Mostyn, and cheap at the price you paid."

Pierce's good opinion was in no way altered when he had seen the horse at exercise. He stood with his friend by the stable wall facing the great bare track of country, over which Treves's horses followed each other in straight, unbroken line. William Treves himself was absent that day at Newmarket, but presently the two young men were joined by his son Jack, who strolled leisurely up, and began to talk in his usual familiar fashion.

Mostyn had seen a good deal of Jack Treves during the past week, and nearer acquaintance had not improved his liking. He was quite sure that the trainer's son had conceived a jealousy of him, imagining, no doubt, that he and Rada were old friends. It was very evident by the way he spoke of her that Jack considered he had a claim upon Rada's affections, a claim which Mostyn, jealous in his turn, resented.

Having seen Castor put through his paces, Pierce was loud in his praise of Mostyn's purchase, repeating all he had said in the stable, and even appealing to Jack Treves to confirm his opinion. The latter stood lounging against a post, smoking a cigarette, his thick lips parted in an irritating smile. Mostyn could not help thinking that there was something at the back of his brain to which he did not wish to give expression. He had laughed outright once or twice without apparent cause, and there was a palpable sneer on his lips as he turned to Mostyn and informed him that Miss Armitage had returned the day before, and would no doubt put in an appearance that morning.

Jack had divined correctly. It was as Castor, bestridden by a stable lad, was drawn up almost opposite to them, and while the attention of all three was bestowed upon the horse, that Mostyn heard a voice close behind him, calling him by name, and turned to find himself face to face with Rada. She had ridden up upon Bess, had dismounted, leaving the mare to wander at will, and had approached unnoticed.

Mostyn felt that peculiar thrill pass through him which was always called forth by her presence. As on a former occasion her Christian name had nearly escaped his lips, but this time he was able to check himself. There was a glitter in the girl's eyes, and her lips were drawn together in a manner which appeared to him rather ominous. It was the first time he had seen her dressed in a riding habit, and he thought how well it became her; at the same time he was glad that she had not abandoned her straw hat, the red poppies of which toned in so well with the dark tresses beneath them. She was looking deliriously pretty, but Mostyn wondered in what mood she would display herself. He had been forced to accept Captain Armitage's assurances about Castor, but, all the same, he had not been wholly satisfied. He remembered her challenge as to winning a Derby, "with some chance of success, too," she had said. Could she have been thinking of Castor?

But of course the colt was his by every right. He turned, smiling brightly, and extended his hand to the girl. She responded, but her fingers lay cold and passive in his grasp. "We've been watching Castor at exercise, Miss Armitage," he said with enthusiasm. "He's a beauty, and I can't tell you how grateful I am to you for letting me have him. I've brought my friend Mr. Trelawny to see him: you know Mr. Trelawny, I think."

Pierce, with every intention of saying the right thing, piled fuel to the fire as he, in his turn, shook hands with Rada. "I was awfully surprised," he said, "to learn that Mostyn had been lucky enough to buy such a horse as Castor. I was saying only just now, that if one could judge of a Derby winner from a two-year-old——"

The frown on Rada's forehead deepened, her lips puckered up, and her uncontrollable tongue had its way. "I should hate Castor to win the Derby for Mr. Clithero or for anyone else. Castor is my horse, and he was sold without my consent." She turned passionately upon Mostyn, her black eyes shining. "It was mean and cowardly of you!" she said. "You did it because of what I said to you the other day. You did it to spite me! Can't you fight fair? Aren't there enough horses in the world for you to buy, without robbing me of the one ambition, the one hope of my life?"

Jack Treves chuckled. The scene had begun just as he had anticipated. But Rada turned and fixed her eyes indignantly upon him, and he took the hint and moved away.

Mostyn glanced helplessly at his friend. Pierce awkwardly pulled out his watch. "It's time I was off," he said hurriedly. "It will take me a few minutes to get to the station, and really there's only just time. We shall meet on Friday as arranged."

He took hasty leave of his friend and of Rada. "Jove, how her eyes glistened!" he muttered to himself as he hurried away. "Can Mostyn really have fallen in love with the girl? Why, she's—she's a regular little spit-fire; what's more, she'll have the horse back, if I'm not mistaken." He gave one of his characteristic whistles. "Poor Mostyn!" he added sympathetically.

CHAPTER XI.

MOSTYN MAKES REPARATION.

"Take the horse away!" commanded Rada, petulantly, as soon as Pierce had disappeared. The stable-lad mounted upon Castor had been staring at the little group, undecided if he was still wanted, or if the inspection of the horse was concluded.

"Take him away!" she repeated, flashing angry eyes upon the boy. "I can't bear to look at him now," she added under her breath.

The lad touched the reins and Castor trotted quickly away. Mostyn and Rada were left in the comparative solitude of the great open space, though every now and again the sound of shouting came to them from the distance, and through the mist of the morning they could discern the shadowy forms of men and horses.

Rada sank down upon a bench, clasping her little hands about her knees; Mostyn stood by her side, waiting till she should have composed herself. He anticipated a painful scene: his worst fears had been realised, and even from the few words she had spoken, he understood what Rada must think of him. Of course, he was really guiltless of offence; he had been deceived, swindled, but even though Rada recognised this, she would still think that, actuated by his desire to checkmate her, he had taken the opportunity of gaining an unfair advantage.

He was sorry for Rada, and he was sorry for himself as well, for he saw at once where lay his duty. He knew even now what he would have to do. There must be no imputation of unfairness against him: he was bound, by the force of circumstances, to a contest with the girl, but he would fight in the open. She had issued the challenge with all the advantage on her side, but he felt no animosity against her for this: she had spoken just as she, a wayward, impulsive girl, might have been expected to speak. His only trouble was that she should have grounds for thinking ill of him.

He no longer felt bashful and shy in her presence. So much, at least, was in his favour. He seemed to know and understand her better for having seen the squalor and wretchedness of her home, for having realised the surroundings in which she lived. Then the Willis's had spoken so freely of her, almost every day, encouraged, of course, by Mostyn; he had felt at last that he had known the girl for years, and that her vagaries were no new thing to him.

Perhaps he knew her better than she knew herself; so Mostyn, who had had no experience of women, told himself in his conceit. It was all very well for her to pretend to be hard and wayward and selfish: he knew better. He knew what reason the villagers had for loving her; why, only yesterday old Mrs. Oldham at the post office had told him how Rada had given up days and days to nurse a little child who was ill with bronchitis, and who might have died of it had it not been for Rada's care of her. "If I could make her see herself and show herself to me in her true character," Mostyn muttered, "then we might be—well, friends, as well as rivals. If I could!"

Unfortunately, as well as having no knowledge of women, Mostyn was not possessed of much tact. And so, as usual, he blundered egregiously when he attempted to put his ideas into practice.

"I think, Mr. Clithero," Rada began, "that you have taken a very mean way of revenging yourself upon me. I thought you would have had more manly feelings——"

He knew what she meant, but he was in such a hurry to defend himself that he failed to find the words he wanted.

"I was rude to you the other night," Rada went on relentlessly. "I was rude to you at the Derby. I couldn't help myself. I always say just what comes into my head."

Mostyn was quite aware of this, but he did not mean to say so; he wanted to be very gentle with Rada, quite unconscious that gentleness was the one thing which in her present temper she would resent. "I don't think you meant to hurt," he said softly.

"I did," she retorted viciously. "You made such an idiot of yourself, nobody could have helped being rude and laughing at you. And yet it's you—a man who hasn't the smallest idea of racing, a man who'd buy a donkey and enter it for the Derby if he acted upon his own intelligence—it's you who, because you know I laid store by my horse, and because you've got some insane idea in your head of besting me on the racecourse—it's you who've played me this trick!" She spoke violently without the smallest attempt to weigh her words. "You knew Castor was mine," she went on. "You must have guessed it from what I said the other night. You knew, too, that my father is not to be depended upon. And if you had not known all that, Jack Treves told you the truth immediately after you had made the purchase; there was plenty of time to repair the error, if you had not been spiteful against me."

Mostyn flushed, stung by the injustice, but he was quite determined that he would not lose his temper. "You misjudge me," he said, "you misjudge me utterly. The whole thing has been a mistake, and if I have been to blame in any way I am quite willing to repair the error." He had no wish to enter into any long explanation, or to cast the blame where he knew it was merited, upon Rada's father. He realised, and very probably correctly, that this would only appear a further meanness in the girl's eyes. "The position is very simple," he went on, "and there is no need for you to scold me, Miss Armitage; please consider that Castor is yours."

It was Rada's turn to flush, for this was just what her father had hinted at, what he had no doubt relied upon. To accept Castor as a gift at Mostyn's hands was the very last thing which, in her present mood, she was prepared to do.

She drew herself up stiffly. "You are very kind," she said, "but do you think that we are beggars, my father and I, that you dare to make such a suggestion? What are you to me that I should accept a present from you?"

"Since there has been a mistake," Mostyn said, vainly striving to reconcile the girl's inconsistency in his mind, "I want to repair it the best way I can."

"Quite forgetting that there is such a thing as pride," Rada interrupted, "and that I have my fair share of it. No, Mr. Clithero, you have bought Castor, and Castor is yours, unless I am able to purchase him back. That is what I wish to see you about. I love my horse," she went on, sucking in her lips as though she found it difficult to make her explanation, "and there are many reasons why Castor should be particularly dear to me. So, since, as you say, the whole thing has been a mistake, you will let me buy Castor back. My father is bound to let me have the money," she added mendaciously, "when he knows how badly I want my horse."

Mostyn knew that this was not true, that Captain Armitage was the last man in the world to disgorge any money that he had become possessed of by any means whatsoever. He knew, too, that there were certainly no funds upon which Rada could draw, and he wondered vaguely how she proposed to raise a thousand pounds to repay him.

"I'd far sooner give you the horse," he said, "for, after all, I should be returning you your own. I want to have a shot for the next Derby, Miss Armitage," he went on, "and it isn't only because I have a sort of a bet with you. That's a motive with me, certainly, but it isn't all. However, I can find another horse, and really the money is of no importance to me. We are rivals, you and I, both eager to win, but both wanting to play the game fairly. You shall have Castor and I will look out for myself; is that a bargain?"

"Not unless I can pay you the thousand pounds," she retorted. "But if I can succeed in doing that, and without undue delay, Castor shall be mine again, and our rivalry can begin as soon as ever you like." She laughed derisively. "If it does, I don't think there'll be much chance for you, Mr. Clithero."

He shrugged his shoulders, seeing no use in argument. He did not want to accept Rada's thousand pounds, but he had sense to see that it was quite useless, as matters stood, to suggest any other solution of the difficulty.

"It shall be just as you please, Miss Armitage," he said with an effort to appear cheerful. "I'm going to do my best to win the Derby, but it won't be with Castor."

She rose from the bench upon which she had been sitting and once more extended her cold hand. "Thank you," she said. "There's nothing more to be settled for the present between us. You shall have your money and I my horse. That's decided."

Mostyn held her hand in his for a moment, despite her effort to withdraw it. He looked straight into her eyes. "I wonder," he said, "why we always meet to quarrel? I should like to be on better terms with you, Miss Armitage. We can be rivals and yet good friends, can't we? I am sorry that this misunderstanding should have happened, but really I'm not to blame."

He released the girl's hand, which fell to her side. Rada tapped the ground petulantly with her foot. Truth to tell, she was a little ashamed of herself. Mostyn may not have been so much to blame, after all; her father had a plausible tongue. But she was in a mood when to admit herself in the wrong would have been an impossibility for her. Had Mostyn been wise he would have left her alone; reflection and repentance would have come in due course. As it was, she hated him at that moment even for his offer to return Castor to her. How dared he even think that she would consent to such a thing?

She had no dislike for Mostyn really. In her heart she admired his clean, well-cut features, his stalwart, manly frame. More than once she had mentally compared him with other men of her acquaintance, especially with Jack Treves, and the comparison had been all in Mostyn's favour. Perhaps it was because she did not understand her own feelings, because she was too contradictory to yield to them, that she had always instinctively adopted an aggressive attitude when with Mostyn. In a sense it was against herself that she was fighting. How could she, who had been brought up almost from babyhood to the love of sport, have any esteem for such a greenhorn as this otherwise good-looking and good-tempered boy? It was that feeling that had impelled her to make fun of him, and which had caused her to resent bitterly what she had regarded as an attempt on his part to get the better of her.

A peculiar pugnacity had been aroused within her; perhaps the wild and wayward little creature was moved, without knowing it, by the natural strife between sex and sex. She felt instinctively the desire of the man to subdue and win her, and all her senses were accordingly in revolt.

"I suppose you think I'm a little minx, a sort of wild cat," she said, not looking at him but at the ground. "It's been my fault that we've quarrelled, and now you are reproaching me for it."

"You're hard to understand, Ra—Miss Armitage," Mostyn said; "there's no doubt whatever about that, but I don't think you are a bit the minx you are inclined to make yourself out to be." He was staring at her, admiring her neat figure with its delicate curves, her nicely poised head, and her black curls that, in the sunlight, had a tint of glowing blue in them; he could not see her eyes, but he imagined that they must glint with the same blue. He wanted her to look up, but she still stared at the little well-shod foot with which she was still tapping the ground.

"Yes I am, I'm bad-tempered; I say cruel things; I hurt people! But why shouldn't I?" she added defiantly, "when there's no one I care for and no one who cares for me? I've been brought up like that. I am hard by nature, and I don't see why I should pretend to be any other than I am."

Mostyn laughed a little. "I know better," he said. "You've got a heart of gold, Miss Armitage, though out of sheer perversity you don't like people to know it. But I've found you out, you see, though we've only known each other such a little while and quarrelled every time we've met."

"What do you mean?" she cried. She was looking up now, and her eyes had the blue glint in them, just as he had expected. They flashed upon him, but he could not tell if it were with anger or surprise.

"You say that nobody loves you, and you love nobody. If so, why are you always doing little acts of kindness to people? Why do all the villagers adore you?"

She stamped her foot. "I've got to do something," she cried. "I must occupy myself somehow. But that isn't the real me, the real Rada Armitage; you are quite mistaken if you think so. I'm as you've seen me, as I appear up in London—hard, cruel, a flirt, everything that's bad. Ask my father; he always calls me a little devil; I've been called a little devil ever since I can remember."

"I know others who call you an angel, with an aspirate tacked on," Mostyn laughed. He was rather enjoying himself; it was amusing telling the girl her good qualities and hearing them so violently contradicted. It was Rada's nature to contradict, that was very evident, but it was quite delicious to make her protest that she was all that was bad when the truth was so palpably otherwise.

"What is one to believe, what you say yourself or what others say of you? I know what I think," he went on, more than half-conscious that he was goading the girl into a fresh passion. But how could she resent it when he was really praising her? "The real Rada Armitage is kind-hearted and good——"

"No she isn't, she's—oh, I don't know what you are making me say! You are perfectly horrid! What's the good of telling a girl she's an angel when she feels quite the reverse? That's just like a man." Rada turned away, angrily biting her lip. "I don't want to hear any more of my virtues, thank you, Mr. Clithero; I'd like you better if you told me I was a beast. And now please excuse me, for I'm going to the stables to see Jack Treves. He doesn't tell me I'm an angel," she added viciously.

Mostyn made no reply; and after waiting a moment as though she expected him to speak, Rada turned on her heel and went in search of her mare, which was quietly grazing close at hand.

CHAPTER XII.

MOSTYN TELLS HIS LOVE.

"A misunderstanding! Yes, of course, absolutely a misunderstanding." Captain Armitage waved his arm airily, as he expressed this opinion. "I'm sorry that it should have happened, but Rada quite gave me to believe——"

"Yes, of course. I understand you would not have sold Castor to me unless you had concluded that the sale had your daughter's approval." Mostyn spoke quite seriously, though he knew well enough that the old man's excuses were not genuine; but he had no desire to hurl reproaches at the wretched drunkard, who, after all, was Rada's father. Mostyn told himself, with something of that good humour under adverse circumstances which was typical of him, that he ought to have known better at the beginning; that he ought to have judged his man, and that it was his own fault he had been taken in.

The loss of a thousand pounds seemed of little importance to him just then, for he had resources behind him which, to his inexperience, seemed inexhaustible. He was at heart an optimist, and did not doubt, in spite of this reverse, that he would successfully carry out the terms of Anthony Royce's will. Taken altogether, there were a dozen races open to him, and surely, with so much money at his disposition, he would be able to find a winner for one of them.

So it was that in the afternoon of that day, Mostyn had come to Captain Armitage's house, had explained that there had evidently been a mistake over the sale of Castor, and announced his desire to return the horse to Rada, its legitimate proprietor. Since Rada had refused to accept the horse, Mostyn had seen this as the only possible way open to him. He did not for a minute believe that the girl would be able to raise the thousand pounds, and he thought that when her temper subsided and she understood what had been done she would accept the situation without further protest. Mostyn rather plumed himself upon his diplomacy.

Since the sun was shining brightly, Captain Armitage was lolling in a deck-chair which he had placed very near the centre of the wretched little lawn of Barton Mill House, and he had been indulging in a nap when Mostyn had interrupted him. He had not been in the best of humours at first, evidently preparing to meet an attack, anticipating a demand for explanations; but Mostyn had quickly undeceived him, and stated clearly what he intended to do, after which, as well he might, Captain Armitage had subsided into smiles and amiability.

"You want me to take Castor back?" he said. "Very well, very well." There was certainly no pride about Captain Armitage. "A mistake has been made "—he rubbed his bony hands together—"and nobody is to blame; neither you nor Rada, nor I—certainly not I—and you want to put matters straight."

"You are certainly the one who has profited by the mistake," Mostyn could not help saying.

"Ah, my dear young friend"—Armitage puffed at his cigar, another extracted from the expensive box which he had brought back from London, and which had been purchased with Mostyn's money—"somebody must usually profit, and somebody lose by every mistake. In this case it's you who lose, and of course I'm sorry for you. I'd willingly stand my share of the loss; I'd refund—yes, I'd willingly refund you five hundred pounds—only, unfortunately, the money is already involved—that is, I've made the bets I spoke to you about. But look here"—he started up from his chair in the jerky manner peculiar to him—"you shall have the tips, and that's just like putting money into your pocket. You won't regret having had a deal with Captain Armitage. You back Cardigan for the Royal Hunt Cup; put your bottom dollar on it——"

"Don't bet!" Armitage sank back into his chair again. "Well, I'm blessed! Here's a young man who professes to be going in for racing, and who says he doesn't bet! Never heard of such a thing, never!" Armitage stared at Mostyn as though he were looking upon some new and remarkable species of animal.

"I suppose you don't understand racing for the mere sake of sport," Mostyn said. "Anyway, that's how it appeals to me, and though I've lost Castor I propose to look out for another horse for next year's Derby. Your daughter and I are going to be rivals, Captain Armitage."

The captain was on the alert again. "Another horse—next year's Derby," he mused. "Well, let me see; perhaps I can be of use to you after all." He was evidently turning over in his mind the means of effecting another deal, probably as advantageous to himself as the last.

But Mostyn wanted no further business dealings with Captain Armitage. "Thank you," he said, "but I need no assistance in this matter. But now as to Castor," he went on; "I want it to be clearly understood—and you must write me a letter to this effect, Captain Armitage—that the horse is to be, and to remain, your daughter's property: Castor is to run in the Derby in her name, and of course, should he win, the money that accrues is to be her property absolutely. Upon that understanding, and that understanding only, I give up possession."

"Surely, surely. It shall be just as you wish. I always meant Rada to have Castor, and I don't grudge her the money a bit," said Armitage magnanimously. "I'll write you the letter—yes, certainly. And now you'll have a drink, won't you, since this matter has been so amicably settled? And perhaps I can find you one of these cigars; I can recommend them." To give away a cigar was an extravagance of which Captain Armitage was rarely guilty, but one, upon this occasion, he felt he could afford.

Mostyn, however, refused both the drink and the cigar. He took his leave of Captain Armitage, feeling after this, his second dealing with that gentleman, that Rada was more than ever to be excused for her waywardness and inconsistency.

"With such a father," he muttered to himself, as he swung along the leafy lanes, "brought up by him in the atmosphere of that wretched cottage, with no other example before her—good heavens! It's a wonder she's turned out as well as she has. And beautiful, too—for she is a beauty, there's no denying that; she must inherit her looks from her mother. What a pity—what a terrible pity for the girl—that her mother died when she was little more than a baby. It's just that that she has missed out of her life, the influence of a woman, the tender hand of a mother."

So Mostyn mused. The only thing that troubled him really was what Pierce would say about his quixotic conduct. Pierce did not seem as sanguine as Mostyn upon the subject of the purchase of a colt suitable to run in the Derby; Pierce, too, had expressed decided approval of Castor, and would probably call his friend a fool for having given him up. And Mostyn hated above all things appearing a fool, either in his own eyes or those of anyone else; which perhaps accounted for the great desire that was in him to set himself right with Rada.

Upon his way home, taking a short cut, he had to pass by a footway that led through some meadows and then skirted a little wood, a path that was very popular with the young people of the neighbourhood, and which had been given the name of "Lovers' Walk." So it happened that he was not at all astonished when, upon a bench conveniently placed in the shadow of a large elm, a bench set back a little from the footpath and partially concealed by the leafy branches of the tree, he found a man and a girl seated in the usual close proximity to each other. It was not, however, till he came abreast with them that he recognised Jack Treves and Rada.

The girl, hearing footsteps, had started to her feet. Jack remained seated, his long legs stretched out, and his lips curved derisively as Mostyn approached. Rada had flushed red and she took a step forward, as though she would have spoken to Mostyn; then she changed her mind and merely recognised his presence by a little perfunctory nod of her head. As for Mostyn himself, after a quick glance at Jack, he altogether ignored that individual. He raised his hat to Rada and passed on his way.

