But the excitement was over; and before long the stand was half-empty, while the soft roll of carriage wheels passed again and again through the exit and the women were gone.
Neil Emory walked over to his stable and gave a few directions to his groom, who had succeeded in partially quieting his racer; then, turning, he hailed a handsome carriage which was awaiting him a few steps beyond the course. His companion and friend, Reginald Gray, was inside, and the two drove rapidly away.
Emory pulled his hat over his eyes and sank back, as if he had lost a regiment of friends.
“Hard lines,” said Gray. “Two jockeys in six months.”
“Yes,” replied his companion, “and where on earth will I find another willing to risk his neck on that beast?”
“A few hundred dollars will find one.”
“I doubt it,” said Emory. “I will have to make it a few thousands.”
“Well! considering the amount staked on the animal, you will have to make it a couple, I dare say.”
They drove on in silence, the owner of the horse busy with his thoughts and unwilling to discuss a matter so close to his heart even with his best friend.
When they reached the city, Neil parted with his companion and went up to his rooms. His servant had lighted the gas and arranged his bath. He occupied a handsome suite of apartments, and his sitting-room was one of the prettiest in town, only the absence of the usual display of lovely women’s photos distinguished Neil Emory’s abode from all others. Perhaps in some far-away corner, veiled, was a picture, or, perhaps, only in his heart there existed such an image, though most people thought it but that of a rampant steed.