The sporting chance

CHAPTER XIX.

MOSTYN IS BETTER UNDERSTOOD.

The company had assembled, as the year before, at Sir Roderick Macphane's house in Eaton Square for the drive to the Derby. There were some new faces, but for the greater part the party was the same as that which had been present on the occasion of "Old Rory's" victory. Lord Caldershot had arrived early, just the same immaculately dressed Lord Caldershot, with eye-glass in eye and inordinately tall collar, uncomfortably tight round his neck. He was enquiring diligently if Miss Rada Armitage was to be present that day, ready to declare himself as before, her cavalier, all the more proud of being so because "the little minx is going to win the Derby, by Jove! Fancy a girl of her age owning a Derby winner!"

Rada was expected, and duly arrived, but Captain Armitage, who accompanied her, walked with the assistance of a stick, and had completely lost all his irresponsible gaiety of demeanour. He appeared morose and sullen, the result of a week or so of enforced abstinence from strong drink. He had, indeed, been very ill, and it was against the orders of the doctor that he had ventured out that day. But it was the Derby—Castor's Derby, Rada's Derby—and the temptation was too great for him.

"Where is Mr. Clithero, my hated rival?" smiled Rada, as Pierce Trelawny approached and shook hands with her, freeing her for the moment from the attentions of the assiduous Caldershot.

"Didn't you know?" Pierce shook his head sympathetically. "Poor Mostyn had a bad accident yesterday and broke his arm. He saved a little girl from being run over, with happy results as far as the child was concerned, but just the reverse for himself."

Rada paled as she listened. "He is not in danger?" she asked eagerly; then, reassured by Pierce's smile, she drew her breath in sharply. "Of course you wouldn't be here if he was. But how brave of him: he saved the child's life?"

"Yes, he saved the child's life," repeated Pierce. "He fell from his own momentum when he had got back upon the kerb. It was just outside David Isaacson's house, and they carried him inside and made him as comfortable as they could. He's there now; he'll be well in a week or so, but, of course, it was all up with the Derby. Poor chap, he won't see one of the finest races that we have been promised for years. His own horse, too, pitted against yours, Miss Armitage."

The girl said little, but the colour returned only slowly to her cheeks. A sense of faintness had come upon her when she had learnt of Mostyn's accident, and this had revealed to her, more forcibly than ever, how much she really cared.

She did care. What was the use of attempting to deceive herself? That day when Mostyn's lips had met hers she had learnt that she loved—yes, though she had torn herself away crying aloud that she hated him. Then he had gone away, and she had eagerly desired him to return. She had written to him, and, like a foolish man, he had taken her letter far more literally than she had intended it. She had expressed her desire to be friends, and had hinted her approval of Jack Treves because he had promised not to "bother" her with love-making that year. She would have broken with Jack, ready to defy him and her father, if Mostyn had spoken again, if he had shown any desire to be more than just the friend he now professed to be. She had given him plenty of hints—or thought she had—but Mostyn had been too blind to see them. So poor Rada had concluded that he did not care any more; that, if he had ever cared, the love he bore her had been killed, perhaps by her own folly.

There was a time when she had seen her way to paying off her debts, and her father's debts, to Jack Treves. Castor had done so well, and promised to do better in the future. But in the meanwhile fresh debts were incurred, so that, indeed, when she had opened her heart to Mostyn in the paddock at Newmarket, it was true that she was more closely bound to Jack than before. And yet she could not help thinking that the latter had grown tired of her—no wonder, perhaps, since she treated him with scant ceremony—and, as for herself, how sick and tired she had grown of a bond that galled and vexed her! She had come to hate Jack Treves: yet what did it matter what became of her since Mostyn had ceased to care?

"It's hard luck, isn't it," Pierce was saying, "but, after all, Mostyn is in good hands and will be quite all right. I'd have stayed behind with him, but he insisted that I must go to look after you. My wife is with Mostyn"—he lowered his voice—"and his father is with him, too," he continued. "You know that they have been on bad terms for the last year, and they have just been reconciled. Mostyn did something for his father, something that I can't tell you about, and which has saved old Mr. Clithero from a very awkward position. And now"—Pierce smiled—"the old man is at his son's bedside, in the house of a man whom he professed to loath and despise; and I verily believe that he, to whom racing has always been the devil's work, is as anxious as Mostyn himself for Pollux to pull off the Derby."

"Pollux won't," said Rada, with something of her old spirit. Whatever she might be feeling, her pride was in arms against anyone, and especially Pierce, guessing her secret. "I think it is mean of Mostyn to wish to beat me," she continued, her cheeks flushing now. "If he was so keen on carrying out his word he might have tried for the Derby next June. He gave himself five years. Besides, the whole thing was so silly; no one has taken it seriously but he."

Pierce noted the girl's flushed cheeks and he read the truth of her love in her eyes. He understood what she must feel, and how heartless Mostyn's conduct must seem to her, since she knew nothing of the will and of the incalculable importance it was for him that Pollux should win the race. Was it not for her sake, too, that Mostyn was depending upon Pollux? But she did not know—she could not know.