He walked on without turning his head, unconscious of the scowl that followed him and the muttered oath. But all the beauty had gone out of the day for him, all the colour from the trees and hedges. He saw a stretch of ugly, undulating, monotonous country, devoid of charm. It depressed him.

"What possesses her to care for a fellow like that?" he muttered under his breath. "A low-down cad, and one whom it isn't safe for her to be about with? She must know his reputation, and how everyone's talking about him and Daisy Simpson even now. Why, I saw him with Daisy only this morning outside the stables! I saw him kiss her." Mostyn waved his stick and viciously decapitated an unoffending dandelion as he spoke.

It was quite true that Jack Treves enjoyed, literally enjoyed, for he was proud of it, a bad reputation in Partinborough. Those gossips, the Willis's, were responsible for Mostyn's knowledge. Mrs. Willis hated to see her dearly beloved Rada in Jack's company, and spoke her mind fluently on the subject. "Let him stick to his Daisy Simpson," she said. "Daisy's good enough for the likes of him. They're birds of a feather. But Miss Rada is a lady, though her father's an old drunkard, and there's the width of the world between her and that scapegrace Jack."

Daisy Simpson, as Mostyn soon found out, was the daughter of a well-to-do farmer in the neighbourhood. She was, according to Mrs. Willis, a "fast lot," notorious for her flirtations.

Mostyn would not have enjoyed the conversation between Rada and Jack that followed his passing, had he overheard it. Yet, in a way, his mind might have been set at rest as to the existing relationship between the pair, and he would certainly have appreciated Rada's immediate championship of his name, when Jack applied an insulting epithet to it.

"None of that, please, Jack," said the girl firmly, lifting a small but authoritative hand. "I may laugh at Mr. Clithero, if I choose, to his face, but I won't hear him abused behind his back. That's not cricket. Remember that he offered to give me back Castor for nothing, though he's got some wild sort of notion in his head that he must win a Derby before I do. He was tricked into buying Castor—there's no blinking at that fact—and he has taken his disappointment like a man."

"Look here," said Jack, in a voice that would have been harsh had he been speaking to anyone but Rada, "I want to know how I stand. If I help you as you want me to——"

"Well, as I have promised. What I mean is, I can't have any sentimental foolery between you and any other chap, see? You say you won't marry me till this time next year in any case——"

"Can I think of marrying," asked Rada, indignantly, "or give any promise even, when all my thoughts are fixed on Castor and the Derby? You've just got to wait, Jack."

"All right," he grumbled, "though I don't think you're treating me fair. But this little service I'm doin' you will make a bit of a bond between us, Rada. I take it for as good as an engagement; you understand that, don't you?"

"Yes, yes," said the girl petulantly, and with her usual thoughtlessness. "But don't worry me now, Jack. I'm all impatience to get this business settled. Let's go back to the stables."

The man did not move. He was digging a hole in the soft earth with his heel. "No hurry," he said. "I brought you out here to talk this matter over. I know I'm all right up to date. Your father's quite ready that I should marry you; he knows I've got the brass. It's only you I'm not sure about since this fellow Clithero came along. You may have seen a lot of him in London, for all I can tell. What were you doin' round at the Grange the other night?"

"So it was you, was it?" exclaimed Rada. "I thought so. You frightened me. Why were you hanging about the house? Was it because you thought I should be alone?" She spoke out fearlessly, and from the man's manner she knew she had divined the truth.

"I was jealous," he muttered. It was a palpable lie, since he could not have known of Mostyn's arrival.

Rada let it pass. She was too eagerly bent upon attaining her own desire to weigh consequences.

"It's getting late," she said impatiently. "We must be going, Jack." She tugged at his sleeve, seeking vainly to induce him to rise.

"Tell me first," he said, "that this fellow Clithero is nothing to you. I'm not afraid of anything else. Whether Castor wins the Derby or not you'll be engaged to me this time next year. But let me hear you say what I want."

"Mr. Clithero is nothing to me, nothing at all," exclaimed Rada, biting her lip. "I only met him once before that evening at the Grange, and then I was rude to him. I was rude to him again that night. I expect he hates me, and will hate me all the more because of Castor." She spoke vehemently, just as the words came to her lips.

"Good!" Jack rose languidly and slowly from the bench. "Then we'll be gettin' back and I'll do as you ask me." He passed his arm under hers with an air of proprietorship; then, as they stood under the shadow of the trees, stooped to kiss her.

She started away from him. "No, not that, Jack," she cried. "Don't treat me like another Daisy Simpson. I'm not that sort. We're not engaged yet, whatever we may be next year. If you want me you've got to wait, and that's irrevocable."

"All right," grumbled the man. "But you're a maddenin', aggravatin' little vixen, Rada, and the Lord knows why I should trouble myself so much about you. You've got a hold on me somehow, and I expect you'll keep it."

And, so, walking now staidly by her side, he conducted her back to his father's house, which adjoined the stables.

About nine o'clock that night Mostyn sat in the drawing-room of the Grange, studying a book on breeding, "Hodgson's Breeding Tables." He was quite alone in the house. After a time, however, his thoughts wandered, and, naturally, they turned to Rada.

As he thought of the girl there came a tap upon the open window, and looking up, he saw her there, a small elf-like figure standing in the moonshine.

He started up from his chair, dropping the book upon the floor, as she entered the room. There was a smile upon her lips, a smile that was triumphant but not altogether happy, and he thought that there were dark borders to her eyes, black rings which he had not noticed before.

"I knew that you would be alone in the house," she said, "and that's why I did not trouble to go to the front door."

"So am I," she interrupted, "delighted that I am able to settle up the matter of Castor so quickly. Here is your money." She had been holding her left hand behind her; now she drew it forward and dropped upon the table a little crumpled packet of bank-notes. "A thousand pounds," she said defiantly. "You'd better count them and see if they are right."

"Rada!" Mostyn spoke her name boldly. He had noticed the trembling of the little white hand which had dropped the notes upon the table; he had noticed, too, a tone of desperation in the girl's voice—a tone which she had attempted to conceal by assumed bravado. He seized her hand before she could draw it away, and held it tightly in his own. "Rada, where did you get that money?"

She struggled with him, but ineffectually. "What does it matter to you where I got the money," she panted, "and how dare you call me Rada? Let me go. I've paid my debt, and that's all I came for."

"I don't want the money." He took the notes in his free hand, crushing them in his strong fingers. "Don't you understand that Castor is yours already? I've given him back to your father, who has accepted him on your behalf. He made no suggestion of repaying the thousand pounds, and I know that it isn't from him that you've got the money."

A suspicion of the truth had flashed into Mostyn's brain, and he spoke sternly, keeping his eyes fixed upon the girl's face.

She made another effort to release her hand, but a more feeble one. Somehow the touch of Mostyn's fingers upon her wrist, the firm grip of them, was not unpleasing to her; she felt his mastery, she felt that she was dealing with a man.

"No right—except that I love you." The words came out against his will; he had had no intention whatever of speaking them.

"You love me!" Suddenly she ceased to struggle. A look that was almost one of terror came into her eyes. Of his own accord Mostyn released her hand. She stood staring at him, motionless, save for the quick rise and fall of her bosom.

"You love me!" she repeated, then she broke out into wild, almost hysterical, laughter.

"Yes, you little untamed, self-willed thing! I do love you, and I'm not going to let you make a fool of yourself. I shouldn't have told you I cared, if it had not been for that."

"But you love me!" she repeated, breaking off in her laughter. "Why do you love me? I can't understand it. I've never been even nice to you—I've been a little beast. And we've hardly met more than four times in our lives. Yet you love me."

"Heaven knows why," he returned. "Who can understand or explain these things? You've wound yourself round my heart in some extraordinary way. I've hated and loved you at the same time. You've never been out of my thoughts. Sometimes I don't know even now——"

She turned upon him sharply. "Whether it's hate or love," she prompted, laughing again, but at the same time clasping her hands nervously together. "They say the two are akin. But it had better be hate, Mr. Clithero. You said yourself this morning that we must be rivals, and rivals can't love each other, you know. You want to beat me out of the field, and I want to beat you—that's why I've bought back my Castor. Do you think I would ever have accepted him from you as a gift? Never, never! Without that money I should have given Castor up. But I knew how I could get it when I spoke to you this morning: yes, I knew what I had to do."

She had moved away from him, and had placed the width of a little table between them. She stood by this, leaning her hands heavily upon it as though she needed its support.

"We are to be rivals," she continued, "there's no getting away from it. You'd better hate me, Mr. Clithero, for if you get the better of me at the Derby I shall hate you—I can tell you that."

"No, I love you." Mostyn moved round the table as though to take her in his arms, to crush her into submission. But she lifted one hand with an imperious gesture.

"Don't speak of loving me," she cried; "it's absurd, impossible." Again she laughed hysterically. Her eyes were soft, and Mostyn thought he could detect a suspicious moisture glistening upon her lashes; but her voice belied her eyes. "It's just like with Castor," she panted. "You wanted Castor when there were so many other horses you might have bought. Now you want me, when there are hundreds of other girls."

"Tell me"—Mostyn paid no heed to her wild and unreasoning words—"is there anyone else, Rada?" The recollection of the meeting that afternoon came to his mind. "Do you love Jack Treves? Is it from him that you have obtained this money—money that I don't want, and won't touch? You are not engaged to him—I should have heard of it if you were. My God!" A thought struck him, and he stepped quickly forward and passed his strong arm about the girl. "Rada, oh, you poor little thing! Look at me, if you can—tell me that you haven't promised yourself to him in return for this wretched money."

Her head was bent, he tried to lift it, and to look into her eyes. He felt her yielding to him; he felt the trembling of her limbs, the heaving of her breast, the quick panting of her breath. He was trembling, too, as he gradually raised her face to his, as he gazed down into her eyes that were glistening with tears and with a strange light he had never seen in them before, as he marked her full, red lips, lips a little parted, and that seemed to shape an appeal.

"Rada," he cried wildly, "you don't love any other man? I can read it in your eyes. Rada, I love you." His lips were to hers, and for one moment—a moment in which all the emotions of a lifetime were crowded, she lay impassive in his arms.

Then, as if she were suddenly aroused from a dream, a shudder passed through her, her body stiffened, and with a low cry, a sob, she struggled free.

"How dare you, how dare you?" she gasped. She sped swiftly to the window, leaving Mostyn standing aghast before this fresh inconsistency of woman. "I'll never forgive you—never! I—I hate you."

With which she swung out into the night, and a moment later Mostyn could hear her sobbing as she ran down the gravel path.

CHAPTER XIII.

MOSTYN PREPARES FOR BATTLE.

"Well, my boy, I'm glad to have seen you, and to have heard all about this curious business from your own lips. Gad, I could hardly believe it, when Pierce first told me, but thought he was trying to pull my leg! The young dog, it's just the sort of thing he might have been capable of."

Genial "Old Rory" smiled indulgently at his nephew, and then turned again to Mostyn, to whom he had been addressing himself.

"Anyway, you may depend upon me to do all I can to help you. It's about the finest sporting event I've ever come across in my life, and there's humour in it, too"—Sir Roderick's broad features reflected his appreciation of this—"just the sort of humour that I should have expected of my poor old friend, Anthony Royce. To give a man—one who knows nothing about racing—forgive me Clithero, but that's true, isn't it?—a big capital, and oblige him, if he's going to win a still bigger legacy at the end of it, to steep himself in racing, just because there's an old grudge to be paid off against the legatee's father, who abhors racing as he abhors the devil—well, there's something that appeals to me in that, and I wouldn't miss the fun of watching your progress for the next year, no, not if I never won another race in my life. Here's luck to you, Clithero!"—the old man lifted a foaming glass of champagne to his lips as he spoke—"may you do justice to yourself, to Royce's memory, and to your father."

"Old Rory" laughed again as he spoke the last words. He was picturing to himself the expression of John Clithero's face when the latter came to learn that his son was becoming a prominent figure upon the turf.

"He'll moan about the sins of the children being visited upon the fathers," Sir Roderick muttered to himself, then continued: "But don't you let out your secret, my boy, not to a living soul except those who are already in the know. It's a good thing your solicitors could keep it quiet for you. If anything of the truth leaked out before you had carried the job through, the difficulties of your task would be magnified a hundred-fold. You may take that from me, and I know what I'm talking about."

Mostyn and Pierce had been dining, as Sir Roderick's guests, at the Imperial Club. Mostyn had only arrived in town the day before, and Pierce, who had been impatiently awaiting him, was not prepared to allow the grass to grow under their feet. He was as keenly interested in Mostyn's success as was the latter himself. The dinner with Sir Roderick had been arranged at his suggestion.

"'Old Rory' is the best fellow in the world," he had told Mostyn, "and he can do more for you than any man I know of in London—introduce you to the right sort of people, and all that kind of thing. If we can get him really interested in our struggle, why, the battle will be more than half won before it has commenced."

Mostyn had been anxious at first that nothing should be said to Sir Roderick MacPhane about the unsatisfactory deal he had made over the colt Castor; he was very shy of any allusion to Rada, and the whole story of Captain Armitage's duplicity could hardly have been touched upon without some reference to the girl.

Besides, after all, so Mostyn had argued with himself, Captain Armitage might be a disreputable and altogether unscrupulous old man, but, nevertheless, he was Rada's father, and so a privileged person in Mostyn's eyes. However, Pierce had advised that the truth should be told, although, of course, it was not necessary to mention by what means Rada had succeeded in paying for the colt. It was quite enough to explain that, after having purchased Castor, Mostyn had discovered his mistake and, out of consideration for Rada, had consented to the whole transaction being annulled.

To Pierce, Mostyn had unbosomed himself, making a clean breast of everything; not even keeping back the incidents of that passionate moment when he had held Rada in his arms, and, goaded on by some impulse that he hardly understood himself, had told her of his love. As a consequence he had been forced to listen to what Pierce was pleased to call a lecture upon worldly wisdom. He had indeed been rather severely taken to task.

"Look here, Mostyn," Pierce had concluded by saying, "you've got a stiff job before you, a task which is far more difficult than you seem to think; well, if you're going to win you must put all thoughts of love-making and suchlike nonsense out of your head. I know it's jolly hard when a man gets taken that way—I ought to know, oughtn't I? but I've got my year's probation, and now you've got yours as well. Look at it in that light. You've got to think of horses for the next year, and horses only. You'll come to grief if you go running after the petticoats as well. As for Rada, she is like an untrained filly, and you will have your work cut out for you if you think of breaking her in. Do as you like in a year, old man; but you can't stand a handicap yet."

"You needn't worry about Rada, Pierce," Mostyn returned, without any loss of temper. "There's not going to be any more love scenes between her and myself. Why, she said she hated me, and we've never met yet without quarrelling."

"That's all right, then." Pierce had glanced sharply at his friend's face as if to convince himself that Mostyn was quite serious. The innocent! Why, according to his own tale, Rada had allowed him to kiss her; she had rested for a few moments in his arms before she had torn herself away, crying and protesting, just as Pierce would have expected of her, wayward little creature that she was; and yet Mostyn did not seem to realise that the game was in his own hands! He had taken Rada quite seriously!

Such was, indeed, the case, for Mostyn had left Partinborough without seeing Rada again, quite convinced that his company was odious to her.

Well, this was all for the best—so argued Pierce to himself, and, as a wise man, with Mostyn's best interest at heart, it would be folly for him to point out any possibility of mistake.

After dinner was concluded that evening the three men retired to the club smoking-room, in order seriously to discuss Mostyn's projects for the future, and, of course, Sir Roderick MacPhane was allowed to be spokesman.

"Well, Mostyn," he said—he had easily dropped into the way of calling the young man by his Christian name—"since you've lost Castor, I expect you'll have to give up all hopes of doing anything in next year's Derby. You're not likely to find another colt worth the buying—certainly not one that could hold a candle to Castor—or to my Pollux, for the matter of that. But, of course, if I have correctly grasped the situation, the Derby is not a race that you need consider seriously just yet. You have plenty of other chances to win your money, and it is over those that you had better lay yourself out. You've got to earn your legacy first, and then you'll be in the position to direct all your attention to the Derby—that is, if you're still anxious to make good what you said upon my coach at Epsom a week or so back—that you would win the classic race in five years' time."

Sir Roderick laughed heartily as he recalled the scene. "I didn't know what to make of you that day, Mostyn," he continued, "but I understand now, that it was Royce who instigated you to that quixotic speech of yours. You were being laughed at. Oh, my dear boy, how you flushed! and how angry you looked with that little spitfire, Rada Armitage!"

Mostyn flushed now as if to prove that he had not yet lost the habit. "I didn't understand what Mr. Royce meant either," he replied, "but I just said what he told me. In fact, I said I would win the Derby in five years' time instead of ten, as he suggested in my ear. Of course, I was an arrant fool, and didn't know what I was talking about."

"Well, you stand a very good chance, thanks to our friend, Royce, of carrying your words into effect," said Sir Roderick, "but, as I was saying, unless you are absolutely pushed to it, I wouldn't worry my head too much over next year's Derby. If you should fail in all the other races that are open to you, then, of course, we must see what is to be done—for the Derby is the last chance you've got, isn't it? The year granted you by the terms of the will terminates with the Epsom Summer Meeting next year?"

"I understand." The old sportsman was silent for a few moments, leaning forward, his elbows resting upon his knees, as if in thought. Once, a club friend, passing close to him, addressed him by name, but "Old Rory" only looked up and grunted, immediately afterwards resuming his attitude of profound thought. The man passed on with a smile—"Old Rory" and his quaint habits were well known and understood by every member of the club.

On his side Mostyn was in no hurry to interrupt the silence. Everything that Sir Roderick had said so far quite coincided with his own ideas. He had no wish whatever to run a horse for the next year's Derby unless he was absolutely compelled by the circumstance of forces to do so. The fact was that he did not wish to oppose Rada, Rada who had set her heart upon winning that race. True, she had in a way challenged him—he remembered the words quite well, for she had spoken them on the first occasion of their meeting at Partinborough Grange: "I'm only a girl, but I'll back myself to win the Derby before you." That's what she had said, and later on, when she found that he had purchased Castor she had jumped to the conclusion that he had done so for the purpose of avenging himself upon her—she, like everyone else, being ignorant of his real motive.

For a little while he had felt that it would be pleasant to enter into competition with her and to beat her upon her own ground, but that was before he had become convinced that he loved her; now things appeared differently to him, and he desired nothing more than that Rada should win her cherished ambition; for himself he had to concentrate his attention upon realising his legacy by winning one of the other races that were open to him, and, that done, he would still have four years left him in which to find a Derby winner—no light thing, of course—but then, his means would be almost unlimited. He felt that he owed it to Royce's memory to attain this end, quite as much as for the gratification of his own self-esteem.

But he would not hurt Rada if he could help it—that was the one thing upon which his mind was made up. There was no reason whatever, as he looked at the position now, why they should be opposed to each other. The only rivalry between them lay in the undoubted fact that she had defied him to win the Derby within five years, and he had quite made up his mind to do so.

Sir Roderick looked up at last, and turned his attention to his coffee, which had been growing cold in front of him. He began to stir it slowly and reflectively with a long cigar cutter, which he had taken up in mistake for his spoon, a mistake over which he laughed heartily when Pierce hastened to rectify it.

"It's not only in my speeches that I blunder, apparently. That's just what I am always doing in the House," he pronounced, "stirring up things with the wrong sort of spoon. But the stirring gets done all right, which is the main thing. But now to business," he went on, "and this is my advice to you, Mostyn. You tell me you are going to have a shot for the Royal Hunt Cup, the first race open to you; well, of course, you can do so if you like, and there's no harm whatever in trying your stride, but I can tell you right away that you can't expect to do anything either for the Hunt Cup or at Goodwood. The time is much too short. After Goodwood I see you have the Leger—" Sir Roderick was inspecting, by means of one of the circular magnifying glasses provided by the club, a written list of the races which had been scheduled in Anthony Royce's will. "Well, as to the Leger," he continued, "I really don't see that I can hold out any hope for you there either. You are not likely to get a three-year-old capable of beating either Hipponous or Peveril, and they are both bound to run if fit. So it's as clear as a pike-staff to me that your best chance will be for the Cesarewitch or the Cambridgeshire, and with luck you might pull one of those races off. Anyway I'll do what I can for you if you really think my advice and assistance of any use—in fact, I've already got an idea that I may be able to secure a horse for you for the Cesarewitch; I won't tell you its name just yet, however, but you can take it from me that it will be a good thing."

Mostyn was loud in his thanks, and before the little party broke up that evening, he was as confident of winning his legacy as if the money were already in his pocket.

"Well, good-bye, my boy," Sir Roderick said, when he rose to go—he always observed early hours on those occasions when he was not sitting late in Parliament. "You've been set a task that I envy you. Go straight at it for all you are worth, and don't be afraid of spending your money—that's the safest way of putting it in your pocket."

Of course, both Pierce and Mostyn laughed heartily over this characteristic bull, an inversion of ideas that had a sound basis of truth as far as Mostyn was concerned. It was perhaps significant of the real interest that "Old Rory" was taking in his subject that he had only perpetrated one bull in the course of that evening.

Left alone, the two young men ordered whisky and soda, and then they fell to discussing their own more intimate affairs. It may be assumed that the names of Cicely and Rada—this in spite of Pierce's eloquent discourse on worldly wisdom—were repeated many times before the sitting came to an end. For now that Mostyn had come to town there was no reason why he should not see his sister; of course, he could not go to Bryanston Square, but they might easily meet by appointment somewhere else—say at Mostyn's rooms in Jermyn Street. And naturally, since Pierce was forbidden to see Cicely, he was eager to hear all about her from her brother.

"I don't see why you should scold me about Rada," Mostyn smiled, when, a little before midnight, he parted from his friend at the corner of Jermyn Street, "you have spoken of nothing but Cicely for the last hour, and I haven't been able to get in a word edgeways."

