Through the crowd, as it slowly moved off, the secretary threaded his way towards the vaguely familiar figure ahead. It couldn't be; it was out of the question. And yet, as he watched him, more and more did he begin to believe that the huntsman was right. Little movements; an odd, indefinable hitch of the shoulders; the set of the stranger's head. And then, with almost a catch in his breath, he saw that the man he was following had left the crowd, and was unostentatiously edging for a certain gap, which to the uninitiated, appeared almost a cul-de-sac. Of course, it might be just chance; on the other hand, that gap was the closely guarded preserve—as far as such things may be guarded—of the chosen few who really rode; the first-nighters—the men who took their own line, and wanted that invaluable hundred yards' start to get them clear of the mob.
Slightly quickening his pace, the secretary followed his quarry. He overtook him just as he had joined the bare dozen, who, with hats rammed down, sat waiting for the first whimper. They were regarding the newcomer with a certain curiosity as the secretary came up; almost with that faint hostility which is an Englishman's special prerogative on the entrance of a second person to his otherwise empty railway carriage. Who was this fellow in ratcatcher mounted on a hopeless screw? And what the devil was he doing here, anyway?
"Mornin', David." A chorus of greeting hailed the advent of the popular secretary, but, save for a brief nod and smile, he took no notice. His eyes were fixed on the stranger, who was carefully adjusting one of his leathers.
"Excuse me, sir." Major Dawlish walked his horse up to him, and then sat staring and motionless. "My God, it can't be——" He spoke under his breath, and the stranger apparently failed to hear.
"What is the cap?" he asked, courteously. "A fiver this season, I believe."
"Danny!" The secretary was visibly agitated. "You're Danny Drayton! And we thought you were dead!"
"I fear, sir, that there is some mistake," returned the other. "My name is John Marston."
In silence the two men looked at one another and then Major Dawlish bowed.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Marston," he said, gravely. "But you bear a strange resemblance to a certain very dear friend of mine, whom we all believed had been killed at Flers in 1916. He combined two outstanding qualities," continued the secretary, deliberately, "did that friend of mine: quixotic chivalry to the point of idiocy, and the most wonderful horsemanship."
Once more the eyes of the two men met, and then John Marston looked away, staring over the wonderful bit of country lying below them.