As Meason sat in his room at the hotel his mind went back to the old days in New York, when he was hand and glove with the biggest set of sharks in the city, and a pliable tool of Tammany when well paid for his nasty work. What little conscience—and most men have some stored away—he possessed revolted at his intentions toward Jane Thrush—not that they were entirely dishonorable, but he knew a man with such a past and present as his had no right to pollute the life of any bright, happy, innocent woman. To be troubled with scruples was new to him; he had sent innocent men to death without a tremor, had even seen men and women go to long terms of imprisonment through his instrumentality, and thought nothing of their misery; and here he was actually hesitating about sacrificing Jane Thrush on the altar of his desires. Marry her, he even went so far as to declare he would, and was astounded at his honest intentions; he actually laughed, but it was uneasily.

He went out, walked about; at night he turned into a music hall, but variety turns did not interest him; he could not raise a laugh and returned to the hotel by ten o'clock. Jane's face haunted him; no woman had ever so obsessed him. It made him angry that he, Carl Meason, should be caught in the toils, discover that a woman had a hold over him.

Gradually he pushed her into the background and thought over the work he had in hand. It was of great importance and dangerous. When war came he might be shot at any time if his doings were discovered. He was accustomed to dangers; many times had he risked his life; bad though he was, there was nothing cowardly about him. He had some contempt for death, although he dearly loved life. There are bad men who are brave, and such was he—brave, that is, in so far as he cared little for risks so long as he reaped rewards.

He passed a restless night. When he sank into a troubled sleep he imagined he was laid by the heels and about to be shot suddenly. In some unaccountable way Jane rushed up as the soldiers were about to fire, with a reprieve. He awoke quivering with joyful excitement at being saved from sudden death. It gave him an appetite for breakfast.

The Nottingham Guardian was perused; from it he learned that Valentine Braund, the American steel magnate, had purchased Mr. Alan Chesney's famous horse, Mameluke, for thirty thousand pounds and his destination was New York. He was more interested in reading that Mr. Braund had been Mr. Chesney's guest at Trent Park for a few days and was returning to London on Saturday.

"That suits me," said Carl to himself. "I'll get back to Little Trent that day; I'll drop a note to surly Abel and advise him."

Before noon he motored to Derby; from there he went to Haddon Hall and Chatsworth. He was fond of beautiful scenery and Derbyshire pleased him. He was, however, more familiar with Norfolk and the coast towns; roads running from the coast interested him and he knew most of them from Hunstanton as far north as Scarborough. He was later to make sinister use of the knowledge.



CHAPTER XI

THE BARON'S TIP

War clouds were gathering when the royal meeting began at Ascot, but very few people imagined they would burst so soon.

Alan Chesney had a strong team for the fashionable gathering; and, as usual. Eve Berkeley had taken a house at Ascot, among her guests being Ella Hallam, Harry Morby, and Vincent Newport, also Bernard Hallam, who had just arrived from Australia. Alan stayed at the Royal Hotel, where his horses were stabled. In the team were the Epsom winners, Robin Hood, The Duke, and Evelyn; in the Hunt Cup he had Bandmaster, with the light weight of seven stone.

Fred Skane pronounced Bandmaster a pretty good thing for the popular handicap; he was much surprised when the horse only had seven stone allotted him.

It was a brilliant Ascot; it always is, but on this occasion there seemed to be more people than usual, and there was much gaiety in the neighborhood.

Eve Berkeley, however, did not seem in such high spirits as usual. Her love for Alan Chesney grew and strengthened. She longed for him to ask her to be his wife, and wondered why he hung back. Was it possible he did not see how she loved him? Alan had not been to The Forest much lately, and she wondered why. Her attachment to him caused her pain, for she saw no signs that it was returned in the way she desired. Had she offended him in any way? She was not aware of having done so! Her surroundings at Ascot, however, dispelled these gloomy feelings before the first day's racing was over, and Alan had been more attentive to her than for some time past.

On Hunt Cup Day there was a tremendous crowd, and thirty runners were saddled for the big race. Spur was favorite, and even in such a big field he touched four to one an hour before the race. Another well backed was Manifest, while Hooker, Bird, and half a dozen more had plenty of friends. Bandmaster stood at a hundred to five in the betting, and at this price Alan and his friends secured some good wagers.

Bernard Hallam was impressed by the horses, and his remarks in the paddock proved he was a good judge. The Australian had a free and easy way that soon won him friends. He was more approachable than Valentine Braund, although they seemed to have much in common.

He was delighted with Eve Berkeley, and told his daughter she was the most beautiful woman he had seen.

"Don't fall in love with her," laughed Ella; "she's dangerous, has a host of admirers, but it doesn't make her a bit conceited. She is my best friend; I like her so much."

Eve got on well with Bernard Hallam; he amused her. She liked him better than the American; she thought him more genuine and reliable.

Baron Childs was running White Legs in the Hunt Cup, a five-year-old chestnut with four white legs, a useful horse, winner of three or four good handicaps. He was talking to Eve Berkeley in the paddock as Alan Chesney went across to Bandmaster. Eve did not see him; she was in animated conversation. Alan smiled as he saw them, wondering if she was requesting another tip, and if it would prove as good as Merry Monarch.

"Not half a bad horse," said Bernard Hallam as he looked at Bandmaster.

"He's pretty good and he's got a very light weight. I fancy he'll just about win," said Alan.

Harry Morby and Vincent Newport had already backed the horse and were enthusiastic about his chances. Valentine Braund pronounced Bandmaster too light and said he would look elsewhere for the winner.

"Better ask Miss Berkeley for the tip. She's talking to Baron Childs—he owns White Legs," said Alan.

"Not a bad idea," replied Braund. "Do you really think your horse has a chance?"

"Of course I do; I've backed him."

"Scraggy animal, not my sort at all."

"Sorry he does not please you," said Alan, laughing; "but your poor opinion will not stop him."

Skane was saddling the horse. Mark Colley, Tommy Colley's youngest brother, stood close by. He was to ride, and had already donned the brown and blue-sleeved jacket. Mark was a clever lightweight, and had been well coached by his brother and Fred Skane, whose apprentice he was, but he had already forfeited the five pound allowance, having ridden the requisite number of winners. He was a merry little fellow, and still retained his boyish ways, although Skane said he had the wisdom of a man in his head. His brother, Tommy, was riding Manifest, and Ben Bradley had the mount on White Legs.

Half an hour before the horses went out there was a gay scene in the paddock, animated conversations were going on, many tips were given, and the interest in the race was intense.

Baron Childs was confident about White Legs; the horse had been highly tried, and Ben Bradley was sanguine of winning.

"You gave me the Derby winner," said Eve, "and I shall back your colors again to-day."

"Mr. Chesney's horse must have a good chance; he has a very light weight," said the Baron.

"I believe he thinks it is a good thing; but he said Gold Star would win the Derby and that did not come off," said Eve.

"Do you like my horse?" he asked.

"Very much. He is in splendid condition."

"Then back him. I feel sure it will bring luck to my colors."

"Have you met Mr. Hallam?" she asked. "He has recently come from Australia, and is well known in the racing world there."

"I should like to meet him."

"Then I will introduce you; he is over there looking at Bandmaster," said Eve, and they walked in that direction.

"Here comes Eve with her escort," said Alan, laughing.

"The Baron evidently enjoys her society," said Ella. Then as Eve joined them she said:

"Has Baron Childs given you another tip?"

"Yes, White Legs; I shall back him," answered Eve, and then introduced Mr. Hallam, who at once monopolized the Baron's attention.

"So you are going to back the Baron's tip again?" said Alan.

"Yes. Why not?"

"Because I think my horse will win," said Alan.

"Very well then; I will stick to White Legs," said Eve.

"Quite right, follow the Baron; it was a favorite cry years ago," was Alan's reply.

"You do not appear to care whether I back your horse or not," said Eve sharply.

"I don't suppose it will make any difference to his winning chance," said Alan.

"The Baron says I bring him good luck when I back his horses," she replied.

"Very nice of him, I am sure. I suppose he puts Merry Monarch's Derby win down to that cause."

"Perhaps he does; anyhow he's more complimentary than you," snapped Eve.

Alan was amused. What was she cross about?

Eve saw he was amused and it irritated her. She began to think he cared very little about her; this feeling hurt and caused her pain mingled with anger. Why was he so blind when others acknowledged her charms, sometimes made love to her; she had spurned them all for his sake and he neglected her. She felt reckless; a plunge might relieve the tension, cause excitement, make her forget these things. She turned to the Baron and said:

"Will you execute a commission for me?"

"With pleasure. Are you going to back my horse?"

"Yes; put me five hundred on," she said.

He thought it a large sum but made no remark except to say she might consider it done.

"I will get the best price possible," he said, "and I hope he will win."

"So do I," she replied.

Alan overheard this; she intended he should, and when the Baron left he said:

"You have backed the wrong horse this time; the Baron will not win."

"I suppose you think I ought to have backed your horse because you are my next-door neighbor?" she answered sharply.

He laughed.

"Most of your friends are on Bandmaster."

"Then I shall be able to chaff them when White Legs has won," she answered.

"I say, old man, your horse is coming with a rattle in the betting; there's a pot of money going on," said Harry Morby.

"Mine, no doubt," answered Alan. "I have sent out a late commission. I am anxious to win; it will take Miss Berkeley down a peg; she always pins her faith to the Baron's colors."

"That's your fault," said Harry.

"Why?"

"Because you treat her with indifference and she doesn't deserve it."

"I am not aware of doing so," said Alan. He would have resented this from anybody except Morby, who was a privileged person.

Captain Morby did not pursue the subject further.

"You can keep a secret, Alan?" he asked.

"I'll try. You're a mysterious fellow, Harry."

"It's about the regiment," he said. "We're to hold ourselves ready at a moment's notice—don't split—I might be court-martialled."