How he longed to explain! Could he not give her a hint? But he quickly found himself involved in totally unexpected difficulties.

"Don't be hard upon Mostyn, Miss Armitage," he ventured. "Really, I assure you, he hasn't done this out of ill-will to you. If only I could get you to feel that! Nor is it that silly wager which makes him so keen upon winning the Derby. It may look to you like spite, but believe me—try to believe me—it's quite the reverse." Poor Pierce stammered painfully. He wanted to do the right thing both by his friend and by Rada. He could see that the latter had been deeply wounded in her affection, and he felt that if by chance Pollux should win the race she might be too deeply offended with Mostyn to listen to any explanation. And yet it was for her as much as for his millions that Mostyn was fighting.

"I don't understand you, Mr. Trelawny," said Rada. "Please try to explain yourself." She tapped the floor impatiently with the toe of her little shoe. Her dark eyes were fixed upon Pierce, who felt particularly uncomfortable.

"Mostyn cares for you far too much——," he began hesitatingly.

"Cares for me!" Despite her determination not to betray herself Rada could not help interrupting. "When he wants to be the one to rob me of my victory! If Pollux wins he will laugh at and mock me, because I laughed at and mocked him once: he will say that I challenged him to win a Derby before me, challenged him unfairly because I already had a horse in training. He wants to humiliate me—that's what he is playing for—and you say he cares!" Rada poured out her words tempestuously, though they were spoken in an undertone lest they should be overheard.

"Oh, how can I explain?" Poor Pierce was conscious by now of the slough into which he had blundered. He was quite unable to extricate himself, and only made matters worse by his attempts. "Mostyn loves you, Miss Armitage," he faltered. "It's for your sake that he wants Pollux to win; for your sake and——"

"For my sake!" Rada broke into a harsh laugh. "When he knows what this Derby means to me, that it is the ambition of my life! For my sake!"

"But it is!" Pierce had gone too far to withdraw. "I tell you Mostyn loves you. But unless Pollux wins"—he faltered and hesitated. Mostyn had bidden him keep the secret, from Rada most especially. For what would happen if she knew? The girl would be robbed of all her happiness in victory, should victory be hers. How could she rejoice knowing that her triumph meant the ruin of another?

"Yes," she prompted, "unless Pollux wins?" She had suddenly imagined that she understood the situation. Perhaps it was because Mostyn saw ruin staring him in the face that he had not ventured to speak to her again of his love. He had been foolishly spendthrift: she had scolded him often enough for his extravagance. What if he was making his last plunge—upon this Derby—and, if successful, meant to claim her?

She was trembling with excitement. She wanted to know everything and that immediately. "Go on!" she cried petulantly. "What will happen if Pollux loses?"

"I'm a blundering fool," stammered Pierce. "It's a secret, Miss Armitage."

"A secret I mean to share," she said decidedly. Again she stamped her foot. "Tell me! I must know everything—I must."

The explanation that might have followed here—for Pierce saw no means of escape—was interrupted by a general movement in the direction of the coach. The party was ready to start. "You must sit by me and tell me about it as we go down," Rada commanded.

There was a slight difficulty, in consequence of this, when it came to allotting seats upon the coach. Rada stuck close to Pierce, in spite of all the efforts of Lord Caldershot to intervene. The latter found himself at last, very much to his chagrin, settled on the back seat in the company of a simpering young lady not at all to his taste, while on the other side he had the morose Captain Armitage, who, as a matter of fact, hardly uttered a word during the whole of the journey down.

Rada and Pierce were seated in front, and it was not long before the girl had elicited from her companion all that was to be told. She learnt the full story of Anthony Royce's will; learnt, too, the true reason why Mostyn, loving and desiring her as truly as ever, had been constrained to silence. Pierce, once having committed himself, had been as straw in her hands; and perhaps, since he saw that there was now every chance of the misunderstanding between the pair of lovers being cleared up, he was not, after all, so sorry that he had spoken.

"If Pollux wins it's all right," he muttered to himself, "and if Castor wins—well, I believe, though poor Mostyn will be ruined, Rada will want him to stick to her all the same. And Mostyn would never have thought of that. Perhaps it's just as well I spoke." In this way he sought to comfort himself for his indiscretion.

As for Rada, she was swayed by varying emotions. First and foremost came the knowledge that Mostyn loved her, that he had never ceased to love her. "I've been such a little cat to him," she said, penitently clasping her hands together, and quite careless now of revealing the truth of her own love. "But why didn't he tell me everything? Why should he have kept the secret from me? I'd have let him have Castor—I'd have done anything—anything. But it's only now"—she drew her breath quickly—"when it's too late, that I get to know the truth, and that only by bullying it out of you, Mr. Trelawny!" She dashed her hand to her eyes. "I feel that it's I—I—who am standing in his way of gaining all this money," she whispered, "and if Castor wins now—oh, I shall hate myself!"

