"I am sorry," he remarked, quietly, "that you should have lost your friend."
"Ah, but have I, Mr. Marston; have I?" interrupted David Dawlish, quickly.
"You tell me he died at Flers," returned the other. "And very few mistakes were made in such matters, which have not been rectified since."
"He disappeared a year or two before the war," said the secretary, "suddenly—without leaving a trace. We heard he had gone to New Zealand; but we could get no confirmation. Do you ever go to the Grand National, Mr. Marston?" he continued, with apparent irrelevance.
The stranger stiffened in his saddle. "I have been," he answered, abruptly. Merciful heavens! wouldn't some hound own to scent soon?
"Do you remember that year when a certain gentleman rider was booed on the course?" went on the secretary, reminiscently. "It was the year John Drayton and Son went smash for half a million: and it was the son who was booed."
"I don't wonder," returned the stranger. "He was a fool to ride."
"Was he, Mr. Marston? Was he? Or was it just part of that quixotic chivalry of which I have spoken? The horse was a rogue: there was no one else who could do him justice: so, rather than disappoint his friend, the owner, the son turned out."
"And very rightly got hissed for his pains," said John Marston, grimly. "I remember the smash well—Drayton's smash. It ruined thousands of poor people: and only a legal quibble saved a criminal prosecution."
"True," assented the secretary. "But it was old Drayton's fault. We all knew it at the time. Danny Drayton—the son——"