"Whew!" whistled Alan. "This looks serious."

"Bet you there's war before long; it's a bigger cert than Bandmaster," said Harry.

"And I'm out of it."

"You needn't be. Join us again. You'll easily get your commission; they'll want all the men they can get, especially officers."

"If there is trouble I shall not be idle," said Alan.

"I know that, old fellow; no need to tell me that."

Something seemed to be in the air. There were many officers present and they were talking in groups of three or four. Judging by their faces it was not about racing; Alan noticed this and thought:

"It's coming, the great upheaval; Fraser's man is right. By Jove, I'll hustle, as Braund would say, when things begin to move."

The horses were going to the post and the June sun shone on the thirty bright jackets as they went past. The din in Tattersalls was deafening. In the crowded enclosure there was hardly room to move; eager backers jostled each other in their anxiety to get at the bookmakers.

Peet Craker left the rails for a moment as he saw Alan Chesney.

"I've a matter of a couple of thousand left against Bandmaster," he said.

"I'll have it," answered Alan; and the bookmaker said, "at a hundred to eight."

"That's a fair price," said Alan.

"Will he win, Mr. Chesney?"

"He has a real good chance, Peet," replied Alan.

The horses disappeared over the brow of the hill, cantered down the slope, and ranged behind the barrier, with the trees for a background. It was a beautiful line of color as seen from the top of the stands.



CHAPTER XII

A FINE FINISH

The big field got away in an almost unbroken line, a splendid start; a loud shout proclaimed the race had commenced. For a few minutes they disappeared, then as they came up the rise the caps appeared over the brow of the hill, and in a couple of seconds the thirty horses were in full view, stretched across the wide course, advancing like a cavalry charge.

A wonderful race the Royal Hunt Cup, a beautiful sight. It has been described scores of times and no description exaggerates its charm. The course is grand, the surroundings picturesque; historical associations cling to the famous heath, where kings and princes, lords and commoners, have assembled year after year, and royal processions have come up the course amid the enthusiastic plaudits of vast crowds. Truly the sport of racing is the sport of kings, and no less of a huge majority of the people.

Bernard Hallam and Valentine Braund acknowledged its charm. There was nothing quite like it anywhere, one of the racing sights of the world, different from Epsom on Derby Day, Doncaster on Leger Day, or glorious Goodwood, unique in its way; no such gathering can be seen in any other country.

The attention of thousands of people was riveted on the horses; all other thoughts were excluded. For a few brief moments everything was forgotten but the business in hand, the probable result, which horse would be added to the long roll of Hunt Cup winners.

The thirty horses were almost level as they came in sight, one or two stragglers, but it was an even race so far. As they began the ascent, the stiff pull to the winning-post, the field lengthened out, horse after horse fell back, and a dozen only possessed chances. The rise finds out the weak spots, and the lack of a final gallop makes a lot of difference. It takes a good horse to win a Hunt Cup; no matter if he does little after, he must be brilliant on the day.

Alan stood with Captain Morby and Captain Newport high on the grand-stand. They knew where to command the best view of the race; it was a climb, a scramble to get there, but worth it.

"Bandmaster's in the center," said Harry. "He's going strong, but he'll have to make his run soon, there's a good many lengths between him and Spur."

The favorite was at the head of the field, traveling in great style. There was just a suspicion he would not quite stay the course, but he seemed to be giving it the lie. Close on his heels came Manifest, Bird, Hooker, Peter's Lad, Beltan, and White Legs.

The Baron's horse began slowly, but soon joined up with the rest. The scarlet jacket was prominent, and as Eve saw it creeping toward the front, she felt confident the Baron's tip would again come off. She wondered why she did not feel enthusiastic at the prospect of a good win. Was it because she would rather have had her money on Bandmaster and see Alan's colors successful? Perhaps it was; anyhow it was absurd to wish to see his colors in front when her money was on White Legs.

Manifest shot to the front as they drew level with the lawn, followed by Bird, and Peter's Lad; with a rush came Scout, an outsider. White Legs was gaining ground. Right in the center of the course was Bandmaster, who liked the stiff going and tackled the work like a good 'un, the seven stone gave him every chance.

Alan was anxious to win; the Hunt Cup was a race he often had a shot at; so far his horses had not run into a place. He had great hopes of Bandmaster's changing his luck.

Valentine Braund backed Manifest, not a bad pick; Bernard Hallam was on Bandmaster; so was Ella, and most of Eve Berkeley's party followed the brown and blue sleeves.

A loud shout greeted the appearance of White Legs in the leading trio, and Bradley looked so much at ease that all who had backed the horse were confident; before the distance was reached the scarlet jacket held the lead, and the Baron's horse appeared to have a mortgage on the race.

Young Colley still had Bandmaster in the center of the track, clear of the others. He was riding a cool, well-judged race, and had every confidence in his mount. Yard by yard the horse crept up; his jockey knew he was gaining at every stride. He measured the distance to the winning-post with critical eyes and felt certain of victory. From the stands Bandmaster seemed to be a long way behind the leaders, and Alan thought his bad luck in the race was to continue. Gradually the sounds increased until they culminated in a roar as White Legs came on at the head of the field, followed by Manifest, and Spur, who had come again in gallant style.

A lull in the shouting for an infinitesimal moment, then a terrific roar proclaimed Bandmaster was pulling hard.

The brown and blue came along fast, very fast, and there was no sign of faltering on the part of Bandmaster, who tackled his stiff work in bull-dog style.

"By gad, he'll do it!" exclaimed Harry excitedly.

"Looks cheerful," said Vincent.

Alan made no remark. He was not quite certain his horse would catch White Legs and Manifest; he had given Spur the go by.

There was considerable doubt as to which horse would win, although the odds were in favor of White Legs.

Bradley, riding a confident race, was on the alert; he never threw a chance away. Tommy Colley got every ounce out of Manifest; and when his brother drew alongside on Bandmaster he knew he must make the last ounce a trifle over weight to win.

For a second the pair hung together, then Manifest was beaten, but struggled on. Roar upon roar came from the vast crowd as Bandmaster got to White Legs' quarters, and the excitement was tremendous.

Eve Berkeley looked on anxiously. At this critical point she hoped the Baron's horse would be first past the post; she would draw a large sum, and the prospect of winning was delightful.

Bradley was the stronger rider, but he had not more determination than his young rival. Bandmaster drew level, and in the next few strides got his head in front. At this Alan's feelings grew too strong for him and he shouted:

"Bandmaster wins!" two or three times.

It was a grand race and one to be remembered.

Again White Legs held a slight advantage, but Bandmaster was not done with, and the difference in weight told its tale. Colley was riding hard; it was a very clever effort on his part, and recognized as such. As they closed on to the winning-post Bandmaster again got his head in front and this time White Legs could not wrest the advantage from him.

A few more strides decided the race. Bandmaster won by half a length from White Legs, with Manifest third.

Although Alan's horse started at twelve to one he was heavily backed, and his win was well received. There was much cheering as the horse came in; the brown and blue was popular; the Chesney colors were always out to win.

Alan came in for a full share of congratulations, Baron Childs being one of the first to greet him.

"I suppose I must join in the paeans of victory," said Eve smiling.

"You can't feel very delighted under the circumstances," said Alan. "It would have suited you better had White Legs won."

"Perhaps it would. Still I am very glad you have won a Hunt Cup at last; you have had several tries," she replied.

"It's good of you to say so," he said. "I told you my horse had a big chance."

"You did. I don't know what made me follow the Baron's tip."

"I think I do."

"What?"

"You have more confidence in his advice than mine," he said.

"I do not think that was the reason."

"What other could there be?"

"Obstinacy," she said.

"I never thought of that—perversity would be better."

"Much the same thing," she replied.

"I am afraid I put you wrong," said the Baron. "If it had not been for me you would no doubt have backed Mr. Chesney's horse."

"You must not blame yourself for that. I am quite satisfied," she said.

"You would have been more satisfied had the Baron's horse won," said Alan.

"Naturally; I backed it."

"Not for that reason alone," answered Alan, as he walked away and joined Ella and her father.

"He leaves me for Ella always," thought Eve with a pang, "and yet I do not think he cares for her that way. I believe he half loves me. I'll put him to the test one of these days, it's worth the risk; nothing venture, nothing have—an old saying which often comes true."

When Alan returned to Trent Park he found Duncan Fraser waiting for him and at once knew there was something important to communicate. Fraser looked serious as he said:

"I hope you had an enjoyable time at Ascot?"

"Yes; won the Hunt Cup and another race. Made a few thousands in the meeting," said Alan.

"There'll be war in little over a month," said Fraser.

"You have had more news from Berlin?"

"This letter came this morning. I knew you were to be home to-day, so thought I'd bring it over."

Alan thanked him, read it, and said:

"What on earth is the Government doing? It ought to be informed."

"It is—has been for sometime. But we know how it is. They always wait until their hands are forced—they are afraid."

"Of what, of what can a British Government be afraid?"

"First and foremost, of the anti-war party, the peace-at-any-price men; then the labor party, votes are the chief consideration. It's abominable," said Fraser.

"Like sticking to office, I suppose?"

"Yes; at all costs."

"You are certain they know there will be war?"

"They must."

"And they will meet the shock unprepared?"

"As regards the army, yes; not the navy. There never was a navy stronger than ours at the present day, but it's been a tremendous fight to get the money, men and ships," said Fraser.

"You ought to be in the House," said Alan.

Fraser laughed.

"I should want a free hand from my constituents," he said.

"And you'd get it; you're just the man," replied Alan.

"What are you going to do?" asked Fraser.

"If war breaks out?"

"Yes."

"Try and get the commission I threw up," said Alan.

"I thought so, and really I can't blame you; we shall want every man we can get," said Duncan Fraser.



