The sporting chance

CHAPTER V.

MOSTYN REALISES HIS POSITION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where do you live?" asked Mostyn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then it was bluff?" he said curtly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI.

MOSTYN IS PUT ON HIS METTLE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Conditions?" Mostyn stared helplessly at the solicitor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII.

MOSTYN IS SURPRISED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are Mr. Clithero, sir?" he began, awkwardly. "I am Samuel Willis."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're very good, sir," was all he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.

MOSTYN ENTERTAINS A GUEST.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps you will explain yourself," she added, when he reached her side.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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