"It's just that that Mostyn feared," said Pierce quickly. "That's why he wouldn't tell you. Castor had to run. Miss Armitage, you must just take it as a sporting chance. Things must be allowed to go on exactly as they are. There isn't a shade to choose between one horse or the other. Castor may win or Pollux may win; the one means a lot to you, the other means a lot to him. It's fair for both sides: the issue rests upon a race, a race where the chances are absolutely even. One couldn't have anything better or finer than that."

But Rada turned her head away, and Pierce could see by the quivering of her shoulders how deeply moved she was. It was a few moments before he ventured to speak again.

"You love Mostyn, Miss Armitage?" He lowered his voice, even though his conversation with the girl had passed quite unheeded, for she was occupying the outside seat, while his neighbour on the other side, a Parliamentary friend of Sir Roderick's, an Irishman like himself, was deeply engaged in discussing the question of cattle driving with a lady of prominence in London society.

"Perhaps I do," the girl admitted, in a curiously subdued tone of voice, "but I wouldn't own it, even to myself, at first. The more I knew it and felt it, the more I was compelled to struggle against it. That's the sort of girl I am—a hateful, wayward little creature altogether. But I'm suffering for it now, and I deserve to suffer."

She was crying very softly now, but it was a relief to her to have opened her heart, and for the rest of the way down she talked freely to Pierce, telling him of the life she had led with her father, the semi-savage life of so many years, giving him an insight into her character such as she had never allowed to any man.

They reached the course and took up their position under the hill, the coach being greeted, if anything, by more public interest than the year before. "Old Rory" himself was always an object to attract attention, but, on the present occasion, it was upon Rada that all eyes were fixed.

The girl looked so young, almost a child, and yet it was quite three years since she had registered her colours. The lemon and lavender quartered were already well known and recognised by most race-goers.

Sir Roderick made his traditional little speech very much in the same words as the year before, save that he ended up by wishing good-luck to Castor and to Pollux, and expressed a fervent wish that both horses might win. After that, as was usual, the company dispersed to follow their own pleasures. Captain Armitage alone remained stolidly seated in his place, and he shook his head savagely when the butler, who knew him well and was accustomed to administer to his fancies, handed him up a brimming glass of champagne. Champagne was strictly forbidden; Captain Armitage was allowed a little weak whiskey and water with his meals, and no more. It was with a curse muttered under his breath that he informed the butler of the fact, and requested a little plain soda-water instead.

Pierce stuck close to Rada that morning, though on one occasion he nearly came to high words with Lord Caldershot, who, as soon as the little party had begun to disperse, waited at the foot of the coach for Rada, eager that he should have the honour of conducting her to the paddock.

"There's a horse belonging to a friend of mine running in the first race, Miss Armitage," he drawled, "and I want you to come and have a look at it. You can't do better than back Galahad to win, and a shop. I'll get the money on for you, if you like," he added eagerly.

"Thank you," replied Rada coldly, "but I'm not going to back anything to-day. I've got quite enough interest in the one race. Mr. Trelawny has promised to walk with me to the paddock."

Lord Caldershot drew back, feeling unwarrantably snubbed, and was perforce obliged to continue his attentions to the gushing little damsel who had been his companion on the way down, and whom he regarded as altogether too inexperienced to merit the time which he had wasted upon her.

For the nonce Rada seemed to have lost all her reckless carelessness; she was quiet and subdued, and she went about her work with all the calm self-possession of a woman of the world. She interviewed her jockey and her trainer—old William Treves himself—who had brought Castor to Epsom, and who was prepared to stake his reputation upon the ultimate success of his stable. He would turn up his nose defiantly at all mention of Pollux, and the state of the betting did not influence him in the least any more than did the unbeaten record of Castor's adversary. As the horses paraded in the paddock, he would even point out to his cronies certain fancied defects about Pollux which were visible only to his imagination.

The absence of Mostyn Clithero, the owner of the latter horse, caused some remark, but the story of his accident had got abroad, and sympathy with him was very generally expressed. The reason why "Old Rory" should have disposed of his colt to that remarkably enthusiastic young sportsman was a matter for far greater speculation, and it was estimated that the sum paid by young Clithero must have been enormous.

The most astonishing stories had got abroad as to Mostyn's wealth and as to his desire to win a big race. His name was coupled with that of Rada, and there were many who had evolved a romance out of the rivalry of Castor and Pollux.

It was some time after lunch, and within an hour of the big race, when Rada, who was strolling in the enclosure with Pierce, suddenly stopped, gave a low laugh, and laid her hand upon her companion's arm, forcing him to stop. "Look there!" she whispered.

Pierce, following the direction of the girl's eyes, perceived Jack Treves, conspicuous for his flowery waistcoat, his tight-fitting trousers, the horsiness of his coat, and the peculiar angle at which his hat was tilted. He was leaning against the lower row of stalls in the Grand Stand, talking to a remarkably smart-looking woman, who wore a feather of exaggerated dimensions in her picture hat. One of her hands, ungloved—probably to show the many rings she was wearing—rested in close proximity to the big fingers of Jack Treves. The pair were laughing and talking, quite unconscious of being watched.

"Who is it?" whispered Pierce.