CHAPTER XIII

ALAN IS BLIND

It was about a month later when Alan called at The Forest and found Eve Berkeley alone. Ella was with her father in London; they had accepted her invitation to pay another visit later on. She had been waiting for him, wondering why he did not call. She soon heard the reason.

"I have been awfully rushed," he said. "Lots of things to see to at Chesney's before I go away."

"Go away!" she exclaimed. "Where are you going? This is rather sudden; I am surprised."

"I have joined the army again. I have been fortunate enough to get a commission as captain. I tried hard to get back in my old regiment, but there was no vacancy. I shall be gazetted to the 'Sherwoods' in a few days; they are at Derby now. There are stirring times ahead, and I'm not sorry. It was bound to some sooner or later."

"What?"

"War."

She looked incredulous.

"Are you sure? What makes you so certain?"

"Fraser has a reliable man in Berlin; he sent the information. We have acted upon it—in the brewery—and I did not mean to wait weeks for a chance when war is declared," he said.

"Duncan Fraser seems to be a valuable mine of information," she said.

"He is. Do you know, he's a wonderful man, Eve."

She laughed as she replied:

"Your father always had a high opinion of his abilities."

"You and my father were jolly good friends."

"We were on excellent terms; I liked him."

"He could be very agreeable when he chose."

"And in that respect his son resembles him."

Alan laughed.

"Then I suppose you do not think I always choose to be agreeable?" he said.

"You have lapses; sometimes you are almost rude, most abrupt, somewhat neglectful of your best friends."

"Oh, I say! That's not a very flattering picture. To which of my best friends have I been neglectful?" he asked.

"Myself—for one."

He looked surprised.

"That charge will not stand being put to the test," he answered.

"You have not been to see me since Ascot," she said.

"And that comes under the charge of neglect?"

"Yes. You consider me one of your friends?"

"Of course; don't ask foolish questions."

Alan looked particularly well this morning. He was a picture of health, a well-groomed man; his eyes were bright as he looked at her, thinking how lovely she was.

To Eve he was more attractive than ever. She loved him with her whole heart and soul, every nerve in her body thrilled toward him; and there he stood, smiling at her placidly, when she longed for him to take her in his arms, crush her, pour out a tale of love into her waiting, willing ears. Why could he not see it?

She held herself in bounds, but it was difficult.

"When do you join the Sherwoods?" she asked.

"I have joined; I am on leave. I have to put a lot of things straight at Trent Park. I had no idea there was so much to do."

"But you are not in uniform," she said.

"No; I thought I'd come over in ordinary attire—you might have been startled to see me in khaki."

"I certainly would have been."

"Eve, I want you to do something for me when I go away," he said.

Her heart beat fast, this was more promising.

"You know I am only too willing to do anything I can for you."

"That's good of you. I want you to keep an eye on things at Trent Park."

"You have a very capable housekeeper."

"Oh, yes; but even she wants supervising sometimes."

"And you think I can do it?" she asked with a smile.

"Nobody can do it so well; you are accustomed to manage, always have been. I've heard my father say so, and of course I've noticed it myself," said Alan.

He looked at her curiously, mischief in his eyes.

"I believe my governor was more than half in love with you, Eve," he said.

She felt hot, uncomfortable; Alan's father had been very much in love, or infatuated, with her.

"How foolish! Don't be absurd, Alan," she said hastily.

He had seen the change in her; he had sometimes wondered if his father had paid attentions to her, then dismissed the idea as ridiculous.

"Is it absurd?" he asked.

"You must know it is," she said, with emphasis.

"The governor was rather a ladies' man," he said smiling. He saw she was uncomfortable, and teased her.

"He was very polite and considerate," she replied.

"More polite than his son, according to your version," he answered.

"I never said so."

"Not in so many words. You said I neglected my best friends."

"And it is true; you haven't been to see me for a month."

"I have explained why. I say, Eve——"

"Yes."

"Did you miss me? I mean did you want me to come and see you?"

"I did."

"You really missed me?" he asked again.

"Very much. Are you not my nearest neighbor? Have we not been old friends for many years? I do not like to lose old friends," she said.

"There is no danger of losing me. That will rest with yourself; I am always at your commands," he answered.

"Always?" she asked.

"Whenever you want me," he replied.

Want him! Did she not always want him? Why was he so blind?

"If there is war you will go on active service?" she said.

"I hope so; I don't want to remain here, kicking my heels in idleness," he replied with a laugh.

"No; I suppose that is natural. I shall miss you very much."

"It's nice to be missed. I'm a lucky fellow, Eve."

"Are you?"

"Yes; there's many a man would like to hear you say that—the Baron, for instance," he said.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I think you are mistaken about the Baron," she said.

"He admires you, and didn't he give you the winner of the Derby?"

"But not the Hunt Cup," she replied with a laugh.

"No; but he wasn't far out," said Alan. "Then there's Harry Morby; he's your devoted slave."

"Is he? There's not much of the slave about him," she replied, smiling. "I suppose he's sorry you are not in your old regiment."

"He says so; I really believe he is."

"The Sherwoods are a famous cavalry regiment?" she asked.

"They bear an honored name, they have seen some service. I am lucky to get in there."

"You were always a good soldier."

"Glad you think so. There'll be no feather-bed soldiering this time."

"You seem positive there will be war?"

"Yes; absolutely certain."

"It will be a terrible thing."

"Awful; the slaughter will be great."

"And hundreds of thousands will lose their lives?"

"Yes; no doubt about that."

"I shall pray for your safety then, Alan."

"Don't get solemn about it—I'm not gone yet. You'll do as I ask? Just run over to Trent Park sometimes and let me know how things are going on. Sam Kerridge said I must tell you he'd always be very pleased to show you over the stud—good fellow, Sam. What else do you think he said?"

"I really can't guess."

"And I daren't tell you."

"Why not?"

"It's personal. Sam has a habit of blurting out what he thinks."

"Tell me what he said."

"He asked me a question when I spoke about your visiting the stud in my probable absence," said Alan.

"What was it?"

"'When's the wedding?'" he said.

Eve lowered her eyes.

"What a curious question," she said. "What did he mean, to whom did he refer?"

"Miss Eve Berkeley and my humble self," said Alan, laughing.

"How funny," she said.

"Yes; that's just what I thought. What the deuce put it into his head I don't know," said Alan, laughing.

"I suppose he thinks near neighbors sometimes marry," said Eve.

"Perhaps so. They do; I've noticed it. I say, Eve, wouldn't it be curious if we ended up that way?" said Alan.

"Ended up which way?"

"By marrying. How would you like it? Have you ever considered the prospect?"

"Have you?" she asked without looking at him.

"No, I can't say I have. I don't suppose you'd have me in any case."

"Oh! you don't think I'd have you! Well, consider it over—perhaps we might do worse."

"Eve, you're not serious! You haven't been looking at it from that point of view?" he said.

"I believe I'd marry you to-morrow if you asked me, Alan," she said smiling, in a half-joking tone, but her heart beat painfully fast.

"Good Lord, you don't say so!" exclaimed Alan, in such alarmed tones she could not help laughing.

"Please do not be alarmed," she said.

"Of course you're not serious! For the moment I flattered myself you were. You're joking. Funny, isn't it?"

"Supposing I am serious?" she said.

"By Jove, I believe I'd ask you! The temptation would be more than mortal man could resist," he said.

"Try! Let me see how you make love—I am sure you'd be eloquent."

"Don't let us carry this game too far, Eve; it might develop into something serious," said Alan.

"Something serious—good heavens, if he only knew!" she thought. "But what can a poor woman do with such a man. You are very blind, Alan."



CHAPTER XIV

INSIDE THE KEEP

Carl Meason was very busy. He sat up late, poring over maps, tracing routes. Abel Head said:

"He doesn't seem to have a minute to spare."

He had minutes to spare and they were devoted to paying attentions to Jane Thrush when he had an opportunity. She did not avoid him: he interested her, and her father appeared to like him.

Meason approached Thrush carefully, feeling his way gradually; he knew it would be best to influence the father in order to ingratiate the daughter.

Tom took him through the forest, pointing out places of interest. He found Meason a ready listener, who flattered him by remarking on the knowledge he possessed. They walked many miles, but Meason noticed he avoided going near the house in Trent Park. The moat aroused his curiosity. It was filled with water, the depth being considerable; a boat was moored to a small landing stage. Carl asked if his guide could take him into the keep.

Tom said:

"I have brought the keys with me; I thought perhaps you'd like to see it. I've seen strange sights hereabouts. I never come nigh the place at night: there's things chill the marrow in one's bones," and he gave a slight shudder.

Carl laughed. He was no believer in ghosts and such-like superstitions.

"Yer can laugh," said Tom irritably, "but I've seen 'em I tell ye. My eyes are good evidence, I can't doubt 'em."

"I was not laughing at what you thought you've seen," said Carl.

"Thought!" exclaimed Tom. "There's no thought about it; it's gospel truth."

"What did you see?"

"It's strange, beyond telling. There's been murder done in yon keep many a time; it's a gruesome place," and he pointed across the dark water to the round, ancient, tower-like building, whose stones gave evidence of many centuries' battling with storm and tempest.

"Looks a bit lonesome."

"It is. You see that spot near the wall? Well, it's dark and deep, and one night I saw her rise out from the depth. She wailed and threw up her arms, then she sank. She came up again, and a third time; then there was a splash and she disappeared. It was a great stone struck her down. From yon small window, that slit in the wall, I saw a face looking out. It was an awful face, must have been near kin to the devil's; the thing groaned, broke into a harsh laugh, and it vanished. Lord, I never want to see such sights again! My hair turned gray," said Tom.

Carl was amused. He humored him.

"Strange happenings indeed," he said. "What's it like inside?"

"I'll show you, but you had best go in alone. I've had enough of the d——d place," answered Tom.

