“A settlement of this infernal business!”
“What do you mean?” and the blond man straightened himself a trifle.
“I mean, Mr. Emory,” and he leaned over and shouted the words in his ear, “the way your cursed jockey rode! I call it——”
A cloud of dust and a falling, bleeding man, with his lip cut open, were all the spectators saw. There was a cry of, “For God’s sake, Emory, enough! enough!” and Reginald, with some of his friends, hurried him away, while the dust-covered, blood-stained face of Clayton was shut out from their view by the crowd.
The hack drove up, and Emory and his friend made their way to it. Not a word was spoken, and in silence they returned to the city.
The sun was low in the horizon and the lights in the streets began to glitter as they reached home.
“I wish I’d killed him,” said Neil, “so it would all be over!”
“Do you think he’ll fight?” asked Gray.
“Yes,” responded Emory, “when he gets intoxicated again.”
“Oh! by the bye, old fellow, here’s a photo I picked up from the ground. Does it happen to belong to you?” and Gray took from his pocket the picture that Clayton had thrust into his the night before, and handed it to Emory.