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."