Mostyn reflected upon those words rather bitterly as he walked slowly down Jermyn Street. Yes, of course, it was different—very different. Pierce and Cicely had been engaged, were presumably engaged still, in spite of the year's probation that had been imposed upon them. At the end of that year, whether further opposition were offered on the part of John Clithero or not, the two young people would come together again, and all would be well between them.

How different it was with himself! How extraordinary that he should have fixed his affections upon a girl with whom he could do nothing but quarrel, who had made sport of him in public, and who had declared that she hated him. What a fool he was, and how he wished he could get the vision of Rada—Rada, with her glossy and rebellious hair, and with her piercing black eyes—out of his brain. Rada, who had called herself a devil when he had insisted that she was an angel!

Well, it was a good thing that he had so much to occupy his thoughts. Pierce was right, and he must give himself up wholly to the task before him—he must leave Rada to Jack Treves, if it could really be possible that she cared for the trainer's son. Rada was not for him.

He sighed heavily as he entered his room and switched on the electric light. A little pile of letters awaited him upon the table, and topmost of all was one addressed in a rather straggling, feminine handwriting; Mostyn, taking it up curiously, perceived that it bore the Partinborough postmark.

He knew at once, instinctively, that the letter was from Rada herself—from Rada, whom he was trying his best to forget.

CHAPTER XIV.

MOSTYN MAKES AN ENEMY.

"I don't hate you!" Rada's letter began quite abruptly. "Indeed I don't, Mr. Clithero, and I was a little beast to say I did, and I am writing to you now because my conscience pricks me. You were very good—awfully good—to me about Castor, and I am grateful to you, I really am. I know how you insisted on giving the colt back to my father, and the terms you exacted from him. I don't believe you bought Castor out of any malice towards me, and I only said so because I was in a temper and couldn't control my tongue. Then you would insist upon my being an angel, a paragon of virtue, when I was feeling myself a wicked little devil—and that was silly of you, you know—you ought to understand women better.

"But I feel I want to be friends with you, Mr. Clithero, and that is why I am writing. I haven't got so many that I can afford to part with one. We are rivals in a way, and since I have got Castor back, I do think I stand the best chance of winning the Derby first. As far as that part of our bet goes—since you will insist upon looking at it as a bet—I have the advantage. But, then, it wasn't fair to you from the start. I spoke, knowing that I had got Castor, while you didn't even know that I had registered my colours. That was just like me, so I won't attempt to excuse myself.

"But since you are so eager to win a Derby, and prove me wrong in what I said upon the coach, I do hope you will be successful. You gave yourself five years, you remember, so you need not grudge me Castor next June. Only I don't want you to go on spending a lot of money over what was only, after all, a silly speech. Wouldn't it be better for me to retract every word I said, and for us both to forget all about it?"

"Poor Rada!" mused Mostyn, smiling as he read. "She little knows, she little guesses why I have taken up racing so keenly. I wonder what she'll say later on when she sees me throwing my money about right and left—in order to put it in my pocket, as 'Old Rory' would say. She'll think I'm doing it only out of bravado, and just because I want to get even with her. She'll think me a silly young fool," he added, rather ruefully, "but I can't help it if she does. I won't tell the truth, even to her, until I've succeeded in my task. Then I don't mind who knows."

A few minutes ago Mostyn had been telling himself that he must put Rada out of mind altogether; now, as a consequence of her letter, he found himself half unconsciously contemplating what he should say to her upon their next meeting.

Their ways were not to lie so far apart, after all. The girl did not hate him, and it was only his colossal innocence which had made him think she did. Mostyn was beginning to learn his lesson.

But there was Jack Treves. Did she say anything in her letter about Jack Treves? With fingers that trembled a little, he turned over the page, and there, about half-way down, he espied the name of the trainer's son. After that he resumed his reading of the letter at the place where he had left off, his heart fluttering foolishly, the written words upon the page dancing before his eyes.

"And now, just a few words on another subject," so the letter went on. "It's a thing that I can write better than I can speak—it's about Jack Treves and that thousand pounds. It's true I got the money from him, and that there's a sort of promise of marriage between us. It's not only because he helped me to buy back Castor, but there has been a vague kind of understanding, for the last year or two, that I am to marry him some day. My father wants it. You'll respect my confidence, I know, so I will tell you that there's a considerable debt, and it must be paid off somehow."

"The old blackguard!" commented Mostyn forcibly, when he reached this point. "He's selling his daughter to pay off his debts—that's just what it means. But to sell her to a low-down bounder like young Treves—it's cruel and disgusting. And she, I don't believe she cares for Treves a bit, really, and she's probably angry with herself now because she's bound the fetters all the tighter about her by going to him in one of those tempestuous tempers of hers and borrowing a thousand pounds. A curse upon the money—if only Rada had taken it back!"

Mostyn had thrust the notes away in his safe at the Grange that night, and there they had remained. It was a foolish thing to have done, no doubt, but he could not bring himself to touch the money—it was like fire to his fingers.

Mostyn continued his reading. "The truth is, that I don't love anyone—at least, I don't think I do. It did not seem to me to matter if I married Jack Treves or not. He would do as well as another—since I had to marry some day. And just now my mind is far too full of other matters—of Castor, for instance, whom I think I love better than any man upon earth—to think of marriage, or anything of the sort. Jack understands that, and he's promised not to bother me till after the Derby next year. I like him for that; it's nice of him, don't you think so?

"Now, Mr. Clithero, I think I've explained everything as well as I can. You'll come back to the Grange soon, won't you? We'll be friends, and try not to quarrel again."

It was with mingled feelings that Mostyn, having read and re-read the letter, folded it up and thrust it in his pocket. The one point that stood out clearly in his mind was that Rada did not really love Jack Treves, although she had allowed herself to drift into a sort of engagement with him. Mostyn could not flatter himself, from anything she said in her letter, that she had any deeper feeling towards himself; but, after all, there was no saying what might happen in the course of the next year. It was very clear that, till after Castor had run in the Derby, Rada did not want to be bothered—that was her own expression—with questions of love from him or from anyone else.

Well, no doubt it was all for the best. He, himself, had quite enough to occupy his attention till after the next Derby was raced and won; in the meanwhile, it was an excellent arrangement that he and Rada should be good friends, and he would willingly undertake, as Jack Treves had evidently undertaken, not to "bother" her with any further suggestion of his affection. Ultimately, if she should care for him better than for Jack—his lip curled derisively at the mere idea of the comparison—well, there was very little doubt that Captain Armitage would not mind who married his daughter as long as his debts were paid.

"I shall be something like a millionaire by then, I hope," Mostyn muttered to himself, "so Master Jack, if it's a question of money, I think I shall stand a better chance than you."

With which reflection and a satisfied smile upon his lips, Mostyn retired to bed.

"Well, all I can say is I hope you'll stick to the arrangement of being just friends," Pierce grumbled when, the next day, Mostyn told him of the letter he had received, and how he had answered it—answered it, perhaps, with a little more enthusiasm than Pierce altogether cared for, explaining that he was looking forward to the day when he could return to Partinborough Grange. This, however, could not be for a week or so, Mostyn had added, at any rate not till after Goodwood. But the Cesarewitch was bound to bring him to Newmarket. "Just the race that's going to mean so much for us," Pierce commented with a sigh.

"Don't be afraid, old man," laughed Mostyn, who was happier that day than Pierce had seen him since his arrival in London—a bad omen, the latter argued. "I give you my word that I'll put the Cesarewitch before everything else. Rada doesn't want to be bothered, and I won't bother her."

The days passed, and, as they had anticipated, their first essay—for the Royal Hunt Cup—met with most indifferent success; they had, indeed, been quite confident of failure long before the day of the race.

The same fate befell them, just as "Old Rory" had predicted, at Goodwood, and later on, at the St. Leger. The latter race cost Mostyn a good deal of money. The only animal that he had been able to secure was a dark horse from the Manton stables, which, for various reasons, could not be trained earlier in the year, and was thought to have some chance. He proved an expensive bargain, and came in with the ruck. The actual race was, as had been foretold, a struggle between Hipponous and Peveril. These two horses fought out their battle a second time, and the Doncaster course suited the chestnut even better than that of Epsom. Once more Sir Roderick MacPhane secured a victory.

These defeats having been anticipated, neither Mostyn nor Pierce were in any way discouraged; on the contrary, they were all agog with excitement, for the day of the Cesarewitch was approaching, and for this race they had secured a horse through the kind offices of Sir Roderick, who had remembered his promise, with which they hoped to do wonders.

Gulliver, the horse in question, came of an irreproachable pedigree, and could already boast of a good record. He had run third the previous year, and was only carrying seven pounds more than on the former occasion. Indeed, under the training of old Treves, to whom Mostyn had naturally sent him, Gulliver soon become a hot favourite for the Cesarewitch.

Of course, by this time Mostyn and Rada had met again, not once but many times. Gulliver being in the charge of Treves at Partinborough, there was nothing to be wondered at in Mostyn running up and down between London and his country home. Certainly his visits to the Grange were brief, but then Pierce was always at his elbow to hurry him away. Mostyn sighed but obeyed. His life seemed to be compounded of long railway journeys all over the country; he had even been dragged to Dublin for the Horse Show, and on another occasion he had journeyed to Paris to view some horses which had been particularly recommended to him.

He was beginning to be talked about; the sporting papers were taking notice of his name. His face had become a familiar one upon the racecourse. A little later, unless he attained his object either at the Cesarewitch or Cambridgeshire, he knew quite well that he was bound to become an object of general curiosity, a young man who was throwing himself wildly into the track of the spendthrift, the way many had gone before him, those who foolishly dissipated fortunes on the Turf. But then, of course, the world did not know, and, after all, it mattered very little to him what the world should say. Let it be clearly stated here that, apart from his genuine love of sport, Mostyn took no pleasure in the apparently reckless course to which he was pledged. He did not bet. His object was to achieve the task which had been set him as quickly as possible, and then to take up the position of the man who went in for racing reasonably, with discretion and without the inordinate passion of the gambler.

That John Clithero was already raging and fuming over his son's growing notoriety, so much Mostyn already knew. He had seen Cicely on several occasions soon after his first return to London from Partinborough. These meetings had been a great pleasure to himself as well as to the girl, as long as they could be continued, but eventually, by some misfortune, John Clithero obtained an inkling of them, and summarily brought them to a conclusion by denying his daughter the liberty which she had till then enjoyed.

Poor Cicely! Mostyn thought her sadly changed in those days. She had always been a little shy and nervous in manner, not very strong physically, but now these peculiarities were so markedly increased that Mostyn had asked her anxiously, more than once, if she were sure that she were not ill?

She had replied that there was nothing amiss with her health, only that she was not happy. Could it be expected that she should be happy? Prevented from seeing her lover, she was always torturing herself as to what the end of it all would be. Her father was constantly telling her that she should never marry Pierce, that he would see her in her coffin first, and though Pierce had declared to her, taking all his gods to witness that he spoke the truth, that as soon as the year's probation imposed upon him by his father had passed, he would take her away from home and cheerfully set John Clithero at defiance; although over and over again Mostyn, inspired by Pierce himself, would repeat this statement to her, yet she always shook her fair head, nervously clasping and unclasping her fingers, a bright spot of colour rising ominously to the centre of each pale cheek.

"Who can say what will happen in a year's time?" she would murmur half under her breath. "Our father is a strong man, Mostyn, and he has always had his way. I feel that he will have his way with me."

No arguments that Mostyn could adduce had any effect upon her, nor would she consent to his suggestion that she should leave her home and settle with him. His idea was that he could easily have installed her at Partinborough Grange.

But again Cicely shook her head, though her eyes glistened and became wet with tears at her inability to accept. The truth was that she was afraid, and perhaps not without reason, for, if she were free from her father's yoke, living under her brother's care—her brother, who was so constantly in the company of Pierce—well, then, the temptation that both she herself and her lover would have to endure might be more than their strength could withstand. They might meet, the probability was that they would meet, and then Pierce would want to set not only Mr. Clithero but his own father as well at defiance. And to do this would mean his ruin: Cicely quite understood that, and she was not going to allow him to run the risk. It was wiser, far wiser, for her to endure her life at home, almost unbearable though it was becoming because of her father's ill-temper so often directed against herself, and because of the overbearing manner which both James and Charles had adopted towards her: it was better for her to put a brave face upon all this and to wait till the year's probation had expired, hoping against hope that all might be well in the end.

Mostyn, concerned as he was for his sister, had seen the reason of her arguments, and he had comforted her as best he could, assuring her of Pierce's fidelity, and pointing out, adopting a tone of levity that he did not feel, that some months of the year had already passed, and that the rest would go by quickly enough. But all the same, his heart bled for his sister, and he would have liked nothing better than to have had a few minutes uninterrupted conversation with those brothers of his, James the Prig and Charles the Sneak; it was against them that his animosity was chiefly directed, for he knew that his father acted rightly according to his lights; but as for the two younger men—well, Mostyn had good reason to mistrust them both.

He had explained to Cicely that his sudden accession to wealth was due to a legacy bequeathed to him by Anthony Royce; beyond this he had entered into no particulars. Let John Clithero believe, as undoubtedly he would believe, that his son had thrown himself into the world of sport by his own inclination; Mostyn did not care very much what interpretation might be put upon his acts. He had, indeed, been more amused than annoyed when he was approached by his father's solicitors with the request that, if he must go racing and squander good money, he should adopt another name for the purpose. This was only evidence of the fact that Anthony Royce's subtle revenge was already taking effect, and that John Clithero was raging impotently at the fancied degradation of his family honour. Yet what had happened so far was nothing to what might be expected in the future: so Mostyn, a little irritated by the tone adopted by the solicitors, had felt bound to tell them. His father had cast him off cruelly and unjustly, and now Mostyn was his own master, at liberty to face the world as seemed best to him.

When Pierce learnt that the meetings of Mostyn and Cicely had been prohibited he was furiously angry, and it was all that Mostyn could do to keep him from there and then proceeding to Bryanston Square and summarily carrying Cicely off. But he calmed down after a time, and admitted that the girl was right, that it was best not to precipitate matters, nor to incur the anger of old Mr. Trelawny.

"Although I must say," Pierce grumbled, "as I have said before, that I can't make my governor out. He was loud in his praises of you for having struck out your own course, but if I went and did the same thing—well"—Pierce shrugged his shoulders disconsolately—"I believe that Cicely and I might beg our bread for all that he'd care."

So matters stood when Mostyn and Pierce took up their residence at Partinborough Grange some ten days before the Newmarket meeting. The house had been thoroughly put in order, and was now as comfortable a residence as anyone could desire. As for the garden, this had become, under the careful auspices of Willis—who had now someone to work for—a very floral paradise. Perhaps it was for the sake of Rada that Mostyn had given special care to the cultivation of roses; he knew how she loved the flower, and how they had attracted her to the Grange before he came.

Mostyn and Rada met almost daily, but they met as good friends, nothing more. Pierce could have had no possible reasons for grumbling. Mostyn had quite made up his mind that the girl must not be bothered by his attentions, and she herself seemed to appreciate his decision, for she never referred in any way to that explanatory letter which she had written to London.

Mostyn had no particular reason to be jealous of Jack Treves, in spite of the understanding which he knew existed between the girl and the trainer's son. Rada showed herself, as far as she could, to be impartial, and her one desire during these days seemed to be to avoid, as far as she could, any reference to love or marriage: Castor was her one care.

Certainly Mostyn was not jealous, nor did he ever attempt, by word or deed, to belittle Jack Treves in Rada's eyes—this though not infrequently she would appeal to him for his opinion as to this or that in the behaviour of Jack. He had fully made up his mind that he would hold himself quite neutral and await events—the crisis that would have to come after the following year's Derby.

But as for Jack Treves, he did not look upon matters quite in the same light, and when trouble came it was due wholly to his jealousy, for he had quite decided that he had cause to be jealous. Thus it was that he was the first to break the stipulation about not bothering Rada, and she, in revenge, retaliated by cutting him for days together and allowing herself to be more than ever in the company of Mostyn. Of all this the latter knew nothing until, as was to be expected, the storm broke.

It was two or three days before the Cesarewitch and Mostyn had strolled over to the stables to have a look at Gulliver after he was brought in from exercise. He was strolling leisurely across the stretch of open country towards the gates when he was suddenly confronted by Rada, emerging flushed and excited, her lips pursed angrily together, her eyes glittering with that look of irresponsible defiance which Mostyn had already grown to recognise, though of late it had not been directed against himself.

Nor could it be so on the present occasion; he was quite sure of that, for it was more than a fortnight since he and Rada had had anything approaching a quarrel, and then it had been merely over some trivial matter quickly forgotten. The girl would have passed him with a little quick nod of her head, but he held out his arm and impeded her.

At first she would give him no explanation at all; she begged him to let her go; her father was expecting her at home, and she was in a hurry. But Mostyn, although he knew it was at some risk to himself, took her by the arm and quietly demanded particulars. He had grown in daring of late.

She looked at him, startled. It was the first time that he had adopted a tone of command towards her. Perhaps in her heart she was not altogether displeased, although for a few moments she was inclined to resent his interference.

But the truth came out in the end. She had just had a scene with Jack Treves, and she was furious with him, so she asserted, perfectly furious. He had been worrying her, making her life wretched, and now matters had come to a climax.

Mostyn did not guess that he was in any way the cause of this, nor did Rada care to admit the fact. The trouble, however, on the present occasion was more deeply seated.

It was due, in a great measure, to Daisy Simpson. Jack had refused to break off his intimacy with this young woman, even after his semi-engagement to Rada had become generally known, with the very natural result that tongues had wagged and scandal been hinted at. Daisy had finally put an end to all this by taking her departure for London with the avowed intention of going upon the stage.

Jack had raged furiously and unreasonably, nor had he made any secret of his annoyance. Since there was no definite engagement, he argued, between himself and Rada he was clearly justified in maintaining his old friendship; if there was any scandal about the matter it was the fault of Rada and her ridiculous decree, a decree which placed him in an absurd and quite anomalous position. He therefore demanded that the girl should consent to her engagement to him being officially announced.

Such had been the cause of the trouble, and Jack Treves had just been treated to a touch of Rada's temper. And, no doubt, to judge from her flashing eyes and the contemptuous curve of her lips, he had been badly worsted in the encounter.

Rada appeared somewhat relieved when she had unbosomed herself of her troubles. It was something new for her to find a confidant; under ordinary circumstances she would have gone straight home, and there, never having been accustomed to give way before her father or to tell him anything of her doings, she would have shut herself up in her own room to brood for hours together, or she might have saddled her mare and ridden away, just for the mere want of sympathy, as she often did when Captain Armitage happened to be in a particularly obnoxious frame of mind, or muddled from drink, now more often than ever the case.

These ideas flashed quickly through Mostyn's brain as, awkwardly enough, he attempted to speak words of consolation. All his heart went out in sympathy to the wayward girl. How could it be expected that Rada should be anything than just what she had become?

"I won't have it announced to all the world that some day I am going to be married to Jack," Rada cried, petulantly tapping the turf with an impatient little foot. "When I have said a thing I mean to abide by it, and I told Jack that there was to be no mention of any engagement between us till after next June. It's bad enough to think that I've got to be married at all——"

"Rada, do you really care for Jack?" The words were upon Mostyn's tongue, but he did not speak them. He was quite certain that Rada did not really care for Jack, but at the same time he had no reason to believe that she cared any better for himself. And what danger of harming himself in her eyes might he not be running if he suggested anything of the sort? Rada would only have two men bothering her, as she expressed it, instead of one. Far better for him to bide his time and let matters take their own course.

Rada, of her own accord, made answer to the unspoken question. "I think I'm beginning to hate him," she asserted.

Mostyn turned his head away and, despite himself, his lips parted in a smile, for he understood the words were spoken in temper and bore no real significance. Had she not said the same to him? And for the time being he had been fool enough to believe it.

The truth was, so he told himself a little sadly, after Rada had left him, that she cared for no one at all. It was the truth that she had written in her letter. But could she not grow to care? She had had so little of love in her life that, as yet, she hardly knew the meaning of the word.

"You are very good to me," so she had said when she left him that morning, refusing his company on her way home: not that she would not have been pleased to have it, but because she knew his time was valuable. "I'm glad that we are friends, Mostyn"—she had come to call him by his Christian name by now—"though I can't see what there is in me for you to trouble yourself about."

Mostyn would have liked to have told her there and then, but once more discretion urged silence.

His adventures of that morning were, however, not yet concluded, for before he turned in at the stable gates he met Jack Treves himself lounging heavily out, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his breeches, his cap tilted to one side of his head, a cigarette thrust between his lips and carried at an aggressive upward angle.

"Good morning, Treves," said Mostyn. He was always on terms of armed neutrality with the trainer's son, and he affected to take no notice of the scowls with which the latter usually met him, and the scarcely veiled impertinence of the tone which he was wont to adopt. Mostyn had no wish to quarrel with Jack Treves, mainly for Rada's sake, but also because he had a sincere respect for Jack's father, the rough, simple-minded, and uneducated old trainer whom, nevertheless, he recognised as a straightforward and honest man, one who was serving him faithfully, and who was doing his utmost to ensure Gulliver's victory.

Jack came to a halt, standing aggressively between Mostyn and the stable gates. He drew his hands from his pockets, removed the cigarette from between his lips and blew out a cloud of smoke—smoke the odour of which fell offensively upon Mostyn's nostrils. Jack's fancy in tobacco was not of the most refined order.

"I saw you talkin' to Rada just now," he said. "Been tryin' to comfort her, I suppose, because I thought it time to have my say? A nice sort of comforter you are!" There was a vicious sneer upon his lips. "Look here," he went on, taking a menacing step forward and dropping the tone of sarcasm which he had not the wit to maintain, "what do you mean by it?"

"Please explain yourself." Mostyn spoke very quietly; on such occasions he never lost his temper, and always held himself under complete control. His calmness galled his adversary.

"You know jolly well what I mean. You're always hanging about Rada, and ever since you've been here you've tried to make mischief between us. Well, I'm not going to have it; I tell you that straight."