He got into the boat, took the solitary oar and placed it in the rollock [Transcriber's note: rowlock?] at the stern; Carl stepped in and stood up.

"Best sit," said Tom; "it's a crazy old craft."

"Why doesn't Mr. Chesney have a new one?"

"Don't know; thinks it's good enough for the job, I expect. He never encourages folks' going to the keep."

"But he allows you to carry the keys?"

"Yes; he trusts me. He knows I'm none too fond of the devilish hole." Tom ferried across to the broken-down landing-place near the door of the keep. They got out.

"Here you are," said Tom. "Go inside if you wish."

Carl took the key.

"I'll not be long," he said, as he put it in the lock. It turned with difficulty, and as he pushed the nail-studded old oak door open there was a cool, damp, vault-like smell.

"Reckon you'll come out quick enough," said Tom. "Best be careful; there's some old broken steps lead down under the moat—a dungeon or summat's there." He swore as his foot slipped and he almost fell into the water.

"That's a sure sign we're not wanted here," said Tom gloomily.

Carl smiled and went inside. It was a curious, gruesome place, and the dank air was stifling. He climbed the stone steps upward until he came to a small room. The walls were bare but there were a bed and chairs and tables, all of oak, an iron ring in the wall, a rusty chain, and a padlock of huge size lay on the stone floor, unlocked. The slit in the wall gave enough light to see. Carl stood on a chair and looked out. He saw Tom, waved his hand, but there was no response.

"He can't see me," thought Carl. "It's strange; he's looking straight here."

There were more stairs. At the top he found another room exactly similar to the one below, furnished in the same bare way. In one corner he saw something gray. Examining it, it proved to be a flimsy gauze-like wrap; it was not old, nor torn. There was a white cloth, also a pair of soft slippers.

"The ghost's attire," thought Carl. "Somebody comes here and frightens people. Wonder what for? Probably to scare 'em away for some purpose of his, or her, own. This is interesting."

He replaced the garment, letting it fall and arranging it as nearly as possible as he found it. He went down again, feeling the wall as he descended. It was damp; drops stood out, burst and trickled down. He found the stone steps leading to the dungeon under the moat; they were smooth, broken in places. He was careful in stepping; a slip and he might be landed at the bottom with a sprained ankle, a broken leg, or worse. It was a slippery descent; once or twice he fell down; but he intended seeing what was at the bottom and at last succeeded.

The dark dungeon had a curious odor in it, probably due to the water and lack of fresh air; but there was a scent undefinable as well. He struck a match; it went out immediately, just as though somebody, or something, had blown upon it. He was not a nervous man, but when the second and third match went out in the same way he was inclined to beat a retreat.

"One more try," he thought, and struck three or four wax matches at once; this proved effective and gave him time to see in the corner, propped up, what looked like the body of a man. He must be mistaken; he lit more matches, dropping the others on the floor, where they spluttered in the wet and fizzled out.

It was a man, could be nothing else. He went toward the body, for such he supposed it, bent down to feel it, and found nothing. This was strange. He lit more matches. Now he saw space; there was no body there. He stepped back several paces, astonished, lost in wonder; then he saw the thing again, saw it distinctly, and it seemed to move. It came toward him, or in his excited state of mind he fancied so. His light went out; he had no more matches. As he groped his way to the steps, or where he thought they were, something touched him on the shoulder. It was enough to startle any man, and he cried out in alarm. There was a faint, squeaking noise and a fluttering, then the thing touched his cheek and he smelt a deathlike odor. Thoroughly alarmed he groped out. He felt the damp wall; he had lost the steps; he must walk round, feeling until he came to them, being a circular dungeon he must come to them. It seemed an interminable time before he came to the opening and began to scramble up on his hands and knees.

Tom Thrush waited in the boat. He thought him a long time gone and hoped nothing had happened. He knew it was a queer place to roam around. He whistled for company, then lit his pipe. Why didn't he come out of the beastly place? What was that? It sounded like a startled cry; it came from the tower. Tom shivered. He wasn't going in there to look for Carl Meason, not for any money. The smoke came from his pipe in jerky whiffs.

Just as he was about to step out of the boat, go to the door and call, Carl Meason came out with a quick movement. Tom stared at him in amazement, not unmingled with fear.

Meason was covered in dirt and damp from head to foot, there was blood on his hands, his face was blanched, a wild look in his eyes. He had no time to pull himself together before Tom saw it. His recovery however was remarkably quick considering what he had gone through. He had no desire to give himself away. He looked at his clothes and laughed. In the open again his courage revived.

"It's the dirtiest damp hole I ever was in!" he said; and Tom recognized a difference in his voice.

"Yer all over filth," said Tom. "Yer hands are bloody, ye've torn yer trousers. Where've yer been? Have yer seen anything?"

"Rotten place," said Carl. "If I were Chesney I'd blow it up."

"Did yer see anything?" persisted Tom.

"What the deuce is there to see except bare walls and some ancient oak furniture, must be hundreds of years old."

"It is," said Tom, "more—hundreds and hundreds. You looked a bit scared when you came out—white as a sheet, eyes near shooting out of yer head. Tell me what yer saw."

"Nothing," said Carl. "The place gave me the horrors. I lost myself in the dungeon, took me a long time to find the steps again, that gave me a shock, I had no matches left."

"There's folks been put in that place never saw the light o' day again. Do you believe it's haunted?"

Carl made no reply for a few moments, then said:

"It may be; I shouldn't be surprised. I'm more inclined to believe you since I've been inside."

"I thought as how you would. Seeing's believing," said Tom.

"But I tell you I did not see anything. I heard sounds."

"Ah!" exclaimed Tom. "What like were they?"

"Groans!"

"It's them ye heard, the spirits of the dead; the poor devils never rest in peace," said Tom.

They were going across the moat. There was a splash and both started; Tom almost dropped the oar.

"What's that?" he said. "Look!" and he pointed to the ripples in the dark water circling.

"A fish rising," said Carl with a queer little laugh.

"There's no fish in here, don't believe there's even a carp in."

"Why not?"

"What 'ud fish be doing in this beastly hole?"

"Feeding."

"Nothing to feed on."

"You don't know what's at the bottom of that," said Carl, pointing downward.

"And I don't want to. If it's fish, I'd not eat them," said Tom.

They walked back to the keeper's cottage. Jane met them at the door, surprised to see the state of Carl's clothes. She asked where he had been.

"Exploring the moat and the keep," he replied, thinking her pretty face was a great help to banish phantoms.

Jane laughed as she said:

"You've had a fright. Keep away from the place, it's haunted; there's danger when you meddle with 'em."

"I saw nothing in the keep. I told your father so."

Jane shook her head as she replied:

"Best say nothing about it; keep those things to yourself."

"Have you ever seen things there?" asked Carl.

"Telling's knowing," said Jane, but without smiling.



CHAPTER XV

A SUDDEN PROPOSAL

War was declared against Germany on that fateful day in August; the blow had fallen at last, the nations of the earth were about to measure their millions, and England was unprepared. There was no doubt about the strength of feeling in Britain; every man was for war, with the exception of a few cranks and peacemongers, many of them little better than traitors to their country.

There was a call to arms; it echoed, reverberated, throughout the land; and never was such a voluntary response by any nation. There is little need to write about it; everybody knows how "Kitchener's chaps" rolled up in thousands, to their everlasting honor. By their response they showed the spirit of the nation, roused at last to a sense of horrible danger. Throughout the land there were martial sounds—the hum of camps, the tramp of men, the clang of horses' hoofs, the rattle of war department wagons. Before people had time to rub their eyes and become wide awake, an army had landed in France, eager to help gallant little Belgium, and stop the rush of the enemy's vast hordes.

The Sherwoods were mustered in Trent Park. A noble array they made, splendid men, well mounted and equipped, eager to get at the foe. Captain Alan Chesney was with them, his house the headquarters of the regiment. They had not to wait long; they were in luck's way, one of the first cavalry regiments ordered to the front.

Alan, busy preparing for his departure, had barely a minute to spare, but he made time to call on a few friends, and Eve Berkeley was one of the last. He rode to The Forest in uniform, looking every inch a soldier. He stood in the room waiting for her, his fingers drummed impatiently on the mantelpiece; he wanted to be away, the fighting spirit of the soldier was roused again when he put on khaki. He longed for war—and the front.

For some years he had been a peace soldier, spending money freely, having plenty of spare time, although he was never a laggard and loved the drill and discipline. Now it was different; they were off to the front, where the battle already raged furiously and danger threatened France, as in the former war and from the same source, with many times the strength.

Eve came in. She looked at her best. She knew he was coming and had been thinking of him. There was danger ahead for the man she loved; it was possible she might not see him again. She dare not think of that, it was terrible.

He turned round quickly and came to her, taking both her hands. Looking into her eyes he could not fail to see the light in them; it dazzled but did not blind; it opened his to what was hidden behind the electric flashes in hers. For a few moments there was silence. Then he said:

"I am come to say goodbye, Eve, my old playmate, my best friend."

His voice was well under control, no tremor, but it vibrated and played on her heart-strings. She was agitated; she had been counting on this parting, thinking what might happen, re-changing many things.

"We leave to-morrow, or the next day. I go to London to-night. I cannot tell you our destination, but I can guess it."

Still she did not speak, and he went on:

"We shall give a good account of ourselves, the Sherwoods. Many of us will not return, but something tells me I shall come through it all and live."

"How I shall miss you!" she said. "It will be in fear and trembling I open the paper each morning and scan the lists. But you are doing right; no man can hang back at such a moment. You are glad to be in uniform again?"

"Indeed I am. I feel as though I had never been out of it," he answered.

"You look splendid," she said.

"This morning you are at your best," he replied.

"You were coming to see me, I wanted you to carry away a good impression," she said, smiling.

"I shall often think of you, Eve, and your many gracious actions. By Jove, you are a brick—there's nobody like you," he said enthusiastically.