"It's Daisy Simpson," returned Rada. "Another hated rival," she added, with a return of her natural humour. "She's an old flame of Jack's. She used to live down at Partinborough, and they were great friends before, and after, he did me the honour of wanting to marry me. She went up to town and became an actress, or something of the sort. She calls herself Daisy Montague and she must be getting on remarkably well," Rada continued ingenuously, "to be able to flaunt about in such clothes as that; but I've always heard that people make a lot of money at the music halls."

Pierce glanced again quickly at the young woman in question. "Daisy Montague!" he repeated. "Ah, yes, I've heard of her." He smoothed his dark moustache with his hand, as if to hide the smile that curved his lips. "I've no doubt she's very clever," he remarked; "a light of the music halls. I'm quite sure that her talent has been appreciated."

"Jack doesn't look as if he was worrying about me over much, does he?" asked Rada, with a little laugh. "I've often had an idea that he's rather regretted being off with the old love. I never could understand why he preferred me. Miss Daisy is so much more his style. Look at him now. Why, he's positively fawning over her! They used to say that he treated her rather badly in the old days, but I suppose he admires her now she's successful."

At that moment Jack turned and recognised Rada. He raised his hat, then after a few words to Daisy, spoken in a quick undertone, he turned away and sauntered up to the couple.

"I've been on the look-out for you all day, Rada," he said jauntily. "Must just have missed you in the paddock an hour ago, but knew that I should have to run across you soon." He stared pointedly at Pierce, who, however, refused to take the hint.

"Where are you going to watch the race from?" Jack enquired, after an awkward pause.

"I am going back to the coach," replied Rada, carelessly.

"Oh, I say, that's not fair!" exclaimed Jack. "You promised to be with me to see the race, Rada, you know you did." He scowled offensively upon Pierce.

"I can't help it," said Rada easily. "I've come down with the party and I've got to be with them. You looked quite happy without me, Jack." She cast a glance in the direction of the stalls, where Daisy Simpson was now sunning herself, smiling upon a tall, fair man, who had just taken his place beside her. "I've no doubt that your friend over there will effectively fill my place," she added meaningly.

"Oh, you're jealous!" Jack exclaimed. "I can see that. But Daisy Simpson's a jolly fine girl, and I'm glad to have met her again." He spoke with intentional malice. "Now look here, Rada," he went on, "if you can't be with me to see the race I want a word with you here. I'll take you back to the coach afterwards. We'll have this matter out once and for all, see?"

"Very well." Rada turned to Pierce, who had been standing a little apart. "Will you excuse me for a few minutes, Mr. Trelawny?" she said. "If you'll go back to the coach I'll join you there very soon."

Pierce nodded, and Rada and Jack moved away together.

"Now I want to have a definite understanding with you, Miss Rada," Jack said roughly, after they had taken a few steps. "Do you mean to marry me, or don't you? I'm not the sort of man to be kept dangling for long at the end of a piece of string. If you want to cry off, say so. Clear up the money you and your father owe me and have done with it." He cast a furtive glance from under his heavy brows in the direction of Daisy Simpson. "I don't believe you care a hang for me, really," he went on, "while Daisy—well, I've just been having a chat with her and she's as fond of me now as ever she was. London's made a different woman of her too, as you can see for yourself. She's the kind of girl any chap might be proud of."

"No doubt you're quite right, Jack," said Rada. "I can quite understand Miss Simpson's attraction for you."

"Well, I'm talking straight to you, aren't I? If you want to give me the chuck, just say so. Though, mind you," he repeated threateningly, "I shall expect payment in full. That's plain enough, what?"

"It's very plain, Jack," replied Rada quietly, "and really I think I had better pay you the money. If Castor wins I can do so quite easily." A shade of anxiety crossed her brow as she spoke. If Castor won! Yes, it was upon that that she had been depending to escape from this foolish tangle in which she had involved herself. If Castor won she could pay Jack what she owed him, and be free. But then, on the other hand, if Castor won, what would be the consequence to Mostyn Clithero?

"Oh, Castor will win right enough." Jack tugged at his scrappy moustache and smiled maliciously. "You can take that as a tip from me, Rada, though it's your own horse we're talking about. Castor's going to win, my word upon it." He chuckled under his breath. "I've seen to that," he added.

Rada drew up abruptly, staring at her companion. "What did you say?" she asked quickly.

"Oh, nothing," responded Jack a trifle uneasily. "Only I've backed Castor pretty heavily myself. That's all I meant."

Rada was only half reassured, but she could elicit nothing more, though she questioned Jack closely. The latter was inclined to be rough, threatening, and impertinent. From his point of view he had been treated badly, and it made no difference that he himself was willing to cry off the engagement. He pointed out to Rada—a fact of which she was already aware—that her father's affairs were so involved that, even if Castor won, she would hardly be able to put them straight. It was not only to the Treves's that they were in debt; Captain Armitage had consistently raised money in any way that suggested itself, and now he was about to reap the harvest of his follies.

"I suppose you know your own affairs best," grumbled Jack, "but it's a fool's game to give me the chuck, I can tell you that. I suppose you're lookin' to Clithero—damn him!—to pull you through, but you're backin' a wrong 'un there, Rada. He'll come a smasher when Pollux fails to-day. No man can stand the pace at which he's been goin'; it's not in reason."

