Lady Splay was practical.
"Hadn't you better see first?" she asked.
Hillyard, with his thoughts playing swiftly in the future like a rapier, was still standing stock-still with the unopened telegram in his hand.
"Of course," he said. "But I know already what it is."
The anxious little circle closed nearer as he tore open the envelope. He read:
"I have refused the Duke. Money is cash—I mean trash. Little one I am yours.—Linda Spavinsky."
The telegram had been sent that afternoon from Chichester.
Hillyard gazed around at the serious faces which hemmed him in. It became a contest as to whose face should hold firm longest. Joan herself was the first to flee, and she was found rocking to and fro in silent laughter in a corner of the library. Then Hillyard himself burst into a roar.
"I bought that fairly," he admitted, and he went up several points in the estimation of them all.
The last day of the races came—all sunshine and hot summer; lights and shadows chasing across the downs, the black slopes of Charlton forest on the one side, parks and green fields and old brown houses, sloping to the silver Solent, upon the other; and in the centre of the plain, by Bosham water, the spire of Chichester Cathedral piercing the golden air. Paddock and lawn and the stands were filled until about two in the afternoon. Then the gaps began to show to those who were concerned to watch. Especially about the oval railings in the paddock, within which, dainty as cats and with sleek shining skins, the racehorses stepped, the crowd grew thin. And in a few moments, the word had run round like fire, "The officers had gone."