She was pleased and showed it.

"Have you forgotten our last conversation?" he asked. "It was perilously near the danger zone."

"Why call it a danger zone?" she asked.

"Eve, you don't mean it?" he asked.

"Mean what?"

"Oh, you know. By Jove, I'll risk it, although I can't imagine such good fortune falling to my lot."

"What are you going to risk?" she asked, strangely agitated.

"Asking you to be my wife—there it's out—must I go?" he said.

"Do you wish to go?" she asked archly.

"No; there."

He almost lifted her off her feet as he took her to him and kissed her many times. She clung to him, her arms round his neck, her head resting on his breast; she seemed loath to let him go.

"Alan, oh Alan, it seems too good to be true! I thought you were never going to ask me. I am afraid I have schemed for this. Forgive me, I could not live without you," she said, and again he stopped her mouth with kisses.

"I have always loved you, Eve. When you were a girl you were different from anybody else, the only girl for me. You have not answered my question?" he said.

"I will be your wife, Alan; it has been the dearest wish of my life. I am almost afraid to say how much I love you," she said softly.

"Never be afraid of that; tell me, I want to carry it away with me."

She told him, and his body flamed in response, his heart beat fast. It was the most thrilling moment of his life; she buried her blushing face on his shoulder and panted for very joy.

Alan recognized the depth of her love and wondered at it. She was his, part of him. He felt it, henceforth they would be one. When he was away she would be with him in the spirit. He was loath to part from her, but it had to be. Duty called and that came first. He waited a few minutes until they were calmer.

"Marry me before I leave," he said impetuously.

"There is no time," was the faint reply. "You go to-morrow."

"I forgot; no, there is no time. It is not fair to ask you. Promise me if I come home for a day or two you will consent?"

"Readily, Alan. I am yours when you wish to take me," she answered.

"Supposing we do not leave to-morrow, supposing it is a few more days, that there is time?" he said, his eyes very bright and eager.

"If there is time——" she hesitated.

"You will?"

"Yes."

This was too much for him; he was overwhelmed at his happiness. He clasped her in his arms again and crushed her until it pained, but it was exquisite pain, she felt safe with those strong arms about her.

"I feel as though I never want to let you go again," he said.

She laughed happily.

"If there is time, Alan, we can be quietly married," she said.

"I shall try and make time. I must run no risks."

"Risks of what?"

"Losing you."

"That can never be now. You will not lose me. I may lose you," and she shivered.

"I'm not going to be killed, wounded perhaps. What if I come home minus an arm, or a leg, or with a mutilated face? You might wish to cry off our compact. I can't risk that, Eve; I want to make sure of you," he said earnestly.

"And do you for a moment suppose that would make any difference?" she asked.

"No, I don't, although I said as much. I have great faith in you."

They talked over the future for a long time. When he rose to go, he said:

"Remember, if there is time we are to be married before I leave for France."

"Yes; I hope there will be time," she said quietly.

"You would make a charming widow," he said jokingly.

"Don't say such horrible things," she replied.

"I won't offend again. There's too much in life to even hint at death," he said.

"Let me know if I can see you in London before you go to-morrow?" she said.

"I will; I'll send a special messenger."

"To my town house. I shall be there. I will go up to-night in order to be ready."

"You're the best of women!" he said, kissing her.

He was gone. She sent for her maid and gave orders about traveling to London in the afternoon. How happy she was! Alan had asked her to be his wife at last! She had waited a long time; it seemed almost too good to be true. She wished she could be married before he went away; then she would be quite sure of him. Now he was gone she wondered if her spell over him would ever be in danger of breaking. She blamed herself for such thoughts, but they would intrude, causing little pangs of uneasiness and doubt that irritated her.

On the journey to London she was filled with hope and fears. Their marriage would settle everything, give her the right to look after Trent Park and all belonging to it, of which she was capable, and knew it. There would be much to do in his absence; he had asked her before and she consented, but there were difficulties.

There were several stoppages on the way; inquiries elicited the information that traffic was congested owing to the movements of troops. Already war made a difference; what would it be in the course of a year?

Alan called late at night. There was no chance of a marriage, he was to leave in the morning. He fretted and fumed at the delay, but Eve dispelled his gloom and he went cheerfully after an affectionate parting. After his departure she sat in a disconsolate mood in the large room, longing for company. She wondered if she ought to make their engagement known. He had said nothing about it; perhaps better not until she heard from him. There was the satisfaction of knowing he loved her, that she was to be his wife. Even this did not dispel the shadows; she tried to convince herself all would be well—only partially succeeding.

As for Alan, in the rush and turmoil of departure he almost forgot the question of an immediate marriage. It could not take place yet, so why trouble about it? Eve was his and he was satisfied. On the whole he considered it perhaps as well they were not married. There was no telling what might happen to him and she would be in a better position if he succumbed to the chances of war. Not that he had any fears on that score; he looked forward to the coming struggle in a very optimistic mood.



CHAPTER XVI

JANE'S LOVE AFFAIR

The battle raged; the German hordes pushed forward; the great retreat began. Paris seemed about to fall and there was anxiety in the Allied forces. Prodigies of valor were chronicled in a few lines of space; the British army, greatly outnumbered, was holding the enemy. The advance was slow, a wonderful retreat, perhaps the most heroic known until almost equaled by the Russians later on.

Then came the news that the enemy was checked, they in turn were driven back when Paris seemed within their grasp. The Germans were held and the situation saved. It was marvelous, and the "little army," under Sir John French was covered in glory. Britain thrilled at the news of her soldiers' bravery. They fought as of old, fought as at Waterloo, at Inkerman, at the Alma, and Balaklava. They had not degenerated, the same spirit animated them; they knew how to die, and how to win. For forty years the Germans had been trained for war, and their masses were held up by men who had known peace for many years.

The Sherwoods had their chance and took it. The Uhlans were no match for them; they were bowled over like ninepins. Men and horses fell in heaps before the terrible charge. Captain Chesney was in the thick of it all. Rash, brave, knowing no danger, he was a typical cavalry officer; and that master of cavalry tactics, Sir John French, heard of his bravery and recognized it. After their first action Alan Chesney was the idol of the Sherwoods. The men followed him into the jaws of death and cheered as he led them on. Nothing could stand before them, their impetuosity overcame all obstacles; they lost many men but gained imperishable renown.

Eve Berkeley read the meager accounts of the fighting and grew impatient, longing for more, wondering why publicity was not given to the doings of the bravest of the brave. Alan's name cropped up once or twice, she gathered from the vague lines that he had done wonders, that his bravery was conspicuous, that his men loved him, and she was proud of him.

Week after week passed and she only had one or two lines from him. There was no time to write long letters, she must wait until he was out of the saddle for an hour or two. She knew how difficult it must be to write, yet longed to hear, and each morning looked for a letter. When it did not come she scanned the papers in fear and trembling. She little knew the narrow escapes he had already experienced, and he came out of terrible frays with hardly a scratch. When horses were shot under him a trooper was always ready with another for him with a "take mine, sir." Alan reveled in the fury of the charge; his whole body thrilled as he galloped down on the Uhlans at headlong speed. This was soldiering indeed; no playing; deadly, grim earnest, a toss-up for life or death. He grieved at the loss of men, but the fewer in number the more they were united and proved irresistible. During the retreat they were here and there and everywhere, scouting, thwarting the enemy, breaking up his plans, a thorn in his side pricking deep. Seldom out of the saddle, he had little time to think of home and Eve Berkeley.

At Trent Park things went on much as usual. Eve went over occasionally; her visits were in no way resented, everything was made smooth for her.

At the stud she was always welcome. Sam Kerridge appreciated her at her full worth; said she knew more about horses than half the men he met, that she had an eye for a good 'un, and could fault the inferior sort.

"Blest if I couldn't leave her in charge for a month without the slightest fear of anything going wrong," he said.

Alfonso had taken the place of Mameluke, and there seemed every chance of his being as popular with owners of mares, but the shadow of war over the land was likely to have some effect on the big studs. Already there was talk of cutting down expenses and selling off.

Carl Meason still had his rooms at the Sherwood Inn and Abel Head wondered if he were right in his surmise that he was a spy. He argued that a spy would hardly bury himself at Little Trent in war time; still, there was no telling. Meason went out in his motor at night more than usual; moreover he carried a very powerful light and there was an unusually strong one inside the car.

"What's this for?" asked Abel as he examined it.

"The police are very particular about lights, so I've got this ready in case one of the others goes out," was the reply.

"Must give a powerful glare," commented Abel.

"It does. Nothing like seeing far enough ahead," said Carl.

Abel was not satisfied. He had never seen such big lamps inside a car before and he did not believe Meason's reason for having it. Although he had plenty on hand Carl Meason found time to meet Jane Thrush. After much persuasion he induced her to go in his car to Nottingham to see the sights, and strange to say Tom raised no objections. Thrush seemed favorably impressed with Meason; no doubt an occasional fiver helped in this direction, for Tom was fond of money.

"Where's the harm?" he said to himself. "Jane's a clever girl, knows more than the ordinary, and she's good enough for any man. He seems sweet on her. No reason why he should not marry her. There's money, not a doubt or he couldn't sling fivers about like he does."

All the same he questioned Jane closely after her return from Nottingham; but she was reticent. Not given to talking much himself he did not pay so much notice to this as he might otherwise have done.

Carl Meason was a man to attract a girl like Jane Thrush. He could be agreeable when he chose; his face concealed his real feelings—it was a mask and effectually changed the man to outward appearances. Meason was making the mistake of his life. He was fast becoming infatuated with Jane Thrush, subordinating certain objects to her, spending time in her company. The work he had in hand brooked no interference. It was sufficiently dangerous; there must be no leakage. Not a hint or a whisper must get about or he would be in grave danger on both sides. His employers were ruthless, and the authorities in England would not be likely to spare even his life if they got wind of his purpose and how he was working.

