For himself he did not care—he had had his sporting chance and fate had been against him. The world would say that there was another young spendthrift gone under; his father and his brothers, not knowing the truth, would have some excuse for pointing the finger of scorn at him; but these things troubled him little. He would fight for himself, as he had meant to fight before he had known of Royce's bequest.
If it were not for Rada—Rada whom he loved so passionately! How could he ask her to share his poverty? The thing was impossible—he had realised the impossibility of it for some weeks past—just as the truth of her love for him was filtering into his brain. How tragically ironical it all was!
"Asmodeus won't win the Guineas," he muttered to himself, disconsolately enough, since there was none present before whom he must keep up the farce of cheerfulness. "And as for the filly, she is quite hopeless. So what remains? Only the Derby, and that I should have to fight out against Rada. I don't know that I would win it from her, even if I could. But I can't, so there's an end of it. There's an end to everything, so far as I can see—to fortune, to ambition, to love—yes, jolly well an end to everything. That's what I see in the future."
He could see no brighter picture by staring into the dying fire, and presently he rose with a sigh and a yawn, preparatory to making his way upstairs to bed. It was at that moment that he heard the front door bell ring, and a minute or so later the sedate Frazer put in an appearance and announced that there was a man, who had not given his name but who looked like a stable-man, who wished to see Mostyn upon urgent business.
"It's not Stanhope, Frazer?" asked Mostyn anxiously.
"No, sir," Frazer shook his head decidedly; he knew Stanhope by sight quite well. "I've not seen the fellow before," he added. "He's never been to the house, I'm quite sure of that."
"Show him in here, Frazer," Mostyn commanded. "I'll see him, whoever he is."
Accordingly, after a brief interval, the stranger was admitted. He stood in the doorway fidgetting from one foot to the other, his cap in his hand, his tightly-fitting coat buttoned close over his chest. The buttons were big and flashy; the man's general appearance—his expression as well as his attire—was unprepossessing.
Mostyn recognised him at once, and wondered what on earth he had come for. He waited, however, till Frazer had withdrawn, till the door was closed upon them both.
"You are Wilson," he said then, "Ted Wilson, the jockey. Why do you want to see me, and at this hour of the night?"