"It is devilish gentlemanly of you to speak so, Charles," said Lord Ascot. "I am worn to death about that horse, Haphazard, and other things; and this has finished me. I have been reading a novel to distract my mind. I must win the Derby, you know; by Gad, I must."
"Whom have you got, Lord Ascot?"
"Wells."
"You couldn't do better, I suppose?"
"I suppose not. You don't know—I'd rather not talk any more about it, Charles."
"Lord Ascot, this is, as you may well guess, the last time I shall ever see you. I want you to do me a favour."
"I will do it, my dear Charles, with the greatest pleasure. Any reparation——"
"Hush, my lord! I only want a certificate. Will you read this which I have written in pencil, and, if you conscientiously can, copy in your own hand, and sign it. Also, if I send to you a reference, will you confirm it?"
Lord Ascot read what Charles had written, and said—
"Yes, certainly. You are going to change your name then?"