Jane Thrush held him in the hollow of her hand did she but know it. At present she was too innocent to suspect his real nature and she never dreamed what he was about. She would not have understood his affairs had they been explained to her. Jane merely saw in him a well-to-do man, who talked to her with respect, and was evidently more than half in love with her. She was not conceited although she had a proper sense of her importance and good looks, which was fostered by her father.

During the drive to Nottingham and back Carl Meason made love to her in ardent fashion and she had not repulsed him although she was careful to keep him within bounds. One thing Tom Thrush had effectually taught his daughter and that was the perils to which pretty girls are exposed. He had made no bones about it, spoke out plainly, and Jane learned the lesson well.

"Her's got no mother," Tom said to himself, "and it's my place to warn her. She'd best know what's what and then she can't stumble with her eyes open," and in his rough way he saw farther than people who avoided responsibilities in this direction.

Jane was therefore well armed against the wiles of unprincipled men, although it had hitherto been her good fortune not to encounter any. There had been kisses and embraces and Jane accepted them without much enthusiasm or response. Carl Meason's lovemaking left her cold; somehow she hardly thought it real. She did not tell Tom of these embraces and he forebore to push inquiries. His occupation made him suspicious and watchful; he was the terror of poachers and evil-doers among the game, and had tracked many notorious men down. Although he loved money he surmised that Carl Meason's occasional fivers were not given for nothing, they were to smooth the way for Jane's favor.

If the man meant well by his daughter there was no harm done; if ill, then he would settle with him in a way that would astonish before any damage was done.

Carl Meason quickly discovered he would have to play straight with Jane Thrush, also her father, and for once in a way he was inclined to do this; it was after all the easiest to get what he wanted.

So far he had never given much thought to taking a wife, but when he considered everything, turning the pros and cons over, he came to the conclusion Jane Thrush was worth some sort of sacrifice. He would not surrender any of his liberty, once she was his he would mold her to his will; he fancied this would be easy—he was mistaken, as better men have been.

It was a relief from his work to talk and make love to Jane, also to think about her at night when touring round the country in his motor. There were other things to think about, and sometimes he dreaded what might happen when the time came for the devilish engines of destruction to work. Carl valued human life little, except in the care of his own body, and had been instrumental in sending many to death. He knew there were thousands of Germans in the country; they had been spying out the land for years, and he wondered at the supineness of the authorities in allowing it. He cared little who won the war so long as he reaped his reward. He would have been willing to accept pay from both sides had it been feasible.

If he had a better side to his nature Jane Thrush seemed likely to find it, but even she would have to walk warily if in his power. Jane's pretty face had won a sort of victory over him; he acknowledged his submission with a wry grimace, thinking she would be called upon to submit in her turn.

Meanwhile Jane hesitated as to what she would do if he asked her to be his wife, as she believed he would. To solve her doubts, she asked her father. Tom eyed her curiously; he was sleepy and barely grasped her question.

"What did yer say, lass?" he asked.

"If Mr. Meason asks me to be his wife what answer shall I give him?"

Tom was awake now. This was important.

"He'll ask, you reckon?"

"I believe he will."

"Then please yourself, lass. He's a well-favored man, seems well off, he'd make a good husband," said Tom.

"Perhaps he would," said Jane doubtfully.



CHAPTER XVII

THE LAY OF THE LAND

Race meetings gradually dropped out, they were few and far between; there was more important business on hand.

Fred Skane had sole control of Alan Chesney's horses during his absence and picked up a race or two to meet expenses. Alan had given no instructions to sell any of his horses, but Fred used his judgment and let three or four go in selling races. Alan impressed upon him to prepare a couple of horses to match against Bernard Hallam's Rainstorm and Southerly Buster, for he was anxious to demonstrate the superiority of the English horses.

Mr. Hallam brought his trainer from Australia, and Jack Wrench—his name—was granted permission to train at Newmarket. It was not long before two sterling good horses, Catspaw and Bellringer, four and five years old respectively, were purchased to lead the Australians in their work. Both horses had won good handicaps and came into the market on the departure of their owner for the front. Mr. Hallam paid a stiff price for them, but Jack Wrench had been advised they were worth it. The Australian trainer was anxious to prove that Rainstorm and Southerly Buster were equal to the best handicap horses in England.

It soon got about in racing circles that there was likely to be a match between horses of Alan Chesney and those of Bernard Hallam. This news spread far and wide, and the Australians in the fighting line were as eager about it as anybody. The Anzacs had a terrible time in Gallipoli, and the Dardanelles generally, but they were always eager to discuss sport when the Turks gave them a rest for a few hours.

Time passed quickly, and already the death roll on both sides was terrible. Still Alan escaped unhurt, and Eve expected him home on short leave; his latest letter, however, gave no hope of this for some time, but he said he would make an effort later on when his horses were fit to run. He fixed up a match with Mr. Hallam for a thousand a side between The Duke and Southerly Buster, and Bandmaster and Rainstorm, the distances a mile and two miles. The Hunt Cup winner developed into a great stayer, and as he had a wonderful turn of speed he was sanguine of beating Rainstorm.

So many race meetings were abandoned that the Newmarket programs were extended to take their place in some measure, and the headquarters of the turf became very busy. Racing men were thankful for small mercies; the extra meetings were well attended and big fields turned out for the events.

Mr. Hallam was often at Newmarket, taking great interest in the work of his horses, and Wrench gave him encouraging accounts of their progress. Both horses came well out of their gallops with Catspaw and Bellringer, and the local touts were much impressed with them.

Rainstorm was voted a beauty; the Australian horse became popular and his portrait appeared in several papers, together with interviews with Bernard Hallam.

Ella Hallam spent much of her time at The Forest with Eve Berkeley and they were firm friends. Ella knew of Eve's engagement to Alan and heartily congratulated her. Whatever she might have thought about Alan's attentions to herself she never for a moment doubted his inclinations were toward Eve; being a loyal-hearted woman she accepted the situation.

Fred Skane came to Trent Park to see Sam Kerridge. They were cronies, had been for years.

"I suppose you'll win both matches," said Sam.

"Pretty sure of it. Bandmaster will beat Rainstorm anyhow whichever way the other goes," answered Fred.

"Queer Bandmaster should turn out a stayer," said Sam.

"He's bred to stay," replied Fred.

"But he's a Hunt Cup winner and I'd hardly have expected him to be up to two miles."

"Well he is—no mistake about it. I've tried him and I know," said the trainer.

"And you don't often make mistakes, Fred."

"I'm just as liable to be mistaken as other men, but when I've something to go upon I'm not far out," replied the trainer.

"Awful job, this war," growled Sam; "upsets everything. I've lost four of my best men, and some of the others want to join up."

"Can't wonder at it. We'll need every man we have to win outright."

"Suppose we shall," said Sam. "All the same it's hard lines on a chap when he's used to the men and they're used to him."

In the evening they walked to Little Trent and went into the Sherwood Inn for a chat with Abel Head, who gave them a cordial welcome. They were favorites, and he liked a talk about racing. While they were chatting, a motor horn was heard and Abel said:

"That's Meason coming back. He's earlier than usual."

The trainer and Sam had heard of Carl Meason and were aware of Abel's opinion about him.

"He's making a long stay with you," said Fred.

"I'm about tired of him, although I'll not deny he's a good customer and pays his way," said Abel.

Carl Meason looked into the snuggery as he was passing the door.

"Come in," said Sam. "You may as well join us."

Carl entered, took off his coat, and sat down.

"When's the great match to come off?" he asked. He was always posted up on racing; he liked a flutter and never lost an opportunity of getting a useful hint.

"Hardly know yet," said Fred. "I expect we'll have to wait until Mr. Chesney gets leave. He'll want to see both races run."

"And I suppose his horses will win both matches?" said Carl.

"I hope so," said the trainer.

"You're not certain?"

"One can never be sure where racing is concerned," said Fred.

Carl laughed.

"Then what about these big coups that come off? They're pretty sure about them."

"Of course there are real good things, but even they are bowled over," said Fred.

"Clever men, you trainers," said Carl.

"Some of them," said Sam, with a wink at Abel.

"No doubt about Mr. Skane's being one of the clever men," said Carl.

"Don't know so much about that; I've been done more than once," said Fred.

"Shouldn't have thought it," said Carl. "The man who did you must have got up very early in the morning."

"Going out to-night again?" asked Abel.

"Yes, walking; I have a little business on hand that concerns my happiness," said Carl.

"Sounds a bit like courting," said Sam.

"You're not far out," was Carl's reply. "I'm thinking of getting married," he added as he left the room.

"Who's the girl?" asked Sam.

"Can't say for certain. He's been thick with Jane Thrush for a long time; they go out together. She's been in his motor to Nottingham. Can't think what Tom's about to allow it."

"He'd be a good match for her, eh?" asked Fred.

"I'm none so sure about that. What do you say, Sam?" asked Abel.

"I don't know much about the man. Jane's a very pretty girl; she's quite good enough for him," said Sam.

"I wish I could fathom him," said Abel. "He's mysterious; them roads and maps is all a blind, I feel sure."

"What makes you think so?" asked Sam.

"Nothing in particular. He keeps on tracing and tracking, and marking out spots in red ink, but I can't make head or tail of 'em," said Abel.

"Leaves them about, does he?" asked the trainer.

"Sometimes."

"There can't be much harm in what he's doing," said Fred.

Abel shook his head doubtfully.

"If he hadn't been here before the war began I'd have him put down as a spy—I'm not quite sure he isn't."

"Spying what?" asked Sam.

"The lay of the land," replied Abel.

"What for? How will that help? You don't think the Germans will come inside England?" laughed Fred.

"Not by land. They may come overhead and do some damage. What about these Zepplins they've been building for a long time?" said Abel.