"You're labouring under a delusion," Mostyn said; then he too advanced a step, as if to indicate that he had had enough of Jack's company.

But the latter, already goaded into a passion by Rada, appeared anxious to vent some of it upon Mostyn. He was not lacking in pluck, so much can be said for him, for he was in truth the smaller and sparer man of the two. Mostyn, with his splendid physique, might well have warned him to think twice before he ventured, as he actually did, to break out with a string of invectives and foul words. He had quite a remarkable vocabulary at his disposition.

Even then Mostyn did not lose his temper, recognising that Jack Treves was in a rage and not responsible for what he said.

"You're a silly fellow, Treves," he remarked with perfect composure, "and a foul-mouthed one at that. Just stand out of my way, please, and let me pass. I've some business to talk over with your father."

As he spoke he raised his arm to thrust Jack aside. But this was too much for the latter; the idea that he should be treated with this calm disdain, his protest simply ignored, and he himself pushed aside as if he were of no account whatever, all this caused him completely to lose control of himself.. He threw himself blindly upon Mostyn and struck out wildly, not as he would have done in calmer moments, for, as a matter of fact, lie rather fancied himself upon his pugilistic powers.

The next moment the natural result came about. Mostyn, forced to it against his will, retaliated with a well-directed blow, and Jack Treves measured his length upon the ground. The fight, if fight it could be called, was very soon at an end, for Jack showed no further inclination to renew the combat.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you, Treves," Mostyn remarked, as his late adversary sat up and dabbed a handkerchief to his damaged face. "But really, you know, if you have anything to say you should be a little more careful in the way you say it." With which Mostyn passed on. The matter was concluded as far as he was concerned.

But Jack Treves, behind him, scrambled to his feet. His lip was cut and the blood was trickling down his chin. There was blood in his mouth too, and he spat it out as once more a volume of oaths escaped him.

"D—— you, Mostyn Clithero!" he cried, safely now, for the object of his hatred was well out of ear-shot. "You haven't downed me for nothing, I can tell you that. I'll be even with you some day, you mark my words!"

CHAPTER XV.

MOSTYN FACES DEFEAT.

"Pierce, old man, I'm afraid we are going to be beaten." Mostyn pushed his chair back from the dinner table, lit a cigarette and disconsolately watched the little rings of smoke which he blew in quick succession from his lips.

The two friends were seated in the dining-room of the Grange, and they had just partaken of a good dinner, which had been well served up by a quiet man-servant, who had been in Mostyn's service for the last eight months.

The winter, following a series of reverses, had come and gone, and now, though the prescribed year had nearly elapsed, Mostyn found himself apparently as far as ever from successfully carrying out the terms of his bequest.

On the following day the Two Thousand Guineas would be run, then there was the Thousand; after that there remained the Derby and the Oaks—and that was all.

Pierce stared straight at the wine-glass which he had just filled with fine old port, of which Mostyn had found a good supply in his cellar. He had little to say by way of comfort.

"I am afraid Asmodeus will go down, like the rest of them," he muttered. "He hasn't an earthly chance against Don Quixote. And then there's Bouncing Boy."

"Bouncing Boy won't win either," commented Mostyn. He was very proficient in racing by now, an excellent judge of winning form. He had formulated quite a theory in his own mind of horses for courses, but whenever he tried to buy a good horse that had already won a big handicap he was always met by difficulties in the way of refusal to sell. "Don Quixote will win, and win easily. Asmodeus may be second, but what's the use of that to me?" he added. "I'm sick of horses that are placed second."

Herein, indeed, was disclosed much of the irony of the whole position. Three times in quick succession on the flat Mostyn's horses had been accorded the second place, which was palpably no use to him whatever. The Lincolnshire, the Chester Cup, and the City and Suburban—in all three of these races Mostyn's horses had come in second.

"We've done our best," commented Pierce, after a moment's pause; "at least there's that to be said. But it was too hard a task, Mostyn: Anthony Royce made it too stiff for you."

"At any rate he obtained what he wanted." Mostyn looked up with a quaint smile. "He steeped me in racing and he made my father wild; he got his revenge right enough. The papers are always advertising my name. It is 'Mr. Clithero, that ubiquitous young sportsman, has purchased so and so'; or 'Mr. Clithero, the irrepressible, will run so and so for such a race.' They write articles about me, comment on my not betting, on my personal appearance, and all the rest of it. I've seen my portrait in the papers till I'm sick of the sight of it. Some call me plucky; others laugh at me for my folly and think I'm just a wild young spendthrift. My father sees all those papers; Cicely tells me in her letters that he has them sent to him. He must simply rage with fury. That's just what Royce wanted. You remember how my father tried, through the solicitors, to put a stop to my racing under my own name?"

Pierce nodded. The mention of Cicely had set up a new train of thought in his mind; he heard what was said without paying particular heed to it.

"Of course I couldn't do that," Mostyn went on; "and my refusal must have made the poor old man more angry than ever, and I expect the very idea that I had been left money by Anthony Royce, his enemy, must have driven him half crazy."

"He's making things almost impossible at home," put in Pierce, following his own thoughts. "You know how Cicely, poor child, writes of him. His temper is abominable, and she always has to bear the brunt of it. Cicely hardly dare send you a letter now because she is accused of abetting you in your misdeeds." Pierce frowned and kicked viciously at the leg of the table. "And then, hasn't he threatened to turn her out of the house unless she will consent to promise never to marry me? Oh! I tell you, Mostyn, her life must be a hell, a hell!" He rose and promenaded the room with long strides.

Cicely's relations with her father were perhaps even worse than Pierce was aware of. She had written long letters to Mostyn—though of late he had guessed, from the rarity with which she wrote, that her correspondence had been placed under surveillance—and had poured out her heart to him. She had begged him, however, to observe discretion with Pierce, fearing to cause the latter unnecessary trouble. She was still convinced that she must hold out till the end of the year, but it was hard, very hard, to do so.

The chief cause of offence was her constancy to her lover. She steadily refused to give him up, even though, day after day, John Clithero poured out upon her the vials of his wrath. The smallest word would lead to a scene, and she had no one to turn to for comfort, for both her brothers were united against her.

"Go and join Mostyn, the profligate," John Clithero would cry, lifting his fists in impotent rage. "You are children of Belial, chaff for the burning. My sin is upon me, that I have begotten such as you!"

Knowing of these scenes, Pierce had gone to his father and again begged to be allowed to take Cicely away at once; but the old man had relented nothing of his stubbornness, though when he spoke of the year's probation which he had imposed upon his son, there was always that queer look upon his face which Pierce could not understand.

"Don't let's worry our heads over these things to-night, old chap," Mostyn said at last. "To-morrow's the Guineas—another step in my progress. Come and sit down, and let's talk over our chances."

After a few more rapid strides up and down, Pierce adopted the suggestion, and soon, for the time being, he had forgotten his own troubles in fighting anew with Mostyn their past battles, in preparing a brave face for what was still to come.

There was not one race out of all those scheduled in the will which Mostyn had neglected. He had thrown himself, heart and soul, into his task. Pierce, with his better knowledge of the Turf, had ably advised and seconded him.

In so many instances they had come near to victory—that was the heart-rending part of it all. Success had seemed within their grasp, only to be snatched away at the last moment.

The Cesarewitch—that had perhaps been the greatest disappointment of all. A horse like Gulliver, with his pedigree and his record, hot favourite, too, as he had been made—Mostyn and Pierce had indeed been justified in their belief that with Gulliver their great object would be achieved.

But Gulliver failed, and that apparently by sheer ill-luck. How clearly all the particulars were engraved upon Mostyn's brain! The bad news had come to him—the news that forecasted the failure that was to follow—a couple of days before the race, and almost immediately after the short, sharp tussle which he had had with Jack Treves outside the gates of the stables. He had found the trainer awaiting him, an ominous yellow paper in his hand, an expression of keen anxiety upon his honest face.

"I'm sorry, sir, upon my word, I'm as sorry as if the affair were my own." Thus had spoken the blunt old man.

"What's up, Treves?" Mostyn had asked, a sense of misgiving seizing upon him. Old Treves would not have looked so worried without a real cause.

The latter handed over the telegram without another word, and Mostyn realised what had happened. The jockey who was to have ridden Gulliver—none other than the redoubtable Fred Martin himself, the same who had steered Hipponous to victory at the Derby—Fred Martin had been taken ill, was lying in hospital, and had been forced now, at the eleventh hour, to throw up the sponge.

"It's all true, sir," Treves said, as if he had an idea that Mostyn might have doubted the genuineness of the story. "I'd stake my life that Fred Martin wouldn't give up unless he was forced—the lad's as straight as they make 'em."

The blow was irreparable, and Mostyn realised it at once. At such short notice it was practically impossible to find an adequate substitute, and the jockey who finally rode Gulliver, a mere boy, proved himself unequal to the task. The horse was bad-tempered, and realised at once that a stranger was on his back. He made a bad start, and, though he picked up afterwards, only succeeded in running into third place.

Mostyn, who had felt that with Gulliver the game was in his hands, was terribly cast down; but there was, luckily perhaps, no time for serious reflection. The Cambridgeshire followed on so quickly, and here again, all his plans having been carefully laid, he stood a very fair chance.

When the weights for the Cambridgeshire had been announced, it was found that Silver Star, the property of a well-known nobleman, had been treated most leniently by the handicappers. The mare at once became a raging-hot favourite, and Mostyn spared no expense in his endeavours to purchase her. The noble owner was by no means inclined to sell, but, finally—and here again Mostyn had to thank Sir Roderick for his good offices—the deal was carried through, though it made a terrible inroad into Mostyn's diminishing capital.

But the day before the race, just when she was about to be transferred from Treves's stables to Newmarket, Silver Star was found to be ailing. There were suspicious circumstances about the case, too, for the horse's illness was so very sudden and unexpected, also it appeared difficult to diagnose the actual cause of the trouble. On the other hand, it was impossible to throw suspicion upon anyone. Had Jack Treves been at home, Mostyn might have felt interested in his movements at that time, but Jack had been sent away by his father to purchase horses in another part of the country, and so, as far as Silver Star was concerned, he seemed beyond suspicion.

It was due to the discretion of old Treves himself that Jack had been sent away. The trainer had learnt of the assault upon Mostyn, and had immediately taken vigorous and characteristic action. He had not spared his son, but had rebuked him in round and unmeasured terms, both for his treatment of Rada—having regard to his philandering with Daisy Simpson—and for his utter folly in risking the making of bad blood between his father and his father's best client.

Old Mr. Treves had every wish to see the engagement between Jack and Rada a settled thing; having made money himself, he was now anxious that his son should raise himself in the social scale. But, from his point of view, Jack was busily engaged in spoiling his best chances.

"Mark my words," he said, "you will lose the girl altogether if ye don't treat her as a real lady—which she is. Daisy Simpson, indeed!"—the old man sniffed indignantly—"carrying on with a drab like that! Why, you are just askin' to get the chuck, that's what you're doin'—askin' for it." Here his indignation almost overpowered him. "It's a good thing you caught it from Mr. Clithero," he went on, "an' wot you got served you right. If you hadn't been punished already, I've a mind to hide you myself—yes, to take the stick to you, as I did when you was a lad—what's more, I could do it, too!"

Old Treves was bulky, broad of shoulder, and in rude health; as father and son stood there together it looked very much as if the elder man could easily have carried his words into effect.

"Anyway, you shan't be hangin' about the place, making a nuisance of yourself, more'n I can help till after next June. Miss Rada shall have the clear run she wants, and I expect the less she sees of you, in the meanwhile, the more she'll be likely to take to you in the end."

It was, as a consequence of this, that Jack, despite his grumbles and the consciousness that he was giving a clear field to his rival, was packed off from Partinborough, and troubled Mostyn and Rada very little more during the months that ensued.

Silver Star was scratched for the Cambridgeshire, and so Mostyn's last hope for that year expired. He had now some four months to wait in which to make his preparations for the big steeplechase in the following March, as well as for the Lincolnshire.

Mostyn had taken no advantage of Jack's summary dismissal from Partinborough. He was, indeed, only on and off at the Grange, finding that he had plenty to occupy him in London. He had taken up a definite position with regard to Rada, and he was resolved to adhere firmly to it. She knew he loved her; it was for her to choose, when the time came, between him and Jack. She could break off her semi-engagement to the latter if she pleased; should Castor win the Derby, she would certainly have the means of paying off her debt; besides, apart from this, she was already making money with her horse, whose record was as yet unbroken. Castor had won everything for which he had been entered. Then there was the thousand pounds still reposing in Mostyn's safe—this money was quite at her disposition if her pride would allow her to take it. All this Mostyn had told her. So it was for Rada to choose. Mostyn would not speak of his love, he would not "bother" her. They met constantly, they teased each other, they quarrelled now and then—always making peace very quickly—and there were times when Mostyn thought that the eyes of the girl were wistful, times when he could not help fancying that she would show no bitter resentment if he opened his arms to take her to them, as he had done once before.

In his way he was stubborn, stubborn in his determination to abide by the conditions he had imposed upon himself. It was true that he did not understand women, and Rada was, of course, a particularly complex study. "I'll wait till after the Derby," so he told himself over and over again. "Rada wants no talk of love till then; has she not said so?" He often wondered why Rada should sometimes be cross with him without a cause; and once—he remembered quite well—she had burst into tears and run away; it was just before he left Partinborough for a longer stay than usual in town.

All this while, although, so far, failure had befallen him, there was not the smallest doubt in his mind that he would ultimately be successful in carrying out the terms of Anthony Royce's bequest.

But a fresh series of failures awaited him at the opening of the season. The Lincolnshire—that was the first of the three races in which his horse had run into second place; then had followed the Grand National, and here, having successfully negotiated Beecher's Brook and Valentine's Brook on the first round, Mostyn's mare, Giralda, had come badly to grief upon the second round; both jockey and mare were injured, the latter so much so that she had then and there to be shot.

The Chester Cup—second again; and finally, the City and Suburban, with exactly the same result.

Now there remained Asmodeus, who was second favourite for the Two Thousand Guineas, and a filly for the Thousand, whose training, however, had been insufficient for Mostyn to place much reliance upon her. She might possibly do better for the Oaks—absolutely Mostyn's last chance—but even with regard to this he had little confidence. For a long while he had steadily refused to have anything to do with the Derby, and so valuable time had been lost. Now he had a colt named Cipher in training, but Cipher was not a patch upon either Castor or upon Sir Roger's Pollux, and could hardly be looked upon as standing a chance. Such was the present position, and, considering it squarely and without bias, both Mostyn and Pierce had to admit that it was a desperate one.

"That beast of a Jew, Isaacson, will carry off the Two Thousand," groaned Pierce. "Don Quixote is bound to win on his form. We shall be in for another second. The only thing is, that we've got a better man up. Stanhope is a fine jockey, while Wilson is a fellow whom I never trusted, and they speak badly of him in the ring. But I expect he's being well paid for his job."

Isaacson, the owner of Don Quixote, was the same man whose horse, Peveril, had so nearly won the Derby against Hipponous. He had only made his appearance upon the Turf within the last year or so, since some successful speculation had brought him a fortune. The only good point about him, so Pierce was wont to aver, was that he had not shown himself ashamed of his name, or of the method by which he had earned his living. He had been a bill discounter and money lender upon rather a large scale, and though he was reputed hard, no imputation had ever been made upon his honesty. Since wealth had come to him, he had given away large sums in charity, but this was probably in order that he might win the popularity which he coveted. He liked to make a big show, and his racing colours were all gold.

After a while Pierce rose, yawned, and expressed his determination to go to bed. The two young men had dined late, and their discussion had been a prolonged one. "Good-night, old chap," he said, "and don't worry your mind more than you can help. Things may come all right, after all. Asmodeus is a good horse, and there are a lot who fancy him."

Mostyn looked up brightly as he nodded good-night. "Oh, I'm not worrying!" he said, "the whole thing has been a gamble, hasn't it, Pierce? And he's a poor gambler who growls at his losses."

CHAPTER XVI.

MOSTYN IS TEMPTED.

Left alone, Mostyn drew his arm-chair nearer the fire, and settling himself comfortably, gave himself up to solitary reflection. The evenings were still fresh, for May had set in unseasonably, and a fire was by no means to be despised. It was, indeed, because the dining-room was the warmer of the two sitting-rooms that Mostyn had elected to occupy it that evening. Frazer, the man-servant, had long ago cleared the table, and so Mostyn did not expect to be disturbed.

Of course, as was only natural, his thoughts turned to Rada. And now, as he sat gazing into the fire, he knew that he had been very dense. That foolish stubbornness of his—it was there that the blame lay. He had made up his mind that Rada's injunction was to be obeyed strictly and to the letter, and so he had put temptation behind him, even when his common-sense, combined with his racing experience, told him that the time had come to force the pace.

He had refrained from speaking, although, over and over again, he had read invitation in Rada's eyes; he had given his word to her, he had given his word to Pierce; besides, Rada's semi-engagement to Jack Treves was still an accepted fact, and so Mostyn argued that until she, voluntarily and of her own accord, elected to break with Jack, he had no right to interfere. He had never doubted that she would do this after the Derby, when the question of a formal engagement was to be raised.

Of course, there was much overstraining at honour in all this, as well as a lamentable ignorance of the feminine nature; but then that was Mostyn all over. He did not—in this case, it was almost would not—take into account the possibility, the inherent probability, of a woman changing her mind. He was quite aware that Rada's moods were as variable as those of the proverbial April day, and yet he insisted upon taking her literally, with the natural result that his attitude was sorely misunderstood.

For Rada had come to the conclusion that his feelings towards her had undergone a change—that he no longer cared—and she was miserable in consequence. Mostyn had been aware of this fact for some little time past; he was now only too conscious of all that he had left undone. He would have asked nothing better than to go to Rada and speak out his love; it was no longer stubbornness and a straining at honour that hindered him. It was something more potent than that.

For, now that all might have been well, another factor in the case had arisen, another opponent had sprung into being, and poor Mostyn was beginning to realise that he was beaten all along the line. Rada was further away from him than ever just when she seemed to be most near.

Ruin stared him in the face—irrevocable ruin. He was a failure—Anthony Royce's millions would never be his. In another month's time he would be plunged back into poverty—he would have nothing left, nothing save the Grange, which he would not be able to keep up. All the ready money which had been handed over to him had been expended—he had even the possibility of debts to face.

For himself he did not care—he had had his sporting chance and fate had been against him. The world would say that there was another young spendthrift gone under; his father and his brothers, not knowing the truth, would have some excuse for pointing the finger of scorn at him; but these things troubled him little. He would fight for himself, as he had meant to fight before he had known of Royce's bequest.

If it were not for Rada—Rada whom he loved so passionately! How could he ask her to share his poverty? The thing was impossible—he had realised the impossibility of it for some weeks past—just as the truth of her love for him was filtering into his brain. How tragically ironical it all was!

"Asmodeus won't win the Guineas," he muttered to himself, disconsolately enough, since there was none present before whom he must keep up the farce of cheerfulness. "And as for the filly, she is quite hopeless. So what remains? Only the Derby, and that I should have to fight out against Rada. I don't know that I would win it from her, even if I could. But I can't, so there's an end of it. There's an end to everything, so far as I can see—to fortune, to ambition, to love—yes, jolly well an end to everything. That's what I see in the future."

He could see no brighter picture by staring into the dying fire, and presently he rose with a sigh and a yawn, preparatory to making his way upstairs to bed. It was at that moment that he heard the front door bell ring, and a minute or so later the sedate Frazer put in an appearance and announced that there was a man, who had not given his name but who looked like a stable-man, who wished to see Mostyn upon urgent business.

"No, sir," Frazer shook his head decidedly; he knew Stanhope by sight quite well. "I've not seen the fellow before," he added. "He's never been to the house, I'm quite sure of that."

Accordingly, after a brief interval, the stranger was admitted. He stood in the doorway fidgetting from one foot to the other, his cap in his hand, his tightly-fitting coat buttoned close over his chest. The buttons were big and flashy; the man's general appearance—his expression as well as his attire—was unprepossessing.

Mostyn recognised him at once, and wondered what on earth he had come for. He waited, however, till Frazer had withdrawn, till the door was closed upon them both.

"You are Wilson," he said then, "Ted Wilson, the jockey. Why do you want to see me, and at this hour of the night?"

"I couldn't come afore, sir," Wilson shifted from one foot to the other in an undecided sort of manner. He had little twinkling eyes, and sandy hair brushed over his forehead in a carefully oiled curl. He had yellow teeth, which protruded like a rabbit's, and a weak, receding chin; he was a clever jockey, which is about as much as could be said in his favour.

"I couldn't come afore becos the guv'nor wouldn't let me out of his sight. He's a jolly sharp 'un, is David Isaacson, I give you my word."

"Well, what's your object in coming to see me?" repeated Mostyn rather sharply. He neither liked the man himself, nor did he care for this intercourse with one of the servants of his rival.

Wilson took a few steps forward into the room and seated himself, without being invited to do so, upon the very edge of the most unpretentious-looking chair that he could pick out. "I want a word with you, private like," he said in a hoarse, throaty voice. His eyes rested nervously upon the spirit tantalus in its place on the sideboard. He had, perhaps wittingly, seated himself in close proximity to it.

"I've walked across from the Crathorn Stables," he said pleadingly, "an' I can tell you it's dry work." The Crathorn Stables were those at which Don Quixote had been lodged, and they were distant, as Mostyn knew, a good half-dozen miles in the direction of Newmarket.

"You can help yourself. You'll find a tumbler close beside you, and there's whisky in the stand." The jockey did not await a second invitation, but helped himself largely to the spirit, adding to it a very small quantity of water.

"Well, it's like this," said the jockey, fixing his little eyes upon Mostyn as though attempting to read his thoughts. "I've had a row with the guv'nor; he's a rotter, that's wot he is!" He paused meaningly.