"Will you please take me back to the coach?" Rada spoke imperiously. "I have promised to be with Sir Roderick and Mr. Trelawny for the race. They will look after me then and afterwards."

Indeed, there was little time to spare. The bell was ringing; people were scurrying across the course. Rada and Jack had barely reached the other side when a low cry went up from the crowd and a black horse emerged from the paddock, a horse which was proclaimed by the puce and black of the jockey to be Mostyn Clithero's Pollux.

It was at that moment, as they stood watching for Castor to appear, that a rough-looking fellow pushed his way to Jack's side, thrust a note into his hand, and then remarking, "I've had a hunt for you, guv'nor," edged away again.

"What's that letter about?" Rada put the question as Jack read the communication. All her suspicions had returned to her. She felt possessed of a curious clairvoyant power, and knew that she had reason to be on her guard.

"It's nothing to do with you." Jack crushed the note in his hand, preparatory to thrusting it in his pocket.

With a sudden sharp movement, totally unexpected, Rada seized the paper. She hardly knew why she did so; she was impelled by the action of some unaccountable power.

"Give that to me. Curse you, what d'you mean by it?" Jack sought vainly to rescue his property, but since he could not exercise actual violence there under the Epsom Hill, he was powerless. Rada unfolded the crumpled paper and read the missive.

"It's all right, Jack. I've got Ben to do the job. Only found him this morning. It's all up with Pollux. We've wiped off our little debt, and you can turn your brass upon Castor. Meet you after the race—you know where." The note was signed "Ted."

For a moment Rada stood still, then she found tongue. "You blackguard!" But her breath was coming in deep gasps, and she could say no more.

"Look here, Rada," growled the man, "you've no right to read my letter. But let that pass. Since it's all for your good you won't be such a fool as to kick up a shindy. Your horse will win the Derby, and that's what you want. Give me that paper, and say no more about it."

"No!" Rada crushed the incriminating document in her hand. "I won't!"

He seized her arm. "Give it to me," he hissed. "Rada, if you make a fool of yourself, I swear before God that you shall suffer for it. I can ruin you and your father, and I'll do it."

"Let me go!" The girl struggled free. They were surrounded by a crowd, and the man was helpless. "If you dare to try and hold me, I'll strike you. Yes, here before everyone—I'll strike you with my fist in the face."

Jack swore under his breath. He hurled vile oaths at the girl, but he was powerless. As a cheer from the crowd proclaimed that Castor was galloping down the course, Rada, his owner, darting in and out wildly and ingloriously among vehicles of all kinds, sought the coach.

She failed to find it, but she ran into the arms of Pierce Trelawny, which was more to the point.

"Miss Armitage—-why, what is the matter?"

"I want you to come with me, Mr. Trelawny." She was gasping for breath. "You must come at once. I must see the stewards. There isn't a moment to be lost."

It was very evident, from the girl's demeanour, that the matter was one of vital importance. Pierce asked no useless questions, but placed himself unreservedly at Rada's disposition. He contrived to steer her, though not without difficulty, to the other side, and directed their course to the Grand Stand.

"There's going to be foul play," Rada panted as they walked. "Pollux is to be got at—I don't know how."

"And you will warn the stewards?"

She made no direct reply, but muttered something under her breath. Pierce could not quite distinguish the words, but he thought he heard: "Castor will win—Castor is bound to win."

* * * * * *

Upon the coach they wondered what had become of Rada, but assumed that she was with Pierce Trelawny, watching the race from the other side. She would want to be upon the spot to lead her horse in—if Castor should prove victorious.

The start was delayed longer than usual, owing to the vagaries of a bad-tempered colt. Sir Roderick, gazing through his field-glasses, stamped his feet with excitement.

"They're off!" he shouted at last, and for the rest of the race he kept up a running commentary of the principal events.

"Bad-tempered beast that—Prince Eugene—wasn't it? He's no good—not a bit of good. Won't be in it. Being left behind already, unless I'm mistaken. The rest are coming along nicely. Can't make out either of the favourites, though—they're too far off as yet. Who's that forging ahead? Green sleeves, and yellow, I fancy. It must be Candahar. He won't keep up that pace for long. Going well, though. Ah, here comes another—level with him now! Goliath, by Jove! Where the deuce are the favourites?"

He swept the field with his glasses, and presently gave vent to a shout. "Come along, Pollux!" He glanced down in sudden trepidation. "Oh, it's all right! Miss Armitage isn't there. I may cheer my own horse. Come along, Pollux!"

Castor and Pollux were running practically level. Some four or five horses were in advance of them, and about the same number followed behind. Between these, the two big black colts, suddenly revealed by the dividing up of the field, stood out conspicuously. The lemon and lavender—the puce and black diamonds—the two horses that might have been twins—Castor and Pollux—battling together for Rada and for Mostyn—shoulder to shoulder, like brethren, yet, in very truth, the sternest of adversaries.