The trainer laughed; so did Sam Kerridge.

"You can laugh," said Abel, "but it's my belief they'll do some damage with 'em before long."

"And you imagine Meason is planning out routes for them—is that it?" asked the trainer.

"Something of the sort. Wouldn't put it past him," said Abel.

"I can't agree with you. If he were doing that he wouldn't leave his work about," said Sam.

"He leaves about what he likes. I'll bet he has some things he would not like to be seen," said Abel.

"It's a dangerous thing to be a spy," said Sam; "and I don't think he looks like one. He'd have no time for courting if he'd a job like that."

"For two pins I'd give information against him," said Abel. "If I get half a chance, and enough evidence to go on I'll do it."

"It is a serious charge to make," said Sam, and the trainer agreed.

As they walked home they continued the conversation, and Sam gave Fred to understand there was something suspicious about Carl Meason's movements.

"But it doesn't look much like spying. He's after Jane Thrush and means matrimony—he'd have no time on his hands for that," said Sam.

Carl Meason left the Inn and walked to the keeper's cottage. He saw him leave, gun under arm, and as he wanted the coast clear it suited his purpose. Jane opened the door when he tapped—she had come to know the sound.

"Father's gone out," she said.

"I saw him. I am glad; I want a few words with you alone," he replied. "I am going away for a time on business and I want you to go with me. I shall be lost without you."

"I cannot go away with you; you know that," she answered.

"Oh, yes, you can—as my wife?" he said. So he did wish to marry her. She was gratified. She had thought of late such was not his intention.

"You'll marry me?" she asked.

"That's what I've come for to-night, to ask you to be my wife."

She was silent. It was an important step to take. She liked him, but she was not sure she loved him, and she was a little afraid of him. She had caught glimpses of the brute in him once or twice; it revolted her.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To the sea. We can spend our honeymoon there."

"Where?"

"I cannot tell you until we are on the way. I want nobody round here to know my whereabouts," he said.

"And you wish me to go with you as your wife?"

"Yes."

"When do you start?"

"In a week or so."

"Then I will give you my answer in a day or two," she said quietly.

He remained late, trying to persuade her to say she would be his wife. He had to leave without being satisfied, and he was annoyed.



CHAPTER XVIII

TOM'S WEAKNESS

"Then he's come to the scratch! I thought he would. You're a clever lass, Jane," said her father.

"Nothing clever about it. I haven't given him much encouragement," she said.

"What are you going to do?"

"That's for you to decide."

"It concerns you more than me. Do you love him?"

"I'm not sure."

"Eh! Not sure—you've had time enough."

"He's difficult to understand," said Jane.

"In what way?" asked Tom.

"I can hardly say; it's hard to explain. He seems fond of me; he might make a good husband."

"What's amiss with him?"

"Oh, nothing; but sometimes he frightens me," she said.

"Good Lord, how?" exclaimed Tom.

"He's fierce at times—he's terribly determined even when he's making love."

"That proves he's in earnest."

"Perhaps so; it shows he wants me, anyhow."

"That's in his favor. He's offered marriage, so he means right by you."

"It's his only chance," she replied.

Tom thought there was a good deal of common-sense in her; he put it down to his credit that he had brought her up well, opened her eyes.

"He must have money. Perhaps I'd better have a talk with him."

"What about?"

"He ought to settle a sum on you," said Tom cautiously.

Jane smiled as she thought: "You want money out of him, but you mean well."

"Men with cash generally give their wives a bit down," said Tom.

"If he did that, wouldn't it be rather like buying me?" she asked.

"Lord, no! Rich folk do it, the swells. Why shouldn't he?"

"He's not what I'd call a swell—real gentleman—not like Mr. Chesney," said Jane.

"That's different; there's not many men like him."

"No, that's true," said Jane with a sigh.

"I'll put a few questions to him," said Tom. "Wonder what his business is?"

"Surveyor; he says so."

"Can't make it out why he hangs about here so long without it's for your sake, lass."

"Perhaps that has something to do with it."

"Must have," said Tom.

He waited to see Carl Meason, who came the next morning, eager to have Jane's answer. He had a long talk with Tom Thrush; they went for a walk; Carl returned alone. He at once put the question to Jane, saying he had her father's consent. She made up her mind quickly. It was a chance she must not let slip—there were no eligible suitors in the neighborhood.

"I will marry you, Carl," she said. "You must be very good and kind to me."

He drew her to him, and kissed her passionately, vowing he would do everything possible to make her happy. He would have promised anything to gain his own ends.

"I want to be married in Little Trent Church," she said.

"I'll get a special license," he replied. "We've no time to wait."

"You're in a hurry to be off," said Jane.

"Business, my dear. I'd not have stayed so long at the Sherwood Inn if it hadn't been for you."

"You do love me—it's not make-believe?"

"Is that make-believe," he said, crushing her in his arms, kissing her many times. She recognized it was anything but make-believe; he wanted her badly, he must love her.

"Let me go," she said, panting.

"You believe me?"

"Yes, I believe you."

"And you love me?"

"Yes."

He crushed her again, then reluctantly let her go and stood looking at her.

"I've seen the parson," he said. "He's a queer old fellow; said he must see your father about it—and you."

"That's quite right. We sort of belong to him; he's our guide. I go to church."

"I told him he'd have no difficulty with you, or your father, that you'd both consent," he said.

"But you didn't know we would!" she remonstrated.

"I was sure of it," said Carl.

When he left, Jane wondered if he had promised or given her father any money; she half suspected there had been some bargaining and resented the thought. She knew her father loved her dearly, but he also loved money and would go far to get it.

Tom Thrush came home, putting a bold face on, but looked rather sheepish.

"It's settled; I've taken him. We're to be married in Little Trent Church. Parson's coming to see us about it," she said.

"Drat him, what's he coming for?" said Tom irritably.

"Carl says we're to be married as soon as possible by special license. I suppose that's what he's coming about," replied Jane.

"He's in a hurry."

"We're going to the sea—for the honeymoon," said Jane, blushing prettily.

"She's a beauty," thought Tom. "I wonder if she could have done better for herself?" He was seldom satisfied with anything.

"Where to, what seaside?" he asked.

"He said he could not tell me before we left. He didn't want the people about here to know."

"That's queer. Why shouldn't he?" growled Tom.

"He's good reasons for it, no doubt," she answered. "Was anything said about money?"

Tom shuffled uneasily in his chair.

"Well, yes, we had a few words about it."

"What did you say to him?"

"Told him it was usual for a man of means to settle something on his wife."

"Well, what did he say?"

"Laughed; said he wasn't exactly a rich man but he could afford to keep a wife in comfort. Then he offered to give me a hundred pounds to put by for you in case anything happened to him. He said it would do for a bit until his affairs were settled. I said it wasn't much. We argued the thing out. He's promised two hundred; that's not so bad," said Tom in a hesitating way.

"Did he give you the money?" she asked,

"No, he's bringing it to-night."

"To hand it to me?" she asked.

"I said I'd best keep it for you until you wanted it."

Jane smiled.

"You'll be sure and take care of it, Dad?" she said.

"Upon my soul I will. You know I'm a careful man with money, Jane," he said eagerly.

"I shall want a little pocket money when I go away."

"He'll give you some. He's sure to be generous."

"I think he has been generous in giving you two hundred pounds. I shall not ask him for any. You can spare some," said Jane.

"Of course it's not mine; it's yours," protested Tom. "But where's the harm in getting a bit more? He knows we're not well off."

She shook her head.

"No," she said. "I will not ask him, and you must not."

"Very well, my lass. Suppose we say ten pounds."

"Not enough; it must be twenty at the least."

Tom gave in at once. She might refuse to let him hold the money for her; that would be a calamity. Jane regarded this transaction with Carl Meason doubtfully. It was too much like bargaining for her; but she loved her father, knew his weakness, and forgave. After all, the money was hers, and he was honest and would not touch a penny of it; he merely wanted to gloat over its possession.

Carl Meason saw Tom Thrush alone and handed over the two hundred pounds. He was generally free with his money, and well supplied.

"Jane'll have to go to Nottingham to buy a few things before she's married," said Tom, feeling his way. He had promised Jane not to make more demands on Carl, but this did not include broad hints.

"I'll take her over," said Carl.

"That's all right; I can't afford to give her much," said Tom.

Carl grinned, rather savagely, inwardly cursing Tom for a greedy, miserly man. Well, he'd have Jane—that was his reward.

"I'll see to it my wife shall have all she wants," he answered.

"You'll not find her extravagant; she's been well brought up," said Tom.

"Trust her father for that," said Carl.

Jane went to Nottingham with Carl Meason; she found him liberal. He bought her expensive dresses and wraps; she began to have a sense of importance.

Tom Thrush was surprised. Jane had never seemed quite so good-looking; he considered Carl Meason had secured a valuable prize.

"I'll not deny he's dealt liberally with you," said Tom; "but you're worth it."

Carl Meason was satisfied when he saw Jane dressed at her best. She was even prettier than he thought; her new clothes certainly brought out her good points to perfection. The scruples of the parson were overcome after he had talked freely with Tom and Jane. He had doubts about the wisdom of the match, but kept them to himself.

They were married in Little Trent Church and Eve Berkeley was present. She had been much surprised when Jane told her she was to be married to Carl Meason.

"Are you quite sure you love him, Jane?" asked Eve.

Jane was not quite sure, and said so. Eve warned her she was about to try a dangerous experiment, run considerable risk.

"I am very fond of you, Jane, and I want to see you happy," she said. "Consider it well; there is time to draw back. You do not know much about Mr. Meason—nobody does; he is rather mysterious."

After this interview with Eve Berkeley, Jane had doubts as to the wisdom of the course she was pursuing; they vanished when out of her presence.

