THE
SPORTING CHANCE.

BY

ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW,

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

ILLUSTRATED.

LONDON:
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED.
1910.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. [Mostyn Makes his Debût]
II. [Mostyn Sees the Derby]
III. [Mostyn Accepts a Challenge]
IV. [Mostyn is Rebellious]
V. [Mostyn Realises his Position]
VI. [Mostyn is put on his Mettle]
VII. [Mostyn is Surprised]
VIII. [Mostyn Entertains a Guest]
IX. [Mostyn Makes a Purchase]
X. [Mostyn Learns his Error]
XI. [Mostyn Makes Reparation]
XII. [Mostyn Tells his Love]
XIII. [Mostyn Prepares for Battle]
XIV. [Mostyn Makes an Enemy]
XV. [Mostyn Faces Defeat]
XVI. [Mostyn is Tempted]
XVII. [Mostyn is Given Another Chance]
XVIII. [Mostyn Meets with an Accident]
XIX. [Mostyn is Better Understood]
XX. [Mostyn Completes his Task]

THE SPORTING CHANCE.

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.

To himself Mostyn muttered: "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

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.

"Come on Hipponous! Hip—Hip—Hipponous!"

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.

Which horse, if any, had the lead? It was impossible to say.

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?"

"I expect so." Mostyn nodded. What was the use of denying the obvious?

"A serious 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.

"That's a deal," he said, heartily; "I shall expect to see you, Mostyn."

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!

"I——" he began hesitatingly, then paused, for Rada interrupted him.

"Would you like to have a bet on it?" she asked mockingly.

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.

"Say yes. In ten years."

Mostyn did not understand. The whisper was repeated.

"Bet anything you like you win a Derby in ten years."

The little diversion had passed unnoticed. Rada repeated her mocking question.

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?"

Her sobs broke anew, and this time she refused to be consoled.

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."

"How did he get in?" asked Mostyn, for the sake of saying something.

"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."

"That's a pity," mused Pierce; "why should you?"

"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."

"Where do you live?" asked Mostyn.

"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.

"Then it was bluff?" he said curtly.

"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.

"Man," she cried appealingly, "behold thy handiwork!"

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."