"A rotter," repeated Wilson, "a low-down, measly Jew. I've never ridden for a Jew afore, an' I'm sorry I consented to this time."

"Carn't you see wot I'm drivin' at, Mr. Clithero? Carn't you help a chap a bit?" protested Wilson, who thought that the object of his visit should have been guessed at once.

"Hadn't you better speak clearly, and come to the point?" suggested Mostyn, who had a pretty shrewd idea of what was about to be proposed to him.

Wilson accordingly made the plunge. "Don Quixote is goin' to win the Two Thousand," he said. "Asmodeus ain't. There's no getting round that to us as knows; that is, of course, if all goes normal like. Well, Mr. Clithero, sir, I guess you want to win this race, and that's why I've come to you, Mr. Clithero, sir."

Mostyn hated the constant repetition of his name, and he was boiling over with indignation at the suggestion made to him, though he kept his features under control, and allowed the little man to have his say.

To the jockey it seemed that the owner of Asmodeus must be particularly dense. He did not like to put his proposition into plain words. What was the necessity for it?

"Between man and man who understand each other," he began, "these little things can be arranged, you know." He rose from his chair, putting his empty glass aside, and sidled nearer to Mostyn. "I'm ready to strike a bargain with you, Mr. Clithero, sir, if so be ye're willing. It needn't be such a dead cert for Don Quixote, after all." Mostyn sat silent, staring straight before him, though he kept one elbow well out in order to prevent Wilson coming too near. Of course, he knew quite well what was meant—had understood all the time. This little rogue was willing to pull Don Quixote for a consideration—a consideration which, though no doubt it would be heavy, Mostyn was quite capable of providing, and, as far as he was concerned, there was no actual danger. If any objection were raised to the riding—which was most unlikely, for Wilson was clever at that sort of thing—it would all be put down to a manoeuvre on the part of Isaacson, or to spite on the part of the jockey—as far as Mostyn was concerned, it didn't matter which.

The boy's face was burning, the blood coursing quickly through his veins, his heart beating quickly. A few moments ago, when he had first realised what was being proposed to him, his inclination had been to get up, to take the jockey by the scruff of his neck, and throw him out without more ado; then, suddenly, and as if someone had whispered in his ear, a temptation, such as he had never known before in his life, had come upon him.

There was so much at stake for him—so vast a sum of money, which seemed about to slip through his fingers. And there was Rada, too. If Asmodeus should win this race, why, all might still be well. He would not be a beggar in another month's time, and then, what was there to prevent him going to Rada and saying: "You love me—you don't love Jack Treves—I want you, Rada, and mean to have you!" He was sure—at that moment—that she would fall into his arms, and that he had only to speak. All this—success, wealth, love—might be his, if Asmodeus won. At that moment, sharper than ever, he felt the bitter sting of defeat. "There is no other way," whispered the insinuating voice in his ear. "You'd much better accept a good offer when it's made to you."

"It's a fair deal I'm proposin' to you, Mr. Clithero, sir," muttered the jockey, his voice seeming to harmonise and blend with that of the imaginary tempter. "I can do it easy as easy, and who wants a beastly Jew to win? You can back Asmodeus for all you like—put your shirt on 'im—for if we get to understand each other he's bound to win, there ain't another horse in the race. It'll be worth your while, I tell you that straight."

Perhaps, all unconsciously, the jockey had made a mistake when he spoke of making money upon the horse's victory, which was the last thing that Mostyn, who never made a bet, cared about doing. In some insidious fashion, this new suggestion touched a cord in the boy's nature and made him realise the peril in which he stood. He, who had never in his life done an act which he could call dishonourable, what was he thinking of now? How could he have allowed himself, even for a moment, to listen to so vile a suggestion? His cheeks flushed with shame. With a mighty effort he thrust the temptation aside. He smote the table violently with his fist, and broke out with an oath—an oath that came strangely to his lips.

"D—— you, you dirty hound!" He pushed his chair bark, and stood trembling with wrath, towering huge over the wretched little man. "How dare you come to me with such a proposal? How dare you? how dare you? Get out of the room, and out of the house, and be sharp about it, or before God——" He raised his fist threateningly.

The little jockey slipped from his chair, nearly sliding on to the floor in his dismay, and held up his puny fists as if to ward off a blow. "Look 'ere, Mr. Clithero, sir," he whined, "what are you a-gettin' at? I came 'ere as a friend—for your good."

"Go!" thundered Mostyn, pointing a trembling forefinger at the door. "I told you to go."

"Very well, I'm goin'." The jockey, seeing that he stood in no danger of bodily hurt, pulled himself together and shuffled towards the door. "You ain't treated me fair, Mr. Clithero," he grumbled, as he went. His little eyes shot malice. He muttered something else under his breath—a remark that was evidently not intended for Mostyn's ears; nor did the latter, who had turned to ring the bell for Frazer, notice the clenched fists or the vindictive look.

At the door the jockey halted once more. "Look 'ere," he growled, "you're not a-goin' to say anythin' about this? I trust you as a gentleman."

"You may cheat your master, for all I care," said Mostyn, "as long as you don't do it for me. That's his own look out, not mine, but remember that I have nothing to do with you or with your dirty tricks. Now go!" Once more he pointed to the door, and the next moment, mouthing an ugly word under his breath, the jockey was gone.

As for Mostyn, he stood for a moment, breathing hard, his teeth tightly clenched together; then he threw himself down upon a chair, leaning his elbows upon the table, and pressing his hands to his forehead.

"My God!" he muttered to himself, "and there was a moment when I might have yielded!"

CHAPTER XVII.

MOSTYN IS GIVEN ANOTHER CHANCE.

The following morning Pierce Trelawny appeared at breakfast with a pale face and a look of determination about his lips.

Mostyn, who was already seated at the table, glanced up, mystified at his friend's unwonted appearance.

Pierce poured himself out a cup of coffee before he responded, Mostyn watching him the while with increasing anxiety. "You haven't got bad news, have you?" he asked.

"It's about Cicely," Pierce explained at last. There was a heavy frown upon his brow. "Look here, Mostyn, I can't stand this sort of thing any longer—something has got to be done. Cicely has written to me. Oh, it's the first letter she has written." He laughed hoarsely. "We have kept to our promise right enough up till now, but matters have come to a crisis."

"Tell me," said Mostyn, drawing his chair nearer to that of his friend with that display of sympathy which was with him so charming a characteristic. "But I can guess," he added with a melancholy shake of the head. "Cicely finds it impossible to get on at home, even for the month or two that remain."

"That's just it," said Pierce, tossing the letter over to his friend. "Read what she says for yourself. It makes one's blood boil, that any girl can be treated in such a fashion, and I tell you I've made up my mind to take matters into my own hands."

Mostyn read the letter through carefully, the frown deepening on his brow as he came to the end. Cicely had penned the epistle under the stress of deep emotion, and the page was blotted here and there where her tears had fallen upon it. The gist of her letter was that she could stay no longer at home—that her father's insults and cruelty had become unbearable—that he had even raised his hand against her. It was in her very misery of spirit that she had at last yielded to the temptation to write to Pierce, whom she loved so utterly, so devotedly. She had been seized by a terrible fear, too, a fear which had haunted her for weeks and months, that his love for her was on the wane; she could bear it no longer, and so in her misery she had broken her promise. Would he come to her? The request was repeated over and over again, in the course of the letter. She wanted his comfort—his support—his kiss—and if she were denied these any longer, she feared her health would break down.

"I'm going to her—I'm going to her to-day!" Pierce rose from the table, having swallowed his coffee almost at a gulp, and eaten nothing. He pushed his chair back viciously and began parading the room with long, angry strides. "I'm not going to be kept from Cicely another day, and I don't care a hang what my father, or anybody else, may do. It was a shame—an infernal shame—to keep us apart, and I've suffered more than you can guess, Mostyn. We love each other, and what do you think it has been to me to know that she has been left with that infernal old—— I beg your pardon, Mostyn," he added hastily, "but I'm so upset I hardly know what I'm saying."

"Why shouldn't Cicely come to me?" suggested Mostyn, who was trying to keep his head cool. "She could stay here at the Grange till after her twenty-first birthday. Wouldn't that satisfy your father?"

Pierce wheeled round sharply and indignantly. "And I not see her all the time," he exclaimed, "just because of a silly fad of a silly old man! And how could you and I go about together, Mostyn, if she were with you? No, that won't do either. I've made up my mind. I'm going straight to London; yes, to-day, in spite of the race, in spite of everything, and I'm going to beard the lion in his den. I'm going to take Cicely out of his clutches—carry her off by force if needs be. She can stay with my aunt, Lady Fenton, who knows her and is fond of her, and who will do anything for me. Cicely shall stay there till we can be married, and that shall be just as soon as ever I can get the licence."

"He must do as he pleases," was the tempestuous reply. "I'm not going to worry myself about him. He can cut me off if he likes, just as yours did you. I've got a little money of my own, thank God! enough to live on quietly somewhere in the suburbs." He made a wry face as he spoke. "It'll be a bit of a change, but I shall have to lump that, and I daresay Cicely won't mind. There, Mostyn, old chap"—he came and stood by his friend's side—"You must forgive me if I'm excited, but you can see how it is and understand what I feel. I'm sorry that I shan't be with you at the races, but I should be a shockingly poor companion for you if I were. I can't be of any service, either, there's that at least to be said."

And so at last matters were settled, though it was not without further parley. Mostyn succeeded in calming his friend after a while, and they sat down together and talked the matter out seriously and reasonably. Their deliberations, however, brought them to no new conclusion. Pierce's mind was made up, and he was quite prepared to defy his father and to bear the consequences.

"You'll come for the wedding, Mostyn, won't you?" he asked, when the sitting came to an end. "It'll have to be an absolutely quiet affair. Lady Fenton and yourself will be the only two to be present. Cicely will be my wife long before Cipher wins the Derby for you."

"I can quite believe that," commented Mostyn drily, though he understood the sense in which the remark had been intended. "Anyway, Pierce, I wish you luck, and I'm glad that you are going to do something to make Cicely happy."

Thus it came about that, later that day, Mostyn found himself without his friend in the paddock of the Newmarket racecourse. He missed Pierce badly, for this was the first time that they had not been together when one of the races in which they were interested had been decided.

There were, however, many faces that he knew. Rada and Captain Armitage had been driven over by Jack Treves. The latter had been settled at Partinborough for the last month or two, and had done his best to monopolise Rada. He had not intruded his company upon Mostyn, though, of course, it was inevitable that the two men should meet now and then. On these occasions Jack was surly, his malice but thinly veiled. Of Rada herself Mostyn had lately seen but little. A sense of restraint had arisen between them, and half instinctively they had avoided each other. But now she came to his side, and slipped a little soft hand into his. Just as soft as the hand were the dark eyes he looked into, the smile that played about her lips, and the tone in which she addressed him.

"I do hope you'll win to-day, Mostyn," she murmured. "Asmodeus is a fine horse, and should make a fight for it. At any rate I wish you success, I do indeed."

There was something in the girl's expression, something beyond the softness and tenderness which he had already noticed, that made Mostyn scrutinise her face more carefully. There were black rims under her eyes, and he could have sworn that she had been crying and that quite recently.

He felt instinctively, too, that in this gentleness of demeanour, so unusual to the wayward girl, there was something of appeal, and of appeal directed to himself. It was as though she wanted him to understand more than she dared say.

He looked down pitifully into the girl's dark eyes. "Rada," he whispered, "you are not happy. I have been certain of it for a long time. Will you tell me what has happened? Oh"—he hesitated—"is it because——"

"Oh! I wish I could speak to you," she sighed. "I've wanted to ever so many times." She hung her head, evidently struggling with her pride. "Oh, you don't know," she cried at last, clasping her hands together, "what it has been like for me! There is no one that I can talk to—no one who can sympathise with me."

"Why not have come to me?" asked Mostyn reproachfully. "Are we not good friends?"

"Good friends, yes!" Her words were bitter. "But that it must be you to whom I have to come and admit that I have been a silly little fool—oh! the silliest little donkey ever born! Don't you understand how it hurts me—how it lowers me in my own eyes?"

"Never mind that," said Mostyn pitifully. "You poor little thing, don't you think that after all this time I have got to know you better, and that I can make allowance for your whims and all those wayward tricks of yours? Tell me the truth, Rada." He trembled as he spoke, for he felt that he had no right to put the question since Rada could not be for him. "You don't love Jack Treves; you don't want to marry him?"

Rada shook her head, and then fixed her eyes upon her race-card as though she were intensely interested in it. These two, who were talking of matters of such vital interest to them both, stood there in the midst of the pushing throng of the paddock. They spoke in lowered tones, and now and again, when anyone passed close to them or came to a halt by the railing where they stood, Mostyn would make some remark in a louder voice in order to make it appear that they were merely discussing the races.

"He has been a brute to me," she murmured, "a brute. Just now, driving to the course, he insulted me; he—he made me cry. Love him?" She stamped her little foot. "I hate him!" This time the words were genuine; they came from her heart.

"And it was all because of that wretched thousand pounds, and because of your pride. Oh, Rada! Rada! But it isn't too late," he went on. "Thank God for that. You are not bound to the man." Though he himself could never ask her to be his wife, Mostyn reflected quickly, yet she was not obliged to marry that scamp, that bounder, Jack.

"I'm not sure that he wants to marry me." She sighed wearily. "He's always comparing me to Daisy Simpson—think of that! He says she's so much smarter than I. But it's his father and my father who insist that we shall be married. Old Mr. Treves wants his son to marry a lady, you see, and my father—well, you know it's a question of money with him. Far more has been borrowed than we can ever repay." She flushed as she made the admission.

"I only know that you mustn't marry a man you don't love!" cried Mostyn heatedly. "Surely the money can be found. Castor will bring you in enough if he wins the Derby. Then there's that thousand pounds you paid me: I've never touched the wretched notes. They're still lying at the Grange in my safe—

"No, no, no!" interrupted Rada. "I couldn't accept any money from you; indeed I couldn't, not a single penny. I should never forgive myself, and it would be worse than the other. No," she repeated despairingly, "there is no help for it." She paused, then broke into a laugh that grated upon Mostyn's ears. "What does it matter after all?" She was choking down a sob. "There's no one who cares what becomes of me; it doesn't matter a scrap to anyone if I marry Jack or not——"

Mostyn clenched his fists. "You're wrong, Rada," he said with all the energy he could express. "I care. The fellow's not worthy of you. Besides, he's a bounder and a scamp——"

"Who's a bounder and a scamp?" Mostyn looked up quickly and Rada gave a little cry, for Jack Treves, who had approached unseen by either of them, was standing close by. He took Rada viciously by the arm; then turned scowling upon Mostyn. "Who's a scamp," he repeated, "and what were you two talking about?"

"I've had enough of Mr. Clithero and you," said Jack roughly. "The sooner you both understand that, the better. I'm sick of Clithero hanging about you and making mischief between us. I'd lay any odds that's what he was doing when I came up." He turned again sharply upon Mostyn. "Who is the scamp you were talking about?" he asked again aggressively.

"You!" replied Mostyn with fine nonchalance. "I was talking about you. I just said what I thought."

Jack Treves took a step forward, his fists clenched. His face was purple and congested. But no blow fell; he had had his experience, and did not wish to repeat it.

Already the little scene had attracted some attention, although it was only among the immediate bystanders. But these, if they expected a fight, were doomed to disappointment. Jack stood scowling, then muttering "This isn't the place for a scrap; but I'll be even with you, for God I will!" he slipped his hand under Rada's arm and unceremoniously bustled her away.

The onlookers, robbed of their fun, growled disapproval and dispersed likewise. One of them, however, whom Mostyn had not noticed before, since he had kept himself well in the background, remained. Mostyn recognised the evil and malicious face of the jockey, Ted Wilson.

The little man was dressed as Mostyn had seen him the night before. He wore the same tightly-fitting covert coat with big shiny pearl buttons, but he had replaced the cap by a bowler hat, pressed down well on the back of his head.

"I wish 'e'd gone for yer!" Wilson muttered between his teeth, drawing a few steps nearer. "I wish 'e'd thrashed yer, Gawd 'elp me I do!"

This was a fresh attack, and one which Mostyn had not expected. He supposed the jockey was still incensed because his proposition had been refused, and, not desiring any further discussion on the subject, he turned away without deigning a reply. Wilson, however, followed at his heels, yapping and snarling like a mongrel cur. "A low down trick you played me," he muttered. "What did you want to do it for? The Lord knows I 'aven't done you no 'arm. But to give a chap away and get 'im the sack—why, you ought to be bloomin' well ashamed of yerself!"

"Why," screeched the indignant little man, "just listen to 'im! As if 'e didn't know! Wot should I 'av got the sack for if you 'adn't split to my boss? Given me the chuck without a word of explanation, 'e 'as, and not more'n a couple of hours ago. Why should 'e 'ave done it if you 'adn't rounded on me? D—— 'im for a dirty Jew! and d—— you too for——"

The jockey's language was charged with strange oaths, and there was a lurid monotony about his epithets. However, he appeared to have a grievance, and that being so, some explanation seemed due to him. The refinement of Mostyn's speech sounded almost ridiculous when taken in conjunction with that of the jockey.

"I assure you that you are absolutely mistaken if you think that I have had anything to do with your discharge, since I understand that you have been discharged. This is the first I have heard of it, and I have not the smallest idea why Mr. Isaacson should have acted so."

"You're a liar!" retorted Wilson. "Is it likely that Isaacson would have sacked me, an' put up a chap like Jones, who may lose the race for 'im, if 'e 'adn't thought that I might ride crook? Do yer think I don't see through yer little game?" His narrow eyes sparkled with spite and malice as he stared up into Mostyn's face. "Got me the chuck, yer did, so that Don Quixote might be handicapped and yer own 'orse 'ave a better charnce! Oh, you're a sharp 'un, you are, but, strike me pink! I'll be even with yer for it, Mr. Clithero, sir, if not to-day, then some other time. Ted Wilson ain't the man not to get a bit of 'is own back, you can bet your bottom dollar on that. My friend, Jack Treves"—he accented the words—"'as got 'is knife into yer, too, I see, and between the pair of us I'll lay you come off bad in the end."

He had been speaking so volubly that Mostyn had not been able to get a word in. Now, once more, and with all the patience he could muster, he sought to convince the angry jockey that he was quite innocent of the offence with which he was charged. But argument was futile, as he quickly found out. Wilson was convinced that he had Mostyn to thank for what had happened.

It was some time before Mostyn could throw off his adversary, and it was only with renewed threats of vengeance, and because he saw no less a person than Mr. Isaacson himself approaching, in the company of Sir Roderick Macphane, that Wilson at last took himself off, and disappeared in the direction of the nearest bar.

Mostyn reflected that he had another enemy to contend with, and one who was even more likely than Jack Treves to hit below the belt. Luckily, Asmodeus was quite safe in the charge of Stanhope, and Mostyn could not conceive of any other way by which he could be damaged; this since he was not afraid of personal attack. He did not worry himself, therefore, when, later in the day, he saw Wilson in the company of Jack, and realised that the jockey had spoken the truth when he mentioned Treves as his friend.

Mostyn looked up in response to a hearty slap on the back, and found himself confronted by the smiling face of Sir Roderick Macphane. It was a pleasure after the scowls with which he had been met that day to look upon the genial face of the old baronet. Behind Sir Roderick stood a tall man, of Jewish cast of features, whom Mostyn recognised at once, though he had never met the man, as David Isaacson, the owner of Don Quixote.

"Mr. Isaacson wished to be introduced to you, Mostyn," Sir Roderick said, "and so, as I caught sight of you ten minutes ago, I brought him up. You are opponents to-day, of course, but that's no reason why two sportsmen shouldn't know each other. I won't wish good luck to the best man," he added heartily, "but to the best horse, and as matters stand, it promises to be a good race."

The Jew extended his hand to Mostyn and smiled, showing a straight row of white teeth. He was not ill-looking, and there was very little to suggest the hardness with which he had been accredited as a money-lender. It was a little surprising to find him on such good terms with Sir Roderick, but then "Old Rory" was "hail fellow well met" with all the world.

"It's even money on the horses," Isaacson remarked; "I don't suppose one stands a better chance than the other." He turned to Mostyn, scrutinising him rather closely. His voice was not unpleasant, though it possessed the Jewish rasp. "You know, of course," he continued, "that I had to dismiss my jockey, Wilson, at a moment's notice this morning, and that I've put up Jones in his place. Jones is a smart man, but, of course, the handicap is a pretty severe one. You see, Mr. Clithero, I have reasons to believe that Wilson wished to pull my horse so that yours might win. I got my knowledge in rather a roundabout way. It appears that someone has backed Asmodeus pretty heavily, and when this person found that Don Quixote was the favourite he approached Wilson and offered to pay him to pull the horse. I understand that Wilson had consented to do so; so, as you may imagine, I fired him this morning, and I shall probably place the whole matter before the stewards. It was the intermediary who acted between the backer and Wilson who gave the story away to one of my own men, and that's how it came out. It's bad luck on me," he added, "but I shan't grudge you the race, Mr. Clithero, if luck comes your way."

Mostyn saw how it was. "The little skunk!" he muttered to himself as he thought of Wilson. "He was going to pull the horse whatever happened, but thought he might make a bit more out of me at the same time. But he over-reached himself, and has been given away by one of his pals. And he'll never believe that I didn't betray him; he'll loathe me none the less if the truth comes out."

Sir Roderick had a luncheon party that day, holding, as usual, open house to all the friends he might happen to meet. Here, among smiling, happy faces, Mostyn forgot some of his troubles of the morning; moreover, he was keenly excited about the race, for it seemed, indeed, that Asmodeus stood an excellent chance of winning. Don Quixote had naturally gone down in the betting.

Sir Roderick was keenly interested, and discussed the whole matter with the young man.