There were several villagers in the church and Jane's appearance created a mild sensation. She seemed quite the lady, exceedingly pretty. They had hitherto considered her as one of themselves, now she looked superior.

Carl Meason was proud of his young bride, but he wanted her all to himself, and after a brief stay of a couple of hours they left the Sherwood Inn in his motor and started on their journey amidst the cheers of the villagers. Carl had taken care to leave a liberal amount of money with Abel Head for the villagers' benefit; he wished to create a good impression and succeeded—for a time.

Tom Thrush made the most of his hours at Sherwood Inn. He was a temperate man, but this was a special occasion. There was an ample supply of liquor, to which he did full justice. The thought of returning to his cottage and finding no Jane there made him feel lonely and he remained at the Inn until closing-time.

Abel Head walked some of the way with him, and as they were about to part, said:

"I hope Jane will be happy. She's a good girl, far too good for Meason I'm thinking."

"Her'll be all right," said Tom. "The man's behaved well; he'll be proud of her, you see if he's not."



CHAPTER XIX

HALF A HEAD

The matches were to take place at Newmarket on the first two days. They had been arranged so that Alan Chesney might be present; leave was granted for five days, and he hurried home from the front. Since the desperate cavalry fighting with the Uhlans he had been promoted to the general staff in a special capacity kept a profound secret to all except those immediately concerned, and had already done excellent service.

He arrived at Trent Park late in the evening, and at once went to The Forest where Eve Berkeley anxiously awaited him. Bernard Hallam and Ella were there but discreetly kept out of the way until they met. Alan was bronzed and looked fit; Eve was proud of him. They had much to talk over, and for an hour were left to themselves. No mention was made of their marriage; it was understood it was to take place as soon as possible.

When Bernard Hallam and Alan were alone the matches between their horses were the subject of conversation.

"You've not seen 'em," said Bernard, alluding to Rainstorm and Southerly Buster. "You'll be a bit surprised. I shall give you a good run; it will probably result in winning one each."

Alan smiled; he had frequently heard from his trainer and was confident of success.

"Skane tells me your horses are better than he expected, but he thinks I shall win," he said.

"And my man Wrench says I shall," was the reply.

"There's a lot of interest in them, and the wagering will be close," said Alan.

"The odds will probably be on your horses; that's only natural. Would you care to have a wager as well as the stake?"

"I'm agreeable if you wish," said Alan.

"Then suppose we say an even five hundred on each race?" said Hallam.

"That will suit me," was Alan's reply.

Ella greeted Alan without any embarrassment. She had at first been touched by his attention to her, but directly she was certain he and Eve were in love she relinquished any hopes she might have had. Alan did not conceal his pleasure at meeting her, and Eve felt a slight touch of jealousy which she quickly banished as a foolish fancy. They were good friends, why should she not be pleased it was so?

They went to Newmarket by motor early in the morning and drove direct to the course. Alan was anxious to see the four horses; they were in the paddock, although The Duke and Southerly Buster were only due to run the mile that day.

The Australians attracted a crowd and pleased the public; they were a good-looking pair, Rainstorm being the favorite.

Alan was much impressed. He recognized his horses would have to be at their best to beat them; this Fred Skane assured him was the case. He went to look at The Duke and Bandmaster, and his hopes of winning rose. They were in splendid trim; the trainer had taken a lot of trouble with them. Eve was naturally anxious for Alan to win. Ella was quite convinced her father's horses would put up a good race; she had a couple of small wagers on with her friends.

Mr. Hallam found no difficulty in getting odds of six to four against Southerly Buster in the ring; the bookmakers were disposed to field against the Australian representatives. The match was regarded as an important event and placed third on the card. When the horses came out there was much cheering. It was a sporting affair in every sense of the word. There were plenty of Australians in khaki, eager to show their faith in Southerly Buster. Many of them were wounded, some known to Bernard Hallam and Ella.

The course was the straight mile, and there is no better galloping ground. Southerly Buster cantered down with Bradley in the saddle; the Baron's jockey fancied his mount, he had ridden him in several gallops. Tommy Colley was, as usual, on Alan's horse. It seemed an equal match both as regards the riders and horses. Naturally there was prejudice in favor of The Duke, odds of five to four being laid on him, then six to four was freely laid.

"Going to beat you, Ben," said Tommy at the post.

"You may, but you'll not find it easy; mine's a real good horse," was the reply.

They sprang off together, at top speed in a few strides, and it was evident the mile would be covered in fast time. Southerly Buster was a clinker over the distance, holding the Australian record for a mile, a generous horse, always willing to do his best. The Duke had a temper, but Colley knew his peculiarities and humored him. The horse had a bad habit; getting off well, he generally slackened speed after going a couple of furlongs. He did so on this occasion and Southerly Buster gained a length or more, much to the consternation of backers of Alan's horse. At the end of four furlongs the Australian had increased his lead and still The Duke held back. Colley was anxious. The Duke had a tremendous turn of speed, but nearly three lengths was a lot to make up in half a mile.

The black, orange hoops and cap were conspicuous; Bernard Hallam fancied they would be as successful here as in Australia.

Jack Wrench had a habit of giving a long and prolonged whoop when he felt sure of a horse's victory. He proclaimed his confidence in Southerly Buster in a manner causing people near to laugh heartily. Hallam heard the well-known cry and it increased his hopes of winning.

Alan was disappointed so far at The Duke's form. He knew Colley was not quite as good as Bradley in a match, although his judgment was excellent, hardly ever at fault.

They were two furlongs from the winning-post and Tommy wondered when The Duke would put on full pressure; it was high time if he were to win. He dare not hit him, not at present; a few strides from the post it was generally effective because The Duke had no time to think things over and sulk. Just as Colley was beginning to despair and becoming desperate he felt The Duke bound under him, and in a few seconds the whole aspect of the race changed. So sudden was the move that Alan gasped. Eve clutched his arm in her excitement.

"By Jove, he's coming and no mistake!" exclaimed Alan.

"Splendid!" said Eve. "What wonderful speed—but will he catch him?"

"Whoop, whoop, whoop!" came from Jack Wrench—three sharp, piercing cries; but there seemed to be a note of alarm in the last, it died away suddenly.

The Duke was now almost at Southerly Buster's quarters, and Bradley was on the lookout for squalls; the advantage he possessed was greatly in his favor at this critical point. Colley thrilled with excitement; after the first part of the race the change was delightful. There was no doubt about The Duke's doing his best now. A tremendous cheer came from the crowd as he drew almost level with Southerly Buster.

They were not many lengths from the winning-post; it was a terrific set-to. There was nothing between the pair; they were evenly matched. The Australian was a wonderful horse. How the colonials cheered! There was nothing wrong with their lungs, whatever there might be with their limbs. It was a glorious sight to watch these two horses, representatives of all that was best in the sport on two sides of the world, struggling for supremacy. There was the blue blood of the English thoroughbred in both, although reared and trained under different conditions. Cheering and counter-cheering echoed over the heath as The Duke and Southerly Buster struggled on. Whichever won, the honors were almost equal; this is as it ought to be on a match of this kind.

The whips were out; down they came, and still the horses were locked together. The Duke tossed his head. Colley thought it was all up, that he had given in; then to his surprise the horse's resentment took another turn and he made a savage effort to get his head in front.

The din was tremendous, and the excitement great; there was not likely to be a better race than this in the four days.

Bradley rode splendidly, so did Colley, and both horses put in all they knew.

They were just at the post when The Duke made his final stride. Had he won? Nobody knew, not even the jockeys; each thought he had just got it. The judge was certain; he alone could decide, and he did not hesitate.

There was a moment of silent suspense, then the hurricane of cheers as number one, The Duke's number, went up. Alan's horse had won by half a head in the last stride and Southerly Buster was only just vanquished. "Honor's divided," was Mr. Hallam's comment when he met Alan in the paddock.

"They are," he replied; "there is nothing between them."

"Only half a head," answered Mr. Hallam, smiling, "but it makes all the difference."

"I thought I'd just done it," said Bradley.

"So did I," said Colley. "It was the last stride; they were dead level next moment."

"It was worth coming home for," said Alan enthusiastically. "There'll be some fun at the front to-night. There were several wagers on. They are all great sports."

"Will they hear the result?" asked Eve.

"Oh, yes; you've no idea how news gets round; it's remarkable where it comes from—Lord only knows," said Alan.

There was much speculation in Newmarket during the evening as to the next day's match. Southerly Buster had run such a race that it was considered Rainstorm, who was the better horse, had a splendid chance of beating Bandmaster. Many people doubted the Hunt Cup winner's capability to stay two miles. Mr. Hallam was so impressed with Southerly Buster's performance that he laid several big wagers Rainstorm would win. Alan was not oversanguine, although Fred Skane declared Bandmaster's task was easier than The Duke's.

Baron Childs invited Alan, Evelyn Berkeley, and the Hallams to stay with him for the night; he also had other friends there. During the evening there was some wagering on the next day's match and opinions were about equally divided.

The Baron was particularly attentive to Eve. Alan smiled as he said to himself:

"He does not know we are engaged. Eve is mine; there's no chance for anybody else."

Alan walked to Skane's after dinner and had a long talk with him over the running of his horses.

"Think we'd better put Robin Hood over the sticks," he said. "I've found out he's a good fencer; there'll be some meetings under National Hunt rules during the winter and next spring."

Alan was pleased at the suggestion; he loved a ride over the sticks or steeple-chase course, and Robin Hood was just the mount for him.



CHAPTER XX

TWO STAYERS

When Rainstorm and Bandmaster cantered down the course they were greeted with cheers; the second match was regarded with even more interest than the first.

The element of doubt about the staying powers of Bandmaster caused odds to be laid on the Australian, who had the reputation of a long distance winner. Alan was rather surprised at this, and supported his horse freely in order to make him favorite. This he did not succeed in, as the colonials laid short odds freely on Rainstorm.