On they came, running easily, each palpably being held in by his rider, reserving force till it should be needed. The rest of the field was straggling by now. Two or three, including Prince Eugene and Candahar, had already dropped far behind, "stony," and quite out of the running. Pendragon was leading and looked like making a brave fight.

One by one the horses that were in advance of the favourites were overtaken, passed, and left behind. The crowd roared its delight at each succeeding achievement, for Castor and Pollux, once they elected to take the foremost place, would certainly not again drop behind. And still they came neck to neck and shoulder to shoulder.

Near Tattenham Corner, Pendragon still held the lead. The tussle was short and sharp. Castor and Pollux made a simultaneous spurt, and forged to the front amid the uproarious cheers of the vast, heaving mass of humanity that crowded Epsom Downs. It was a struggle now between the favourites, for there was none to challenge their advantage. But what a struggle! what a contest! what a race!

At Tattenham Corner, Pollux was leading by a little—very gradually, and without any display of premature energy, he was forcing the running. "Come along, Pollux!" yelled Sir Roderick, waving his arms, and perspiring with eagerness. "Brave horse! the race is yours!" He lowered his voice and muttered: "God send you first to the post!" The words were breathed like a prayer, and there was no irreverence in them. Sir Roderick knew all that the victory of Pollux meant to Mostyn—and to Rada.

"Hullo! what's up?" The cheers of the crowd changed to a yell of dismay. Those who were at the back and could see but ill, put the question frantically to the more fortunate ones in front. "A horse down? Which is it? Pollux? Good God!"

The name of Pollux swept from lip to lip. At the moment of rounding the Corner, Pollux had been seen to sway, to stumble—then, carried on by his own velocity, to go down head first. Castor swept by, unchallenged now, a clear course to victory before him.

Sir Roderick struck his fists violently together. "The devil's in it!" he roared. "Yes, the devil himself!" He dashed his hand over his eyes, which had suddenly grown dim.

"Poor Mostyn!" The words came from his heart.

CHAPTER XX.

MOSTYN COMPLETES HIS TASK.

"Three o'clock! The race should be starting in a few moments now, Clithero." David Isaacson bustled into the room where Mostyn lay upon an improvised bed. Isaacson had not gone to the Derby. An important piece of business had detained him in London, and when that was concluded he had devoted his time to his young friend.

Mostyn had been moved very tenderly and with the utmost care from the bed-chamber, which had at first been allotted him, to a room where Isaacson, some months before, had set up a tape machine. In this way, Mostyn would learn the result of the race with no delay at all.

His injury was a simple fracture of the upper arm, and when the bone had been well set by a skilful surgeon, called in at once, Mostyn had found himself fairly comfortable, though, of course, it was necessary for him to remain absolutely at rest. A message had been sent to his father, a letter written for Mostyn by Isaacson, with which the bill was enclosed, and John Clithero had come round at once, even to the house of the much-hated David Isaacson, and there, by Mostyn's bedside, the reconciliation between father and son had been complete.

"I have fallen low, Mostyn," the old man had muttered, "and it is I who have to crave your forgiveness."

He would have said much more, but Mostyn would not allow him to do so, and presently, Cicely coming in, John Clithero was able to realise that, though he had lost two of his sons, he had at least regained the son and daughter whom he had so ruthlessly turned from his door. These two had stood by him in his hour of need.

"I have learnt my lesson," he sighed. "And it is you, Mostyn, and you, Cicely, who have taught it to me."

Upon the following day—Derby Day—he was, perhaps, as keenly excited as anyone else in the result of the race, for he knew now all that depended upon it. He superintended the carrying down of his son to the room where they could watch the tape, and he would hardly consent to leave Mostyn's side even for his meals. When Isaacson arrived to announce the hour, it was as much as he could do to sit still.

He was sadly changed—there was no doubt as to that. All his arrogance had fallen from him, to give place to a kind of apologetic demeanour; it was as though he was asking pardon from one and all for the mistakes of his life, mistakes which must have been borne in on him by much solitary reflection, by a very agony of self-examination. He had been his own judge, and he was as hard in the verdict pronounced against himself as he had ever been against one whom, in his pharisaical self-righteousness, he had condemned as a sinner. All that John Clithero had endured was plainly writ on his face. He was a broken-down man—one who had lost faith in himself. Even David Isaacson had felt sorry for him and had treated him with rough kindness—for Mostyn's sake.

Three o'clock. How slowly the minutes passed! Mostyn lay, propped up by his pillows, his free hand clasped in that of Cicely, and he was trying to talk of all possible subjects except that which was uppermost in his mind. Isaacson sat by the tape machine, and John Clithero kept hovering backwards and forwards, his agitation painfully apparent.

In his mind, Mostyn could see all that was happening. The horses had left the paddock by now and had galloped down to the starting-post. How the crowd must have cheered first Castor and then Pollux!—or, perhaps, it was the other way about. He wondered if Rada was watching the race from the coach; he thought she probably would be, for Sir Roderick and Pierce would take care of her, and, if Castor won, she would, of course, wait to lead her horse in.