"By Jove! Mostyn," he opined, "you've got to win this time, or I don't know how you'll pocket your cash. Cipher's not going to win the Derby for you, you know"—he shook his head prophetically—"Cipher can't get away from Castor, to say nothing of my Pollux."

To this Mostyn agreed. He knew that it was true. Castor and Pollux were the two colts who gave real promise for the coming Derby. They had never met, and yet they were both unbeaten, each holding a record of some half-dozen victories in the course of the year.

"Jove! what an extraordinary Derby it'll be," Mostyn commented, trying to distract his thoughts from the excitement of the moment. "Two horses, Castor and Pollux, so exactly alike, as I understand them to be, both having the same sire, both boasting similar records, and not a line to go upon to show which is the better! It'll be a Derby worth seeing, Sir Roderick."

The baronet agreed. Nevertheless, as was only to be expected, he favoured his own horse. "Not that I care so much about winning," he observed with his broad, genial smile. "One Derby should be enough for any man. Hipponous pulled that off for me as well as the Leger. I'm far keener now," he added bluffly, "upon trying to drive sense into the noddles of all those Socialists, Radicals, Home Rulers, and agitators that grow up like weeds about us. A lot of disloyal fellows who are so blind that they can't hear sense when it's talked to them. They simply don't know upon which side their bread is feathered, and they are only playing to butter their own nests!"

It was a muddled metaphor worthy of "Old Rory" at his best. Mostyn could not refrain from laughing, as did Sir Roderick himself when he realised what he had said. He always roared over his own tangled speeches, even in Parliament, enjoying them quite as much as anyone else.

He had certainly been very much to the fore at Westminster of late, and his wild attacks upon the Government had added much to the enlivenment of a dull session. Yet "Old Rory" was more popular than ever, and that with all parties in the House.

Time passed pleasantly enough till the bell rang and the course was cleared for the big race. Mostyn remained in the paddock till Asmodeus, a fine bay, long of limb and strong of barrel, strode proudly out and was greeted by a cheer from the crowd as he galloped easily past the Grand Stand.

The puce and black diamonds of Mostyn's colours were quickly put in the shade by an aggressive vision of gold as Asmodeus was followed by Don Quixote, and now the crowd cheered again, though in a minor key. The horse had been heavily backed, and there was no little discontent at the fall in his price that morning; people were asking each other the reason for the sudden change of jockey. Isaacson was unpopular, and there was considerable prejudice against him, wholly without reason; whereas Mostyn, who in barely a year had become so prominent a figure upon racecourses, stood high in popular favour.

"It's a match between you and me, Clithero," Isaacson said as the two men took up their places to watch the race. "They're off," he added a moment later, levelling his glasses. "A good start, what?"

Mostyn remembered little of that race. He stood, indeed, his field-glasses raised, to all outward appearance as calm and placid as Isaacson himself. He followed the horses as they ran, he marked the failure of Bouncing Boy, he even commented upon the riding of the jockey who was up on Wisdom, a chestnut heavily backed for a place, and who was palpably giving the horse his head over much; but all the while he was staring through a mist: it was as though a fog had settled over the course, a fog which his eyes could penetrate but which made everything appear contorted, disproportionate, ridiculous. Somehow the thought came to him of that face which he had seen peering through the window at the Grange; every object he looked upon was disfigured in just the same way. There were men and women close by at whom he could have laughed, so absurd did they appear. And all the while there was a great thumping going on in his ears like the working of a vast machine; it was so loud that he could hardly hear the shouting of the crowd.

Asmodeus was leading; he knew that. Asmodeus had been leading for quite a long time. Don Quixote, with his glitter of gold, was several lengths behind, and there were two or three horses in between. Which were they? Mostyn tried to distinguish them but failed. What did it matter? Asmodeus was leading.

Suddenly the thumping that was the beating of his heart stopped. It was like the sudden cessation of work in a factory or the stopping of the engines on board a steamer. Mostyn swayed a little from side to side; he could imagine the rolling of a vessel. Asmodeus was no longer in the front. What did that matter? Stanhope was holding him in. There was time enough yet for a spurt.

There was a cold wind blowing that afternoon, and the sky was grey. A drizzling rain began to fall. Here and there umbrellas made their appearance till angry protests from the crowd compelled them to be lowered. Mostyn noticed all these minor events through the mist that rendered everything so grotesque to his view.

The horses were near by now, very near. They had swung round the bend and were nearly level with the Grand Stand. Asmodeus had dropped still further behind; there were several of his opponents who had caught up and passed him. The glitter of gold was to the fore. Don Quixote led.

How the crowd was roaring! As a rule this was music to Mostyn's ears, but to-day it was a fantastic discord. He could distinguish nothing, not a single articulate word. Why on earth did not Stanhope spurt? Surely, surely he was waiting too long?

Mostyn's brow was wet. He did not know if this was due to perspiration or to the rain; he could not say if he felt hot or cold. This was his last chance—literally his last chance—and still that spurt was delayed.

Ah! Stanhope is giving Asmodeus his head now! "Come on, Asmodeus—brave horse!—for the love of heaven, come!" The chestnut is passed; that is good: now another is held and left behind; now another. Asmodeus has forged into the second place, but the winning-post is close at hand, and Don Quixote of the maddening, aggressive gold is still foremost. Curse the gold!

It was a brave effort, but it failed, for Don Quixote, too, was capable of a spurt. All but overhauled, the horse seemed to gather his whole strength into that supreme moment. Once more he shot ahead—yellow, huge and grotesque to Mostyn's eyes—and passed the winning-post just a palpable length ahead.

He descended from the chair upon which he had been standing, quite forgetting that Isaacson was by his side, and strolled away. The rain beat in his face, his cheeks were dripping with moisture, but it did not occur to him to put up his umbrella. Now and then he collided with someone in the crowd and muttered an apology without looking round.

A heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder. He recognised the voice of Sir Roderick.

"Mostyn, my boy, this is a knock. I didn't expect it. With Jones up on Don Quixote I thought Asmodeus would win. But look here; you mustn't give in. I've got a plan for you: it isn't a cert, but it'll give you a sporting chance. Now, understand, I'll take no denial. Pollux shall run for you in the Derby—and Pollux is as good a horse as Castor. Come along and we'll talk it over."

He led Mostyn away. The latter was still too dazed to understand clearly what had been said to him.

CHAPTER XVIII.

MOSTYN MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT.

It was early afternoon of the first day of the Epsom Summer Meeting. Mostyn had just finished lunch, of which he had partaken in the solitude of his Jermyn Street chambers. He had not been tempted down to Epsom that day, for he had had a hard week's work, and he wished to keep all his strength in reserve for the morrow, the great Derby Day that was to decide his fate.

Pollux, of course, was at Epsom, in the charge of Joseph Dean, the trainer who had had the care of him from the first. Pollux was to be ridden by Fred Martin, now completely recovered, who, upon this occasion, would sport the puce and black of Mostyn's colours instead of the scarlet and silver of Sir Roderick's.

Never, perhaps, in the history of the great race had so much popular interest been aroused. There was no first favourite, but, instead, there were two horses who would both go to the post with unbroken records, and between which, upon form, there was not a line to choose. As a result, the two horses naturally stood even in the betting; it was two to one against either of them, and there was a considerable drop between this and the betting upon the next horse, Pendragon, who was third in popular estimation.

Then, not only did Castor and Pollux stand level in the betting, but the similarity of the two animals, even their names, which betokened kinship, could not fail to arouse interest. Those who had seen them together at Epsom—now that they had actually met for the first time—reported them as being so exactly alike that they could hardly be recognised apart. They were both tall, black horses, and there was nothing to choose between them as regarded height or breadth or muscle.

Perhaps, just as much as the horses, the owners excited attention. Castor was the property of a girl, and one so young as to seem totally out of place in the racing world. Pollux, which everyone knew to have belonged to popular and genial "Old Rory," had been suddenly transferred, little more than three weeks ago, to Mostyn Clithero, that meteoric young man whose prowess upon the race-course was so remarkable, and who had been buying horses wildly and madly all over the country, and who seemed bent, for no explicable reason, upon making a name for himself upon the Turf.

Mostyn sat musing over the events of the past few weeks, as well as on those which were still concealed by the obscurity of the future. Whatever the result might be, at least this could be said—he had had his sporting chance, and he had taken it like a sportsman. If he failed, it was through the chance of war, not through any fault of his. The morrow might see him a vastly wealthy man or a pauper. Had it not been for Sir Roderick, there would have been no doubt as to the issue weeks ago, for Mostyn had indeed lost his last chance when Asmodeus failed for the Guineas. It had taken all the kind-hearted baronet's eloquence, as it was, to induce Mostyn to accept Pollux, and in the end the young man would only yield by striking a particularly hard bargain for himself in the event of the colt winning. "Old Rory" had been forced to take up a selfish line. "Heavenly powers, lad!" he had cried at last, testily, "aren't your millions worth more than the blessed Derby stakes?" And Mostyn had been constrained to see it in this light.

The worst of it was that he was thrown into such direct antagonism to Rada. The race lay between him and her—there was no doubt about that.

He would have liked to tell her the whole truth, so that she should not misunderstand his motives, as she was bound to do. But it was impossible for him to speak now—for the girl's own sake he saw that it was impossible. To win the Derby with Castor was her dream, her ambition, the one thing she asked of life. Why should he make her unhappy, as she was bound to be if she knew how great a loss he would suffer from her success? She could not help him in any way—she could not scratch Castor even if she wished to do so—there was far too much money already involved upon the colt.

Of course, she had misunderstood, "So you have bought Pollux!" she had cried. "It makes no difference to my chances, of course, but I didn't think that you"—there was a world of reproach in her tone—"would have fought me to the end. I shall hate you if Pollux wins—I shall really hate you." There was something of the old defiance in her tone.

"Rada," he had said, striving hard to give her a hint, "remember our wager. It was your life or my life. If Pollux wins——" If Pollux won, he could claim his reward, he could ask Rada to marry him; if Pollux failed, she was lost to him for ever—he would be a beggar.

But Rada interrupted him. She would not understand. She bit her lip and stamped her foot. "So you are still thinking of that foolish challenge?" she cried. "You are still fighting to win a Derby before me? I think you are mean, mean and cowardly. I—I——" She had broken off and run away from him, but he was certain that there were tears in her eyes, and he had hated himself for the pain he gave her. But there was nothing to be done. He must wait, bear her disdain, till after the Derby, and then if Pollux won he could explain. If Pollux lost, why, then, everything must go. It didn't matter.

He left for London the next day, and did not see Rada again. But he was bound to meet her at Epsom—he thought of the meeting with mingled feelings.

It was as he mused thus, that visitors, who turned out to be Pierce and Cicely, were announced. They had been married now for some three weeks, and they had but just returned to London from a visit which they had been paying to Pierce's father in Worcestershire. They had gone down in fear and trepidation as to the manner in which they would be received by the bluff and rather choleric old squire.

The latter had made no sign when the news reached him of his son's intention to disobey the strict injunctions laid upon him. The marriage had taken place just as Pierce had schemed it out, and the two young people had gone to Paris for a brief honeymoon. While there, Pierce had received a summons, worded with characteristic brevity, to return to England with his wife, and to present himself at the parental domain. So much Mostyn knew; of the result of their visit he had not yet heard a word.

Evidently nothing very tragic had occurred, for Pierce and Cicely entered laughing, and palpably in the best of spirits. Mostyn kissed his sister affectionately; she looked charming as a young bride, and there was colour in her cheeks such as he had not seen there for many a long day. Pierce, too, scrupulously dressed as ever, seemed particularly well satisfied with himself and with the world at large.

"Well, how is it?" asked Mostyn. "Have you been forgiven and taken back to the fold?"

Pierce sank down into a chair, his sides shaking with laughter. "You will hardly believe it, Mostyn," he said as soon as he could find his breath, "but the sly old boy was having a joke with me all the time! He wanted me to run off with Cicely against his express will. He wanted to see if I would have the pluck to do it! Think of that—there's a facetious old sportsman for you! You remember how he threatened me, how he gave me to understand that all sorts of penalties would fall upon my unhappy head if I disobeyed him; of course, I imagined that I should be cut off with the proverbial shilling, and all the rest of it, and the old chap knew that I would think so. All the time he was laughing in his sleeve and simply pining to be disobeyed—just wanted to prove my mettle—that's what he said himself, roaring with laughter, and as pleased as Punch about it all. Oh, what an idiot I was to have waited all those months without so much as seeing Cicely, and I verily believe that if I had conscientiously allowed the year to pass the old governor would have disinherited me for that!"

Cicely, too, joined in the laughter that Pierce's story gave rise to; she was looking very happy, a little bashful, but her eyes were soft and gentle, and Mostyn went over and kissed her again, congratulating her now from the bottom of his heart, as well as Pierce, for the happy issue out of their troubles. All was well with them, at least, and, doubtful as he was as to his own position, he would not grudge them a fraction of their happiness.

After a little while, however, a slight cloud crossed Cicely's face. "We've so much to say about ourselves," she remarked penitently, "that we are quite forgetting about you, Mostyn, and about another matter—a very serious matter, too, which is troubling us, and which will trouble you when you hear of it."

"Never mind me," said Mostyn, "I'm all right. I stand as good a chance to win to-morrow as to lose, and what more than that can any man expect? We'll discuss my affairs later on. Tell me the trouble."

Mostyn shook his head. He had heard no news as to his father for several months. His time had been so wholly taken up that he had been unable to give his attention to anything except the matter in hand. "Is anything wrong?" he asked a little anxiously.

"Very, very wrong, I'm afraid," replied the girl, shaking her head ominously. "I shouldn't have heard anything about it any more than you have, only it came to my ears in a roundabout way when we were in Worcestershire. There was a man staying with the Pentons, who are neighbours of the Trelawnys, you know, and he knew James and Charles very well—I think he had some sort of connection with the bank; he told me all about the misfortunes which have suddenly befallen our father."

"Misfortunes?" queried Mostyn, puzzled. "I hadn't an idea that there was anything wrong. I should have thought that father was the very last man on earth to have got into any sort of trouble, and the bank—why, the bank must be as stable as any in London."

"Oh! it's not the bank, and it's nothing for which father is to blame," Cicely went on hurriedly. "It's James and Charles who've turned out wrong. Oh, isn't it sad?" she went on, "for you know how absolutely he believed in them; you and I were the black sheep, Mostyn, but they were everything that they should be."

"That's why they've gone wrong," put in Pierce, with a grunt of disapprobation. "A couple of beastly prigs. I always hated them, though they are your brothers, Sis. Well, there's one consolation, which is that your father must have found out his mistake by now, and recognised that he blundered when he turned you and Mostyn out of doors. It ought to have been the other two."

"Charles has run away with a ballet girl or some terribly impossible person," Cicely explained. "He induced father to make over a large sum of money to him, professing that he wanted it for that charitable work he pretended to be so interested in. I don't believe there was ever anything of the sort," she added indignantly; "it was only an excuse of Charles's to get a little more liberty while he was living at home."

"As soon as he had got his money," the girl went on, "he showed himself in his true colours. He laughed at father, and called him a pious old fraud, or something of the sort, which was wicked and cruel of him, for whatever he may be, our father is at least no hypocrite. Then Charles threw up his position at the bank, announced that he was going to marry the impossible person, and disappeared from home."

"So much for Charles," said Mostyn. He had very little sympathy with Charles. "What about James?"

"Ah! that's worse still, very much worse," Cicely continued, a little quiver at the sides of her lips proving that she was really moved. "James has been getting into money troubles, though how he can have managed it, I haven't the remotest idea. For, of course, he didn't gamble or bet or anything of that sort."

"Stock Exchange," interjected Pierce, his upper lip curving. "It's a deadly sin to back a race-horse, but you may stand to lose or win your thousands upon the rise or fall of stock. That's one of those things which your father may be able to explain, but which knocks the ordinary man silly."

"I suppose it was on the Stock Exchange," Cicely went on. "Anyhow, he lost a great deal of money, and at last it is supposed that he must have contrived to tamper with the books at the bank. Of course, he meant to put everything right, but, as usual, when the time came, he could not do so, and so he forged father's name to a bill, or whatever you call those dreadful things, for a large sum of money, and the worst of it is, that that bill has got into the hands of a man who knows the signature to be a forgery. You can see what terrible trouble there is, and father—I saw him yesterday—is nearly off his head with anxiety. He's all alone in that great house in Bryanston Square, for James, mean coward that he is, has absconded to America, and Charles hasn't been anywhere near the house."

"Is the sum so large," asked Mostyn, "that father is unable to settle with this man? I suppose, after all, it's only a question of money, and that if the bill is met, nothing will be said about the forged signature. If that's the case—-well, if Pollux wins to-morrow—there won't be much difficulty in pulling father out of this hole."

Cicely shook her head. "No, it isn't only a matter of money," she explained. "That's just the horrible part of it. It was because we thought that money might settle it that Pierce and I went to Bryanston Square last night. Then we learnt that the man who holds the bill is a bitter enemy of father's, and he vows that he'll show the whole thing up; it's no good offering to pay him, to meet the bill at maturity, or anything of that sort; he is a very rich man, and doesn't care what he loses. His one wish is to make things uncomfortable for the Clithero family, and he'll do it, too, for he's hard and cruel—a Jew."

"Yes." It was Pierce who volunteered the information. "It's Isaacson, the fellow who owns Don Quixote."

"Isaacson!" Mostyn wrinkled his brows. "Isaacson is a hard nut to crack, and, as you say, money doesn't mean much to him. He's on the way to becoming a millionaire as it is, and if he's got a private spite—

"It's both a private and a business spite, I believe," Cicely declared. "I heard father speak of him, I remember, about a year ago, and of a row there had been between them in the City. And then, after that, they met at some dinner-party or other, and there was a scene. Father expressed his opinion in his usual forcible way, and I expect Mr. Isaacson did so, too. Anyway, they have never forgiven each other, and this is the result. Isaacson will show James up for what he is, and the whole family will be discredited."

"According to father, we have already disgraced the family," remarked Mostyn with some bitterness.

"Ah!" Cicely lifted her fair head, and a tear glistened in her eye. "He is a changed man now, Mostyn. You would be sorry for him if you saw him, indeed you would. I believe he realises the mistakes he made. He asked me after you, and his voice shook as he spoke—he is just a poor, broken-down old man, and I think his health is giving way. The wheels of time have ground our revenge for us, Mostyn."

Mostyn sat for a moment, thinking deeply. "You are right, Cicely," he said. "He is our father, and he acted justly according to his lights. It's not for us to bear malice. I'll tell you what I'll do——" He started up from his chair. "I'll go and see Isaacson at once. He lives in Portman Square, I believe, and if he's not at Epsom it's very likely that I shall find him. I'm bound to see him at the Derby to-morrow if I miss him to-day, but one can't talk 'shop' down there. Of course, I don't know that I can do anything, but I'll have a try."

"And go to father afterwards, will you, Mostyn?" Cicely rested her hand upon her brother's arm. "He will see you, I'm sure of it. His eyes were quite wistful when he spoke of you, though he did not ask me to bring about a meeting. And he will be grateful when he knows that you have tried to help him. He's never needed to turn to anyone for help and comfort before, and it's that, I think, more than anything else, that has broken him."

And so it was decided, and, after making their arrangements for the following day, Pierce and Cicely took their departure. Cicely was to spend the whole day with her father, while Pierce was to meet Mostyn in Eaton Square, whence, as the year before, they were to go down to Epsom on Sir Roderick's coach.

Mostyn drove without any delay to David Isaacson's house, and he was lucky enough to find the financier at home. As he had expected, he found the house a particularly luxurious one. The door was swung open by two liveried and powdered flunkeys, while a grave butler appeared to enquire his business. The hall was lavishly decorated in marble, and the room into which Mostyn was shown, although not on a large scale, was suggestive, even to the very smallest item, of ostentatious wealth. Yet it was not so many years, as Mostyn knew, since David Isaacson had occupied humble little offices somewhere off Regent Street, living and sleeping in a couple of dingy rooms just over them.

"Ah! Mr. Clithero, I'm glad to see you." Isaacson, attired in a resplendent afternoon lounge suit, entered the room, a large cigar held in the corner of his mouth. He appeared a strange figure in the midst of the almost feminine luxury of his apartment, and yet there was something about the man which rather appealed to Mostyn. There was a good-humoured twinkle in his dark eyes, and a certain sincerity about his lips which rather belied his reputation for hardness. A sharp man of business, one who would insist upon his pound of flesh, but honest withal—so Mostyn summed him up. "Nice little place I've got here, eh?" The Jew gazed complacently round the ornate apartment, fully conscious of the immense value of the draperies, of the pictures, and of the various objects of art. There was hardly anything that was not a chef d'oeuvre in its way. "I am glad you have come to see me. But why not at Epsom? I should have thought that you would have been down for the first day's racing." He offered Mostyn a cigar, and then proceeded to discuss the prospects for the morrow's Derby.

"Fancy!" he said, as Mostyn, in obedience to his invitation, seated himself and lit the cigar which he had accepted. "When I heard there was a Clithero to see me, I fancied it was someone else altogether. It was lucky you gave my man your Christian name as well as your surname, for I shouldn't have been at home to any other Clithero. By the way, it never struck me before, and I hope you won't be insulted by the question—you're no relation to that blatant, conceited, self-righteous prig, old John Clithero, the banker, are you? But of course, it's not likely, a sportsman like you——"

"God of my fathers!" Isaacson muttered another exclamation under his breath, which Mostyn failed to understand, but which he took to be a Hebrew oath. "You the son of John Clithero? Well, I'd never have believed it—never! I'm sorry—I'm downright sorry, if I've offended you, but really, upon my word, you know, I never associated you with that lot. Now I come to think of it, though, I believe I did see something in the paper—but I forgot all about it, and I didn't know you then. There's no friendship between your father and me, Mr. Clithero," he went on, "but you—well, that's a different matter. I admire your pluck; a true sportsman always appeals to me." He had begun his apology awkwardly, but he ended it with candour, stretching out his hand, which Mostyn took readily enough.

