When he had finished his toilet, it was quite dark. Turning down the gas, he threw himself into a chair at the open window. Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, wild and mad, surged through his brain.
Almost wealthy! Only a little while ago a comparatively poor man, alone in the world, well born, handsome and educated—but a little while since able to purchase a small but beautiful estate, situated a few miles from the city, sold at a bargain just as an unlooked for legacy from a distant relation enabled him to become the purchaser—but a little while ago so fortunate as to buy at auction a young thoroughbred stallion, which unexpectedly proved to be one of the greatest racers of the age, but was possessed of a disposition so unmanageable that but two men had been found able to ride him, and both of those had been killed. If he could but win this race, how much it would mean for him! Money he must have, come what might.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, rising and stretching forth his arms in the gloom, “Cliquot, Cliquot, my beautiful, win for me, win for me, or I perish!”
Two nights after the day of the race there was a reception at the residence of Mrs. Dale, one of the fashionable women of the city of N——. Every one spoke, more or less, of the accident on the course.
“They say,” said one, “that he has offered an immense sum for a jockey.”
“Yes,” said another; “over two thousand dollars.”
“I dare say he’ll find some fool to ride the beast,” added a third, “and for far less money.”
“But,” said a bystander, “two days of the week have passed and Emory has not unearthed his man yet.”
Just then Neil came down from the dressing-room and entered the parlors. Little Selina Maury was standing by the door.