A heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder. He recognised the voice of Sir Roderick.
"Mostyn, my boy, this is a knock. I didn't expect it. With Jones up on Don Quixote I thought Asmodeus would win. But look here; you mustn't give in. I've got a plan for you: it isn't a cert, but it'll give you a sporting chance. Now, understand, I'll take no denial. Pollux shall run for you in the Derby—and Pollux is as good a horse as Castor. Come along and we'll talk it over."
He led Mostyn away. The latter was still too dazed to understand clearly what had been said to him.
CHAPTER XVIII.
MOSTYN MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT.
It was early afternoon of the first day of the Epsom Summer Meeting. Mostyn had just finished lunch, of which he had partaken in the solitude of his Jermyn Street chambers. He had not been tempted down to Epsom that day, for he had had a hard week's work, and he wished to keep all his strength in reserve for the morrow, the great Derby Day that was to decide his fate.
Pollux, of course, was at Epsom, in the charge of Joseph Dean, the trainer who had had the care of him from the first. Pollux was to be ridden by Fred Martin, now completely recovered, who, upon this occasion, would sport the puce and black of Mostyn's colours instead of the scarlet and silver of Sir Roderick's.
Never, perhaps, in the history of the great race had so much popular interest been aroused. There was no first favourite, but, instead, there were two horses who would both go to the post with unbroken records, and between which, upon form, there was not a line to choose. As a result, the two horses naturally stood even in the betting; it was two to one against either of them, and there was a considerable drop between this and the betting upon the next horse, Pendragon, who was third in popular estimation.
Then, not only did Castor and Pollux stand level in the betting, but the similarity of the two animals, even their names, which betokened kinship, could not fail to arouse interest. Those who had seen them together at Epsom—now that they had actually met for the first time—reported them as being so exactly alike that they could hardly be recognised apart. They were both tall, black horses, and there was nothing to choose between them as regarded height or breadth or muscle.
Perhaps, just as much as the horses, the owners excited attention. Castor was the property of a girl, and one so young as to seem totally out of place in the racing world. Pollux, which everyone knew to have belonged to popular and genial "Old Rory," had been suddenly transferred, little more than three weeks ago, to Mostyn Clithero, that meteoric young man whose prowess upon the race-course was so remarkable, and who had been buying horses wildly and madly all over the country, and who seemed bent, for no explicable reason, upon making a name for himself upon the Turf.