"To think that you're a son of John Clithero!" the Jew repeated. "Well, that beats everything."

Mostyn took advantage of the opening thus offered him, to explain the object of his visit. He had nothing to say in defence of his brother, nor, very wisely perhaps, did he attempt to say much for his father, for it was palpable that Isaacson felt very strongly upon the subject of his supposed wrongs at the hands of John Clithero. He stated his case in simple words, and pleaded as though it were a personal favour that he was asking.

Isaacson did not allow Mostyn to conclude. He sat listening for a few minutes, chewing at his big cigar; then he started to his feet, crossed the room quickly, and rang the bell.

For a moment Mostyn fancied this to be an indication that the interview was terminated, that Isaacson would hear no more, but he was quickly undeceived by the smile upon the man's face and by his genial tone.

"Say no more about it, my boy," Isaacson cried heartily. "I've rung the bell for my secretary, and I'll ask him to look out the bill and hand it over to you. It's a different thing altogether now that I know you're concerned in the business. We are both of us sportsmen, what? and one sportsman isn't going to round on a friend or play a shabby trick. Old John's been taken down a peg or two as it is, I expect, and he'll feel it all the more when he knows that it's you who've pulled him out of the mire. You shall have the bill here and now."

"But——" faltered Mostyn, taken aback by Isaacson's generosity, "I'm not prepared to take up the bill immediately. It's for a large sum, and——"

"Oh, never mind taking up the bill! I'll trust you for that," responded the other. "Get the thing in your hands while you can, that's the best plan. This brother of yours has bolted to America, I understand. Well, let him stick there, for he's a good riddance to the country, and as to old John, I hope he'll learn his lesson, and show a little more charity in his dealings with the world."

As Isaacson spoke, the secretary entered the room in response to the bell, was given his instructions, and retired.

Isaacson seated himself once more by Mostyn's side, leaning forward and tapping him familiarly upon the knee. "Folks say I'm a hard man," he went on, "and perhaps I shouldn't be here if I hadn't refused to listen sometimes to the appeals that are made to me; but when it comes from you, Clithero, there's no thinking twice. You're straight as they make them, and I should be very sore if I felt I'd hurt you. I happen to know," he went on, lowering his voice, "that that infernal little jockey of mine, that rascal Wilson, tried to make a bit off you by promising to pull Don Quixote. That came to my ears through the same individual who gave Wilson away—also that you refused, and kicked the little scoundrel out. Well, though I never thought you would have been a party to such a trick, I liked you all the better for it, for, after all, you'd have run no danger, and you must be jolly keen on winning a big race, judging by the number of horses you've run in the course of a year. There, my boy, now you know all about it, and why it's a pleasure to me to hand you over the bill."

It was news to Mostyn to learn that Isaacson knew all about Wilson's proposal to him, and he flushed a little to think that, even for a moment, the Jew might have thought it possible for him to yield; but at the same time he remembered how he had been tempted, and the thought of this heightened the colour in his cheeks.

Wilson, he knew, had lost his licence as a consequence of Isaacson's complaint against him. The case had been clearly proved, and evidently there had been no necessity to bring Mostyn's name into the matter. Of Wilson himself, he had seen nothing more since the day of the Two Thousand Guineas, nor, indeed, had he had word with Jack Treves. The latter had studiously avoided him, even when the two men had met, as they were bound to meet, upon the day of the One Thousand Guineas, when Mostyn's filly had proved, as he expected, quite unequal to the task of even running into a place. If Wilson and Treves still thought of avenging themselves against Mostyn, they had, so far, made no move.

A quarter of an hour later, refusing the hearty invitation to return and dine, the incriminating document safely in his possession, Mostyn took his departure. He was anxious to proceed straight to his father's house, and to set the mind of John Clithero at rest. It would be strange to meet his father again, and he wondered how he would be received.

He stood on the doorstep while one of the gorgeously liveried men servants whistled sharply for a hansom. The house stood at the corner of the square, and presently Mostyn could hear the sound of rapidly approaching wheels, though he could not see the vehicle itself. It sounded to him, however, as if two hansoms were racing each other in answer to the summons.

At that moment a little child, a fair-haired baby girl, escaped from her nursemaid, whose attention had been distracted by the extravagant golden livery of the footman, and toddled into the road just as the two hansoms swept round the corner.

Mostyn saw the danger. With a shout he sprang forward and seized the little girl almost from under the horses' hoofs. He regained the curb, escaping almost by a miracle, but so quick had been his movements that, once out of danger, he slipped and fell, rolling over, his arm bent at an awkward angle beneath him.

The nursemaid, wailing with fear, gathered the little child into her arms, but Mostyn lay where he had fallen till the two footmen and a policeman came to his assistance.

He was not unconscious, and presently he moved and sat up. But his arm hung limply at his side and he realised a ghastly pain close to the shoulder.

Yet he tried to smile reassuringly into the faces of those who were bending over him. "It's all right," he murmured. "I'm quite safe, but—but I think I've broken my arm."

With which he promptly fainted away. They carried him back carefully into the house of David Isaacson.

CHAPTER XIX.

MOSTYN IS BETTER UNDERSTOOD.

The company had assembled, as the year before, at Sir Roderick Macphane's house in Eaton Square for the drive to the Derby. There were some new faces, but for the greater part the party was the same as that which had been present on the occasion of "Old Rory's" victory. Lord Caldershot had arrived early, just the same immaculately dressed Lord Caldershot, with eye-glass in eye and inordinately tall collar, uncomfortably tight round his neck. He was enquiring diligently if Miss Rada Armitage was to be present that day, ready to declare himself as before, her cavalier, all the more proud of being so because "the little minx is going to win the Derby, by Jove! Fancy a girl of her age owning a Derby winner!"

Rada was expected, and duly arrived, but Captain Armitage, who accompanied her, walked with the assistance of a stick, and had completely lost all his irresponsible gaiety of demeanour. He appeared morose and sullen, the result of a week or so of enforced abstinence from strong drink. He had, indeed, been very ill, and it was against the orders of the doctor that he had ventured out that day. But it was the Derby—Castor's Derby, Rada's Derby—and the temptation was too great for him.

"Where is Mr. Clithero, my hated rival?" smiled Rada, as Pierce Trelawny approached and shook hands with her, freeing her for the moment from the attentions of the assiduous Caldershot.

"Didn't you know?" Pierce shook his head sympathetically. "Poor Mostyn had a bad accident yesterday and broke his arm. He saved a little girl from being run over, with happy results as far as the child was concerned, but just the reverse for himself."

Rada paled as she listened. "He is not in danger?" she asked eagerly; then, reassured by Pierce's smile, she drew her breath in sharply. "Of course you wouldn't be here if he was. But how brave of him: he saved the child's life?"

"Yes, he saved the child's life," repeated Pierce. "He fell from his own momentum when he had got back upon the kerb. It was just outside David Isaacson's house, and they carried him inside and made him as comfortable as they could. He's there now; he'll be well in a week or so, but, of course, it was all up with the Derby. Poor chap, he won't see one of the finest races that we have been promised for years. His own horse, too, pitted against yours, Miss Armitage."

The girl said little, but the colour returned only slowly to her cheeks. A sense of faintness had come upon her when she had learnt of Mostyn's accident, and this had revealed to her, more forcibly than ever, how much she really cared.

She did care. What was the use of attempting to deceive herself? That day when Mostyn's lips had met hers she had learnt that she loved—yes, though she had torn herself away crying aloud that she hated him. Then he had gone away, and she had eagerly desired him to return. She had written to him, and, like a foolish man, he had taken her letter far more literally than she had intended it. She had expressed her desire to be friends, and had hinted her approval of Jack Treves because he had promised not to "bother" her with love-making that year. She would have broken with Jack, ready to defy him and her father, if Mostyn had spoken again, if he had shown any desire to be more than just the friend he now professed to be. She had given him plenty of hints—or thought she had—but Mostyn had been too blind to see them. So poor Rada had concluded that he did not care any more; that, if he had ever cared, the love he bore her had been killed, perhaps by her own folly.

There was a time when she had seen her way to paying off her debts, and her father's debts, to Jack Treves. Castor had done so well, and promised to do better in the future. But in the meanwhile fresh debts were incurred, so that, indeed, when she had opened her heart to Mostyn in the paddock at Newmarket, it was true that she was more closely bound to Jack than before. And yet she could not help thinking that the latter had grown tired of her—no wonder, perhaps, since she treated him with scant ceremony—and, as for herself, how sick and tired she had grown of a bond that galled and vexed her! She had come to hate Jack Treves: yet what did it matter what became of her since Mostyn had ceased to care?

"It's hard luck, isn't it," Pierce was saying, "but, after all, Mostyn is in good hands and will be quite all right. I'd have stayed behind with him, but he insisted that I must go to look after you. My wife is with Mostyn"—he lowered his voice—"and his father is with him, too," he continued. "You know that they have been on bad terms for the last year, and they have just been reconciled. Mostyn did something for his father, something that I can't tell you about, and which has saved old Mr. Clithero from a very awkward position. And now"—Pierce smiled—"the old man is at his son's bedside, in the house of a man whom he professed to loath and despise; and I verily believe that he, to whom racing has always been the devil's work, is as anxious as Mostyn himself for Pollux to pull off the Derby."

"Pollux won't," said Rada, with something of her old spirit. Whatever she might be feeling, her pride was in arms against anyone, and especially Pierce, guessing her secret. "I think it is mean of Mostyn to wish to beat me," she continued, her cheeks flushing now. "If he was so keen on carrying out his word he might have tried for the Derby next June. He gave himself five years. Besides, the whole thing was so silly; no one has taken it seriously but he."

Pierce noted the girl's flushed cheeks and he read the truth of her love in her eyes. He understood what she must feel, and how heartless Mostyn's conduct must seem to her, since she knew nothing of the will and of the incalculable importance it was for him that Pollux should win the race. Was it not for her sake, too, that Mostyn was depending upon Pollux? But she did not know—she could not know.

How he longed to explain! Could he not give her a hint? But he quickly found himself involved in totally unexpected difficulties.

"Don't be hard upon Mostyn, Miss Armitage," he ventured. "Really, I assure you, he hasn't done this out of ill-will to you. If only I could get you to feel that! Nor is it that silly wager which makes him so keen upon winning the Derby. It may look to you like spite, but believe me—try to believe me—it's quite the reverse." Poor Pierce stammered painfully. He wanted to do the right thing both by his friend and by Rada. He could see that the latter had been deeply wounded in her affection, and he felt that if by chance Pollux should win the race she might be too deeply offended with Mostyn to listen to any explanation. And yet it was for her as much as for his millions that Mostyn was fighting.

"I don't understand you, Mr. Trelawny," said Rada. "Please try to explain yourself." She tapped the floor impatiently with the toe of her little shoe. Her dark eyes were fixed upon Pierce, who felt particularly uncomfortable.

"Cares for me!" Despite her determination not to betray herself Rada could not help interrupting. "When he wants to be the one to rob me of my victory! If Pollux wins he will laugh at and mock me, because I laughed at and mocked him once: he will say that I challenged him to win a Derby before me, challenged him unfairly because I already had a horse in training. He wants to humiliate me—that's what he is playing for—and you say he cares!" Rada poured out her words tempestuously, though they were spoken in an undertone lest they should be overheard.

"Oh, how can I explain?" Poor Pierce was conscious by now of the slough into which he had blundered. He was quite unable to extricate himself, and only made matters worse by his attempts. "Mostyn loves you, Miss Armitage," he faltered. "It's for your sake that he wants Pollux to win; for your sake and——"

"For my sake!" Rada broke into a harsh laugh. "When he knows what this Derby means to me, that it is the ambition of my life! For my sake!"

"But it is!" Pierce had gone too far to withdraw. "I tell you Mostyn loves you. But unless Pollux wins"—he faltered and hesitated. Mostyn had bidden him keep the secret, from Rada most especially. For what would happen if she knew? The girl would be robbed of all her happiness in victory, should victory be hers. How could she rejoice knowing that her triumph meant the ruin of another?

"Yes," she prompted, "unless Pollux wins?" She had suddenly imagined that she understood the situation. Perhaps it was because Mostyn saw ruin staring him in the face that he had not ventured to speak to her again of his love. He had been foolishly spendthrift: she had scolded him often enough for his extravagance. What if he was making his last plunge—upon this Derby—and, if successful, meant to claim her?

She was trembling with excitement. She wanted to know everything and that immediately. "Go on!" she cried petulantly. "What will happen if Pollux loses?"

"A secret I mean to share," she said decidedly. Again she stamped her foot. "Tell me! I must know everything—I must."

The explanation that might have followed here—for Pierce saw no means of escape—was interrupted by a general movement in the direction of the coach. The party was ready to start. "You must sit by me and tell me about it as we go down," Rada commanded.

There was a slight difficulty, in consequence of this, when it came to allotting seats upon the coach. Rada stuck close to Pierce, in spite of all the efforts of Lord Caldershot to intervene. The latter found himself at last, very much to his chagrin, settled on the back seat in the company of a simpering young lady not at all to his taste, while on the other side he had the morose Captain Armitage, who, as a matter of fact, hardly uttered a word during the whole of the journey down.

Rada and Pierce were seated in front, and it was not long before the girl had elicited from her companion all that was to be told. She learnt the full story of Anthony Royce's will; learnt, too, the true reason why Mostyn, loving and desiring her as truly as ever, had been constrained to silence. Pierce, once having committed himself, had been as straw in her hands; and perhaps, since he saw that there was now every chance of the misunderstanding between the pair of lovers being cleared up, he was not, after all, so sorry that he had spoken.

"If Pollux wins it's all right," he muttered to himself, "and if Castor wins—well, I believe, though poor Mostyn will be ruined, Rada will want him to stick to her all the same. And Mostyn would never have thought of that. Perhaps it's just as well I spoke." In this way he sought to comfort himself for his indiscretion.

As for Rada, she was swayed by varying emotions. First and foremost came the knowledge that Mostyn loved her, that he had never ceased to love her. "I've been such a little cat to him," she said, penitently clasping her hands together, and quite careless now of revealing the truth of her own love. "But why didn't he tell me everything? Why should he have kept the secret from me? I'd have let him have Castor—I'd have done anything—anything. But it's only now"—she drew her breath quickly—"when it's too late, that I get to know the truth, and that only by bullying it out of you, Mr. Trelawny!" She dashed her hand to her eyes. "I feel that it's I—I—who am standing in his way of gaining all this money," she whispered, "and if Castor wins now—oh, I shall hate myself!"

"It's just that that Mostyn feared," said Pierce quickly. "That's why he wouldn't tell you. Castor had to run. Miss Armitage, you must just take it as a sporting chance. Things must be allowed to go on exactly as they are. There isn't a shade to choose between one horse or the other. Castor may win or Pollux may win; the one means a lot to you, the other means a lot to him. It's fair for both sides: the issue rests upon a race, a race where the chances are absolutely even. One couldn't have anything better or finer than that."

But Rada turned her head away, and Pierce could see by the quivering of her shoulders how deeply moved she was. It was a few moments before he ventured to speak again.

"You love Mostyn, Miss Armitage?" He lowered his voice, even though his conversation with the girl had passed quite unheeded, for she was occupying the outside seat, while his neighbour on the other side, a Parliamentary friend of Sir Roderick's, an Irishman like himself, was deeply engaged in discussing the question of cattle driving with a lady of prominence in London society.

"Perhaps I do," the girl admitted, in a curiously subdued tone of voice, "but I wouldn't own it, even to myself, at first. The more I knew it and felt it, the more I was compelled to struggle against it. That's the sort of girl I am—a hateful, wayward little creature altogether. But I'm suffering for it now, and I deserve to suffer."

She was crying very softly now, but it was a relief to her to have opened her heart, and for the rest of the way down she talked freely to Pierce, telling him of the life she had led with her father, the semi-savage life of so many years, giving him an insight into her character such as she had never allowed to any man.

They reached the course and took up their position under the hill, the coach being greeted, if anything, by more public interest than the year before. "Old Rory" himself was always an object to attract attention, but, on the present occasion, it was upon Rada that all eyes were fixed.

The girl looked so young, almost a child, and yet it was quite three years since she had registered her colours. The lemon and lavender quartered were already well known and recognised by most race-goers.

Sir Roderick made his traditional little speech very much in the same words as the year before, save that he ended up by wishing good-luck to Castor and to Pollux, and expressed a fervent wish that both horses might win. After that, as was usual, the company dispersed to follow their own pleasures. Captain Armitage alone remained stolidly seated in his place, and he shook his head savagely when the butler, who knew him well and was accustomed to administer to his fancies, handed him up a brimming glass of champagne. Champagne was strictly forbidden; Captain Armitage was allowed a little weak whiskey and water with his meals, and no more. It was with a curse muttered under his breath that he informed the butler of the fact, and requested a little plain soda-water instead.

Pierce stuck close to Rada that morning, though on one occasion he nearly came to high words with Lord Caldershot, who, as soon as the little party had begun to disperse, waited at the foot of the coach for Rada, eager that he should have the honour of conducting her to the paddock.

"There's a horse belonging to a friend of mine running in the first race, Miss Armitage," he drawled, "and I want you to come and have a look at it. You can't do better than back Galahad to win, and a shop. I'll get the money on for you, if you like," he added eagerly.

"Thank you," replied Rada coldly, "but I'm not going to back anything to-day. I've got quite enough interest in the one race. Mr. Trelawny has promised to walk with me to the paddock."

Lord Caldershot drew back, feeling unwarrantably snubbed, and was perforce obliged to continue his attentions to the gushing little damsel who had been his companion on the way down, and whom he regarded as altogether too inexperienced to merit the time which he had wasted upon her.

For the nonce Rada seemed to have lost all her reckless carelessness; she was quiet and subdued, and she went about her work with all the calm self-possession of a woman of the world. She interviewed her jockey and her trainer—old William Treves himself—who had brought Castor to Epsom, and who was prepared to stake his reputation upon the ultimate success of his stable. He would turn up his nose defiantly at all mention of Pollux, and the state of the betting did not influence him in the least any more than did the unbeaten record of Castor's adversary. As the horses paraded in the paddock, he would even point out to his cronies certain fancied defects about Pollux which were visible only to his imagination.

The absence of Mostyn Clithero, the owner of the latter horse, caused some remark, but the story of his accident had got abroad, and sympathy with him was very generally expressed. The reason why "Old Rory" should have disposed of his colt to that remarkably enthusiastic young sportsman was a matter for far greater speculation, and it was estimated that the sum paid by young Clithero must have been enormous.

The most astonishing stories had got abroad as to Mostyn's wealth and as to his desire to win a big race. His name was coupled with that of Rada, and there were many who had evolved a romance out of the rivalry of Castor and Pollux.

It was some time after lunch, and within an hour of the big race, when Rada, who was strolling in the enclosure with Pierce, suddenly stopped, gave a low laugh, and laid her hand upon her companion's arm, forcing him to stop. "Look there!" she whispered.

Pierce, following the direction of the girl's eyes, perceived Jack Treves, conspicuous for his flowery waistcoat, his tight-fitting trousers, the horsiness of his coat, and the peculiar angle at which his hat was tilted. He was leaning against the lower row of stalls in the Grand Stand, talking to a remarkably smart-looking woman, who wore a feather of exaggerated dimensions in her picture hat. One of her hands, ungloved—probably to show the many rings she was wearing—rested in close proximity to the big fingers of Jack Treves. The pair were laughing and talking, quite unconscious of being watched.

"It's Daisy Simpson," returned Rada. "Another hated rival," she added, with a return of her natural humour. "She's an old flame of Jack's. She used to live down at Partinborough, and they were great friends before, and after, he did me the honour of wanting to marry me. She went up to town and became an actress, or something of the sort. She calls herself Daisy Montague and she must be getting on remarkably well," Rada continued ingenuously, "to be able to flaunt about in such clothes as that; but I've always heard that people make a lot of money at the music halls."

Pierce glanced again quickly at the young woman in question. "Daisy Montague!" he repeated. "Ah, yes, I've heard of her." He smoothed his dark moustache with his hand, as if to hide the smile that curved his lips. "I've no doubt she's very clever," he remarked; "a light of the music halls. I'm quite sure that her talent has been appreciated."

"Jack doesn't look as if he was worrying about me over much, does he?" asked Rada, with a little laugh. "I've often had an idea that he's rather regretted being off with the old love. I never could understand why he preferred me. Miss Daisy is so much more his style. Look at him now. Why, he's positively fawning over her! They used to say that he treated her rather badly in the old days, but I suppose he admires her now she's successful."

At that moment Jack turned and recognised Rada. He raised his hat, then after a few words to Daisy, spoken in a quick undertone, he turned away and sauntered up to the couple.

"I've been on the look-out for you all day, Rada," he said jauntily. "Must just have missed you in the paddock an hour ago, but knew that I should have to run across you soon." He stared pointedly at Pierce, who, however, refused to take the hint.

"Where are you going to watch the race from?" Jack enquired, after an awkward pause.

"Oh, I say, that's not fair!" exclaimed Jack. "You promised to be with me to see the race, Rada, you know you did." He scowled offensively upon Pierce.

"I can't help it," said Rada easily. "I've come down with the party and I've got to be with them. You looked quite happy without me, Jack." She cast a glance in the direction of the stalls, where Daisy Simpson was now sunning herself, smiling upon a tall, fair man, who had just taken his place beside her. "I've no doubt that your friend over there will effectively fill my place," she added meaningly.

"Oh, you're jealous!" Jack exclaimed. "I can see that. But Daisy Simpson's a jolly fine girl, and I'm glad to have met her again." He spoke with intentional malice. "Now look here, Rada," he went on, "if you can't be with me to see the race I want a word with you here. I'll take you back to the coach afterwards. We'll have this matter out once and for all, see?"

