"And why not?" he went on. "What have they against me except my name?"
"You don't know what it has come to mean to them, in eight years," said Despard, quietly.
And then a queer little silence fell between them, an interval which seemed charged with the electricity of emotion. Despard looked at Aylmer. His friend was staring in his direction, but with a meditative, impersonal gaze which seemed to glance through—not at—him. And a smile grew faintly about his lips, though these, indeed, were pressed firmly together.
He straightened his shoulders, he sighed.
"Of course I start handicapped," he allowed. "But I can run a waiting race." And then he gave an involuntary start and a quick, curious glance at his companion. "We aren't competitors?" he asked suddenly.
The crimson surged up under the tan on Despard's forehead. He laughed harshly.
"The race was run and I was beaten, nine years ago," he said. "There will be no other entry, for me." He walked up to Aylmer and laid his hand upon his shoulder.
"God knows, old chap, I wish you luck. But you carry weight, there's no denying that."
Aylmer nodded again.
"To carry weight one wants a stayer," he said. "And I can stay, Despard."