He drew a deep sigh as he thought of Rada. How would she behave when she learnt the truth? If Castor won, would he even have the courage to tell her why he had thrown himself into such direct competition with her? Would he not be afraid to do so because of the trouble which such knowledge must necessarily bring to her? She would be horrified to learn that her success meant his ruin. Mostyn was inclined to think that he must leave her in ignorance, even at the expense of never gaining her forgiveness.

The horses must have started by now. As he lay there, he could almost hear the shouting of the crowd, that sound so familiar to him, so musical in his ears. The noises in the square without blended and harmonised with his fancy. A boy was whistling, further away an organ was playing—then there came a sudden hush—yes, the horses must be running! He wondered if they had got away at once; somehow he had a strong impression of a false start.

The tape clicked out the information. It kept up a monotonous tick-tick that was jarring to the nerves. "Off 3.15. Delay at start!" Then followed a list of the starters and jockeys—a long list—there were fully a dozen in all. Isaacson held out the tape, and read them off one by one.

Then came a pause. It was a clock on the mantel-piece, an elaborate affair of antique French china, that was ticking now. Mostyn had hardly noticed it before, but it was extraordinary that he should not have done so. Why, the sound was so loud and aggressive that it seemed to be beating directly against the drums of his ears. He pressed his left hand upon his ear, but it made no difference. The noise went on just the same—if anything augmented in strength. How fast his heart was beating, too—perhaps that had something to do with it.

"Ah, here we are!" A cry from Isaacson, as the machine recommenced its ticking. He almost dragged upon the tape. The Jew was as excited as anyone else in the room—of them all, Mostyn was the calmest. "Now we'll see. Pollux for ever! I don't mind betting——"

He broke off, the tape hanging in his hand. His jaw fell. Mostyn noticed at that moment that his scarf-pin, a huge diamond, had nearly worked its way out of his tie. It looked as if it must scratch his chin.

"Well, let's have it. Is the result out?" Mostyn put the question calmly, but he knew already that Pollux had lost.

"Clithero, my boy, I'm sorry—I'm damned sorry!" Isaacson stood up, his eyes still fixed upon the tape that was now hanging in coils, like a snake, about his fingers. The ticking went on cruelly, remorselessly; it was like the needles of the weird sisters spinning out the fate of man.

"Let's hear it!"

"Castor first, Pendragon second, Goliath third." The Jew's voice sounded very far away as he spoke the words.

"And Pollux?"

"Blessed if I can make it out! Paragon was fourth. And here are the names of the others." He tore the offending tape into shreds. "Ah"—the machine was ticking again. "What's this? Pollux, one of the favourites, fell at Tattenham Corner when leading. Horse and jockey uninjured."

Mostyn broke into a laugh. "So that's the end of it," he exclaimed. "Something was bound to happen to any horse that ran in my colours. Well, the tension's over, anyway." He fell back upon his pillows. He was quite calm; something seemed to have snapped, and with it had come infinite relief. There would be no more harassing of his nerves, no more blood on the boil. It was over and he had lost. At any rate he could rest.

His father was leaning over him, pressing his hand. "It's all right, Mostyn," the old man was urging in a voice thick with emotion. "You've lost a big fortune, but what does it matter? You will come back to me—my son: I've only got one son now—you, whom I drove from my door."

Mostyn pressed the hand in return. On the other side of him Cicely was whispering words of comfort, words such as only a woman can find. "It will be all right with Rada, too, Mostyn. I'm as sure of that as of my life. She will be so happy at winning that she will forget everything else. And you're not a pauper now, remember that, since you're friends with father again. You can just go to Rada and ask her to be your wife: she'll say 'yes,' or I know nothing of my sex."

Isaacson, too, was voluble in sympathy. "It's not your fault that you've come down, Clithero, my boy. You did your best, and no man can do more. I admire you for your pluck, and every sportsman will admire you as much as I do when the truth is known."

The starting prices were ticked out unheeded while Mostyn's friends stood about his bed; the tape was falling in long coils upon the floor. Outside, in the square, a newsboy could be heard shouting "Winner!" at the top of his voice. The momentous news had been given to London.

Isaacson stepped back to the machine and began once more to run the tape through his fingers, reading out the starting prices as cheerily as he could, as well as any other information that had come to hand. Suddenly he was silent; he held a long strip before him, lifted close to his eyes—for he was a trifle short-sighted—and he was apparently reading the writing upon it over and over again. During these moments his face expressed the most remarkable changes of emotion. He had begun to read carelessly, then his attention had been concentrated; finally, with a great wrench, he tore off the strip, waved it in the air, and gave vent to an undignified and apparently inappropriate shout.

"God of my fathers!" he cried, literally dancing across the floor, "but who would have thought it? Why, the girl's a champion, a heroine"—he could not find words to express his feelings—"a brick!"

"What are you driving at?" Mostyn dragged himself up again. For a moment he wondered if Isaacson had taken leave of his senses.

"It's all right! That's what I'm driving at. Read for yourself; read!" He held out the strip of paper before Mostyn's eyes. The latter took it in his left hand, but presently let it fall. The letters all seemed to run into each other, and the print was blurred.