"Very well." Rada turned to Pierce, who had been standing a little apart. "Will you excuse me for a few minutes, Mr. Trelawny?" she said. "If you'll go back to the coach I'll join you there very soon."

"Now I want to have a definite understanding with you, Miss Rada," Jack said roughly, after they had taken a few steps. "Do you mean to marry me, or don't you? I'm not the sort of man to be kept dangling for long at the end of a piece of string. If you want to cry off, say so. Clear up the money you and your father owe me and have done with it." He cast a furtive glance from under his heavy brows in the direction of Daisy Simpson. "I don't believe you care a hang for me, really," he went on, "while Daisy—well, I've just been having a chat with her and she's as fond of me now as ever she was. London's made a different woman of her too, as you can see for yourself. She's the kind of girl any chap might be proud of."

"No doubt you're quite right, Jack," said Rada. "I can quite understand Miss Simpson's attraction for you."

"Well, I'm talking straight to you, aren't I? If you want to give me the chuck, just say so. Though, mind you," he repeated threateningly, "I shall expect payment in full. That's plain enough, what?"

"It's very plain, Jack," replied Rada quietly, "and really I think I had better pay you the money. If Castor wins I can do so quite easily." A shade of anxiety crossed her brow as she spoke. If Castor won! Yes, it was upon that that she had been depending to escape from this foolish tangle in which she had involved herself. If Castor won she could pay Jack what she owed him, and be free. But then, on the other hand, if Castor won, what would be the consequence to Mostyn Clithero?

"Oh, Castor will win right enough." Jack tugged at his scrappy moustache and smiled maliciously. "You can take that as a tip from me, Rada, though it's your own horse we're talking about. Castor's going to win, my word upon it." He chuckled under his breath. "I've seen to that," he added.

Rada drew up abruptly, staring at her companion. "What did you say?" she asked quickly.

"Oh, nothing," responded Jack a trifle uneasily. "Only I've backed Castor pretty heavily myself. That's all I meant."

Rada was only half reassured, but she could elicit nothing more, though she questioned Jack closely. The latter was inclined to be rough, threatening, and impertinent. From his point of view he had been treated badly, and it made no difference that he himself was willing to cry off the engagement. He pointed out to Rada—a fact of which she was already aware—that her father's affairs were so involved that, even if Castor won, she would hardly be able to put them straight. It was not only to the Treves's that they were in debt; Captain Armitage had consistently raised money in any way that suggested itself, and now he was about to reap the harvest of his follies.

"I suppose you know your own affairs best," grumbled Jack, "but it's a fool's game to give me the chuck, I can tell you that. I suppose you're lookin' to Clithero—damn him!—to pull you through, but you're backin' a wrong 'un there, Rada. He'll come a smasher when Pollux fails to-day. No man can stand the pace at which he's been goin'; it's not in reason."

"Will you please take me back to the coach?" Rada spoke imperiously. "I have promised to be with Sir Roderick and Mr. Trelawny for the race. They will look after me then and afterwards."

Indeed, there was little time to spare. The bell was ringing; people were scurrying across the course. Rada and Jack had barely reached the other side when a low cry went up from the crowd and a black horse emerged from the paddock, a horse which was proclaimed by the puce and black of the jockey to be Mostyn Clithero's Pollux.

It was at that moment, as they stood watching for Castor to appear, that a rough-looking fellow pushed his way to Jack's side, thrust a note into his hand, and then remarking, "I've had a hunt for you, guv'nor," edged away again.

"What's that letter about?" Rada put the question as Jack read the communication. All her suspicions had returned to her. She felt possessed of a curious clairvoyant power, and knew that she had reason to be on her guard.

"It's nothing to do with you." Jack crushed the note in his hand, preparatory to thrusting it in his pocket.

With a sudden sharp movement, totally unexpected, Rada seized the paper. She hardly knew why she did so; she was impelled by the action of some unaccountable power.

"Give that to me. Curse you, what d'you mean by it?" Jack sought vainly to rescue his property, but since he could not exercise actual violence there under the Epsom Hill, he was powerless. Rada unfolded the crumpled paper and read the missive.

"It's all right, Jack. I've got Ben to do the job. Only found him this morning. It's all up with Pollux. We've wiped off our little debt, and you can turn your brass upon Castor. Meet you after the race—you know where." The note was signed "Ted."

For a moment Rada stood still, then she found tongue. "You blackguard!" But her breath was coming in deep gasps, and she could say no more.

"Look here, Rada," growled the man, "you've no right to read my letter. But let that pass. Since it's all for your good you won't be such a fool as to kick up a shindy. Your horse will win the Derby, and that's what you want. Give me that paper, and say no more about it."

He seized her arm. "Give it to me," he hissed. "Rada, if you make a fool of yourself, I swear before God that you shall suffer for it. I can ruin you and your father, and I'll do it."

"Let me go!" The girl struggled free. They were surrounded by a crowd, and the man was helpless. "If you dare to try and hold me, I'll strike you. Yes, here before everyone—I'll strike you with my fist in the face."

Jack swore under his breath. He hurled vile oaths at the girl, but he was powerless. As a cheer from the crowd proclaimed that Castor was galloping down the course, Rada, his owner, darting in and out wildly and ingloriously among vehicles of all kinds, sought the coach.

She failed to find it, but she ran into the arms of Pierce Trelawny, which was more to the point.

"I want you to come with me, Mr. Trelawny." She was gasping for breath. "You must come at once. I must see the stewards. There isn't a moment to be lost."

It was very evident, from the girl's demeanour, that the matter was one of vital importance. Pierce asked no useless questions, but placed himself unreservedly at Rada's disposition. He contrived to steer her, though not without difficulty, to the other side, and directed their course to the Grand Stand.

"There's going to be foul play," Rada panted as they walked. "Pollux is to be got at—I don't know how."

She made no direct reply, but muttered something under her breath. Pierce could not quite distinguish the words, but he thought he heard: "Castor will win—Castor is bound to win."

Upon the coach they wondered what had become of Rada, but assumed that she was with Pierce Trelawny, watching the race from the other side. She would want to be upon the spot to lead her horse in—if Castor should prove victorious.

The start was delayed longer than usual, owing to the vagaries of a bad-tempered colt. Sir Roderick, gazing through his field-glasses, stamped his feet with excitement.

"They're off!" he shouted at last, and for the rest of the race he kept up a running commentary of the principal events.

"Bad-tempered beast that—Prince Eugene—wasn't it? He's no good—not a bit of good. Won't be in it. Being left behind already, unless I'm mistaken. The rest are coming along nicely. Can't make out either of the favourites, though—they're too far off as yet. Who's that forging ahead? Green sleeves, and yellow, I fancy. It must be Candahar. He won't keep up that pace for long. Going well, though. Ah, here comes another—level with him now! Goliath, by Jove! Where the deuce are the favourites?"

He swept the field with his glasses, and presently gave vent to a shout. "Come along, Pollux!" He glanced down in sudden trepidation. "Oh, it's all right! Miss Armitage isn't there. I may cheer my own horse. Come along, Pollux!"

Castor and Pollux were running practically level. Some four or five horses were in advance of them, and about the same number followed behind. Between these, the two big black colts, suddenly revealed by the dividing up of the field, stood out conspicuously. The lemon and lavender—the puce and black diamonds—the two horses that might have been twins—Castor and Pollux—battling together for Rada and for Mostyn—shoulder to shoulder, like brethren, yet, in very truth, the sternest of adversaries.

On they came, running easily, each palpably being held in by his rider, reserving force till it should be needed. The rest of the field was straggling by now. Two or three, including Prince Eugene and Candahar, had already dropped far behind, "stony," and quite out of the running. Pendragon was leading and looked like making a brave fight.

One by one the horses that were in advance of the favourites were overtaken, passed, and left behind. The crowd roared its delight at each succeeding achievement, for Castor and Pollux, once they elected to take the foremost place, would certainly not again drop behind. And still they came neck to neck and shoulder to shoulder.

Near Tattenham Corner, Pendragon still held the lead. The tussle was short and sharp. Castor and Pollux made a simultaneous spurt, and forged to the front amid the uproarious cheers of the vast, heaving mass of humanity that crowded Epsom Downs. It was a struggle now between the favourites, for there was none to challenge their advantage. But what a struggle! what a contest! what a race!

At Tattenham Corner, Pollux was leading by a little—very gradually, and without any display of premature energy, he was forcing the running. "Come along, Pollux!" yelled Sir Roderick, waving his arms, and perspiring with eagerness. "Brave horse! the race is yours!" He lowered his voice and muttered: "God send you first to the post!" The words were breathed like a prayer, and there was no irreverence in them. Sir Roderick knew all that the victory of Pollux meant to Mostyn—and to Rada.

"Hullo! what's up?" The cheers of the crowd changed to a yell of dismay. Those who were at the back and could see but ill, put the question frantically to the more fortunate ones in front. "A horse down? Which is it? Pollux? Good God!"

The name of Pollux swept from lip to lip. At the moment of rounding the Corner, Pollux had been seen to sway, to stumble—then, carried on by his own velocity, to go down head first. Castor swept by, unchallenged now, a clear course to victory before him.

Sir Roderick struck his fists violently together. "The devil's in it!" he roared. "Yes, the devil himself!" He dashed his hand over his eyes, which had suddenly grown dim.

CHAPTER XX.

MOSTYN COMPLETES HIS TASK.

"Three o'clock! The race should be starting in a few moments now, Clithero." David Isaacson bustled into the room where Mostyn lay upon an improvised bed. Isaacson had not gone to the Derby. An important piece of business had detained him in London, and when that was concluded he had devoted his time to his young friend.

Mostyn had been moved very tenderly and with the utmost care from the bed-chamber, which had at first been allotted him, to a room where Isaacson, some months before, had set up a tape machine. In this way, Mostyn would learn the result of the race with no delay at all.

His injury was a simple fracture of the upper arm, and when the bone had been well set by a skilful surgeon, called in at once, Mostyn had found himself fairly comfortable, though, of course, it was necessary for him to remain absolutely at rest. A message had been sent to his father, a letter written for Mostyn by Isaacson, with which the bill was enclosed, and John Clithero had come round at once, even to the house of the much-hated David Isaacson, and there, by Mostyn's bedside, the reconciliation between father and son had been complete.

"I have fallen low, Mostyn," the old man had muttered, "and it is I who have to crave your forgiveness."

He would have said much more, but Mostyn would not allow him to do so, and presently, Cicely coming in, John Clithero was able to realise that, though he had lost two of his sons, he had at least regained the son and daughter whom he had so ruthlessly turned from his door. These two had stood by him in his hour of need.

"I have learnt my lesson," he sighed. "And it is you, Mostyn, and you, Cicely, who have taught it to me."

Upon the following day—Derby Day—he was, perhaps, as keenly excited as anyone else in the result of the race, for he knew now all that depended upon it. He superintended the carrying down of his son to the room where they could watch the tape, and he would hardly consent to leave Mostyn's side even for his meals. When Isaacson arrived to announce the hour, it was as much as he could do to sit still.

He was sadly changed—there was no doubt as to that. All his arrogance had fallen from him, to give place to a kind of apologetic demeanour; it was as though he was asking pardon from one and all for the mistakes of his life, mistakes which must have been borne in on him by much solitary reflection, by a very agony of self-examination. He had been his own judge, and he was as hard in the verdict pronounced against himself as he had ever been against one whom, in his pharisaical self-righteousness, he had condemned as a sinner. All that John Clithero had endured was plainly writ on his face. He was a broken-down man—one who had lost faith in himself. Even David Isaacson had felt sorry for him and had treated him with rough kindness—for Mostyn's sake.

Three o'clock. How slowly the minutes passed! Mostyn lay, propped up by his pillows, his free hand clasped in that of Cicely, and he was trying to talk of all possible subjects except that which was uppermost in his mind. Isaacson sat by the tape machine, and John Clithero kept hovering backwards and forwards, his agitation painfully apparent.

In his mind, Mostyn could see all that was happening. The horses had left the paddock by now and had galloped down to the starting-post. How the crowd must have cheered first Castor and then Pollux!—or, perhaps, it was the other way about. He wondered if Rada was watching the race from the coach; he thought she probably would be, for Sir Roderick and Pierce would take care of her, and, if Castor won, she would, of course, wait to lead her horse in.

He drew a deep sigh as he thought of Rada. How would she behave when she learnt the truth? If Castor won, would he even have the courage to tell her why he had thrown himself into such direct competition with her? Would he not be afraid to do so because of the trouble which such knowledge must necessarily bring to her? She would be horrified to learn that her success meant his ruin. Mostyn was inclined to think that he must leave her in ignorance, even at the expense of never gaining her forgiveness.

The horses must have started by now. As he lay there, he could almost hear the shouting of the crowd, that sound so familiar to him, so musical in his ears. The noises in the square without blended and harmonised with his fancy. A boy was whistling, further away an organ was playing—then there came a sudden hush—yes, the horses must be running! He wondered if they had got away at once; somehow he had a strong impression of a false start.

The tape clicked out the information. It kept up a monotonous tick-tick that was jarring to the nerves. "Off 3.15. Delay at start!" Then followed a list of the starters and jockeys—a long list—there were fully a dozen in all. Isaacson held out the tape, and read them off one by one.

Then came a pause. It was a clock on the mantel-piece, an elaborate affair of antique French china, that was ticking now. Mostyn had hardly noticed it before, but it was extraordinary that he should not have done so. Why, the sound was so loud and aggressive that it seemed to be beating directly against the drums of his ears. He pressed his left hand upon his ear, but it made no difference. The noise went on just the same—if anything augmented in strength. How fast his heart was beating, too—perhaps that had something to do with it.

"Ah, here we are!" A cry from Isaacson, as the machine recommenced its ticking. He almost dragged upon the tape. The Jew was as excited as anyone else in the room—of them all, Mostyn was the calmest. "Now we'll see. Pollux for ever! I don't mind betting——"

He broke off, the tape hanging in his hand. His jaw fell. Mostyn noticed at that moment that his scarf-pin, a huge diamond, had nearly worked its way out of his tie. It looked as if it must scratch his chin.

"Well, let's have it. Is the result out?" Mostyn put the question calmly, but he knew already that Pollux had lost.

"Clithero, my boy, I'm sorry—I'm damned sorry!" Isaacson stood up, his eyes still fixed upon the tape that was now hanging in coils, like a snake, about his fingers. The ticking went on cruelly, remorselessly; it was like the needles of the weird sisters spinning out the fate of man.

"Castor first, Pendragon second, Goliath third." The Jew's voice sounded very far away as he spoke the words.

"Blessed if I can make it out! Paragon was fourth. And here are the names of the others." He tore the offending tape into shreds. "Ah"—the machine was ticking again. "What's this? Pollux, one of the favourites, fell at Tattenham Corner when leading. Horse and jockey uninjured."

Mostyn broke into a laugh. "So that's the end of it," he exclaimed. "Something was bound to happen to any horse that ran in my colours. Well, the tension's over, anyway." He fell back upon his pillows. He was quite calm; something seemed to have snapped, and with it had come infinite relief. There would be no more harassing of his nerves, no more blood on the boil. It was over and he had lost. At any rate he could rest.

His father was leaning over him, pressing his hand. "It's all right, Mostyn," the old man was urging in a voice thick with emotion. "You've lost a big fortune, but what does it matter? You will come back to me—my son: I've only got one son now—you, whom I drove from my door."

Mostyn pressed the hand in return. On the other side of him Cicely was whispering words of comfort, words such as only a woman can find. "It will be all right with Rada, too, Mostyn. I'm as sure of that as of my life. She will be so happy at winning that she will forget everything else. And you're not a pauper now, remember that, since you're friends with father again. You can just go to Rada and ask her to be your wife: she'll say 'yes,' or I know nothing of my sex."

Isaacson, too, was voluble in sympathy. "It's not your fault that you've come down, Clithero, my boy. You did your best, and no man can do more. I admire you for your pluck, and every sportsman will admire you as much as I do when the truth is known."

The starting prices were ticked out unheeded while Mostyn's friends stood about his bed; the tape was falling in long coils upon the floor. Outside, in the square, a newsboy could be heard shouting "Winner!" at the top of his voice. The momentous news had been given to London.

Isaacson stepped back to the machine and began once more to run the tape through his fingers, reading out the starting prices as cheerily as he could, as well as any other information that had come to hand. Suddenly he was silent; he held a long strip before him, lifted close to his eyes—for he was a trifle short-sighted—and he was apparently reading the writing upon it over and over again. During these moments his face expressed the most remarkable changes of emotion. He had begun to read carelessly, then his attention had been concentrated; finally, with a great wrench, he tore off the strip, waved it in the air, and gave vent to an undignified and apparently inappropriate shout.

"God of my fathers!" he cried, literally dancing across the floor, "but who would have thought it? Why, the girl's a champion, a heroine"—he could not find words to express his feelings—"a brick!"

"What are you driving at?" Mostyn dragged himself up again. For a moment he wondered if Isaacson had taken leave of his senses.

"It's all right! That's what I'm driving at. Read for yourself; read!" He held out the strip of paper before Mostyn's eyes. The latter took it in his left hand, but presently let it fall. The letters all seemed to run into each other, and the print was blurred.

"It means that at the very last minute Miss Armitage appears to have transferred Castor from herself to you. The whole thing is very vague at present, for Castor certainly ran in her colours. But, from this, she seems to be no longer the owner of the horse. Castor is yours, Mostyn, and won the Derby for you!"

Mostyn lifted his hand to his head. "It isn't possible," he muttered. "There must be some mistake. It couldn't have been done."

"It's right, you mark my words!" cried Isaacson, whose exultation had by no means passed away. "It will be explained before long. And you owe it all to Miss Armitage, my boy! She must have found out why you wanted so badly to win. There's a noble girl for you! I tell you what it is, Clithero: it's your duty to fall in love with her and marry her—yes, by Jove, it is!"

"Ah, if I could!" Mostyn sighed in answer. Nevertheless he continued to express his disbelief, though the tape message was read to him over and over again, and though it was confirmed by a later, but still rather vague, announcement.

It was not till about a couple of hours later that everything was cleared up by the arrival of Rada herself, who, in the company of Pierce, had motored up to London from Epsom. Sir Roderick would have liked to have accompanied them, but he had his coach and his guests to attend to.

After the first excited greetings, Pierce told the story, while Rada stood bashfully aside—yes, perhaps for the first time in her life she showed symptoms of shyness.

"That scoundrel Jack Treves appears to have arranged with Ted Wilson, the jockey—both enemies of yours, Mostyn—to play a dirty trick upon Pollux. They got Benjamin Harris to do it. Ben Harris was one of old Treves's stablemen once, and I expect it was he who doctored Silver Star at Jack's orders, but that's by the way. I'm glad to say he was caught by the police, and he's given the whole plot away. Jack and Wilson will catch it hot, and serve them right, too! What the scoundrel did was to hide, as he thought, behind a tree, and shoot at Pollux with an air-gun, or a catapult or something of the sort. No wonder the poor beast swerved and fell. Pollux was leading at the time and was going to win."

"Well, never mind. What is really of importance is that Miss Armitage, just before the race, surprised a note written to Jack by Wilson, which gave the whole game away. And, as it happened, Miss Armitage knew just how you were situated, Mostyn. It was my fault, for I let it all out, and I'm glad I did." He stared defiantly at his friend, and laughed. "Don't scold me now, however—you can do all that when I've finished my yarn. Well, as long as things were straight and above board Miss Armitage would have let matters take their course—you stood a good sporting chance to win. But when she found out the plot she came to me—the race was just about to start—and made me take her to the stewards. I didn't know what she meant to do till we were in the presence of those august individuals. Then she announced that she wanted to make Castor over to you. Of course, there were all sorts of difficulties in the way, but Miss Armitage got over them all. I think she must have fascinated the gentlemen. Of course I don't know what they thought"—he glanced slyly at Rada, who turned away blushing.

"Anyway," Pierce went on, "the stewards are omnipotent, you know. So a transfer was signed and attested, countersigned by the stewards, and a wire was sent to Weatherby's. It was all in order, I can assure you, and quite legal. Of course, it was too late to make any immediate announcement, so the race had to go on as it was, Castor being ridden in Miss Armitage's colours. But Castor is your horse, Mostyn; no one can dispute that, nor your right to Anthony Royce's millions. I congratulate you a thousand times. There, now I've told you everything."

It was when Pierce ceased speaking, and as Mostyn, his eyes fixed upon Rada, could find no words to reply, that John Clithero stepped across the room and took the girl's hand in his.

"Bless you for what you have done," he said. "My son has spoken to me of you to-day, Miss Armitage—your name has been constantly on his lips. He is afraid that he has offended you; but I don't think that he can have done so, or you would not have sacrificed yourself for his sake. But I am sure that he would like to hear you say he is forgiven, and that he will want to thank you—alone."

He led the girl to Mostyn's bedside, then, followed by all the rest of the party, stole out of the room.

"Do you remember," Mostyn whispered, some time later, in Rada's ear, when all had been explained between them and every difficulty smoothed away, "do you remember, my darling, the terms of our wonderful wager upon the coach last Derby Day?"

Rada needed no reflection. "I said I would wager my life that you would never win a Derby," she murmured, "and I have lost."

"You staked your life, and I have won it," he replied. "That is a finer thing than money. I am happy, Rada—so very happy! In a single day I have won a big race—a huge fortune—and, best of all, your life—the life of the girl I love."

His sound arm was resting on her shoulder. He drew her face to his, and kissed her on the lips, and this time she did not repel him.

"Do you really love such a little vixen, such a little devil, as I?" she asked wonderingly.

"You're a 'hangel,'" he answered, laughingly recalling the words of Samuel Willis. "I always knew it, and to-day you've proved it. Kiss me again, Rada, and then we'll summon the others and tell them the news."

Smiling softly, she bent and obeyed. "This is better than winning a Derby!" she sighed happily.

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