"What does it mean?" he gasped.

"It means that at the very last minute Miss Armitage appears to have transferred Castor from herself to you. The whole thing is very vague at present, for Castor certainly ran in her colours. But, from this, she seems to be no longer the owner of the horse. Castor is yours, Mostyn, and won the Derby for you!"

Mostyn lifted his hand to his head. "It isn't possible," he muttered. "There must be some mistake. It couldn't have been done."

"It's right, you mark my words!" cried Isaacson, whose exultation had by no means passed away. "It will be explained before long. And you owe it all to Miss Armitage, my boy! She must have found out why you wanted so badly to win. There's a noble girl for you! I tell you what it is, Clithero: it's your duty to fall in love with her and marry her—yes, by Jove, it is!"

"Ah, if I could!" Mostyn sighed in answer. Nevertheless he continued to express his disbelief, though the tape message was read to him over and over again, and though it was confirmed by a later, but still rather vague, announcement.

It was not till about a couple of hours later that everything was cleared up by the arrival of Rada herself, who, in the company of Pierce, had motored up to London from Epsom. Sir Roderick would have liked to have accompanied them, but he had his coach and his guests to attend to.

After the first excited greetings, Pierce told the story, while Rada stood bashfully aside—yes, perhaps for the first time in her life she showed symptoms of shyness.

"That scoundrel Jack Treves appears to have arranged with Ted Wilson, the jockey—both enemies of yours, Mostyn—to play a dirty trick upon Pollux. They got Benjamin Harris to do it. Ben Harris was one of old Treves's stablemen once, and I expect it was he who doctored Silver Star at Jack's orders, but that's by the way. I'm glad to say he was caught by the police, and he's given the whole plot away. Jack and Wilson will catch it hot, and serve them right, too! What the scoundrel did was to hide, as he thought, behind a tree, and shoot at Pollux with an air-gun, or a catapult or something of the sort. No wonder the poor beast swerved and fell. Pollux was leading at the time and was going to win."

"I'm not so sure of that," put in Rada, in spite of her shyness.

"Well, never mind. What is really of importance is that Miss Armitage, just before the race, surprised a note written to Jack by Wilson, which gave the whole game away. And, as it happened, Miss Armitage knew just how you were situated, Mostyn. It was my fault, for I let it all out, and I'm glad I did." He stared defiantly at his friend, and laughed. "Don't scold me now, however—you can do all that when I've finished my yarn. Well, as long as things were straight and above board Miss Armitage would have let matters take their course—you stood a good sporting chance to win. But when she found out the plot she came to me—the race was just about to start—and made me take her to the stewards. I didn't know what she meant to do till we were in the presence of those august individuals. Then she announced that she wanted to make Castor over to you. Of course, there were all sorts of difficulties in the way, but Miss Armitage got over them all. I think she must have fascinated the gentlemen. Of course I don't know what they thought"—he glanced slyly at Rada, who turned away blushing.

"Anyway," Pierce went on, "the stewards are omnipotent, you know. So a transfer was signed and attested, countersigned by the stewards, and a wire was sent to Weatherby's. It was all in order, I can assure you, and quite legal. Of course, it was too late to make any immediate announcement, so the race had to go on as it was, Castor being ridden in Miss Armitage's colours. But Castor is your horse, Mostyn; no one can dispute that, nor your right to Anthony Royce's millions. I congratulate you a thousand times. There, now I've told you everything."

It was when Pierce ceased speaking, and as Mostyn, his eyes fixed upon Rada, could find no words to reply, that John Clithero stepped across the room and took the girl's hand in his.

"Bless you for what you have done," he said. "My son has spoken to me of you to-day, Miss Armitage—your name has been constantly on his lips. He is afraid that he has offended you; but I don't think that he can have done so, or you would not have sacrificed yourself for his sake. But I am sure that he would like to hear you say he is forgiven, and that he will want to thank you—alone."

He led the girl to Mostyn's bedside, then, followed by all the rest of the party, stole out of the room.

* * * * * *

"Do you remember," Mostyn whispered, some time later, in Rada's ear, when all had been explained between them and every difficulty smoothed away, "do you remember, my darling, the terms of our wonderful wager upon the coach last Derby Day?"

Rada needed no reflection. "I said I would wager my life that you would never win a Derby," she murmured, "and I have lost."

"You staked your life, and I have won it," he replied. "That is a finer thing than money. I am happy, Rada—so very happy! In a single day I have won a big race—a huge fortune—and, best of all, your life—the life of the girl I love."

His sound arm was resting on her shoulder. He drew her face to his, and kissed her on the lips, and this time she did not repel him.

"Do you really love such a little vixen, such a little devil, as I?" she asked wonderingly.

"You're a 'hangel,'" he answered, laughingly recalling the words of Samuel Willis. "I always knew it, and to-day you've proved it. Kiss me again, Rada, and then we'll summon the others and tell them the news."

Smiling softly, she bent and obeyed. "This is better than winning a Derby!" she sighed happily.

THE END.

London: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited.