"I
thought he was going to be a good horse, but he isn't; and if he has
taken to eating people I'll give him away some day. I wouldn't sell him
as a good horse, and nobody'd buy a man-eater."

"I'll buy him when you make up your mind, Mr. Porter," exclaimed Crane,
somewhat eagerly. "I have nobody sweet enough to tempt his appetite. In
the meantime, Miss Allis, if I were you I should keep away from him."

Then presently, with good-nights and parting words of warning about
Diablo, the guests were gone; and Mortimer, having declined
Porter's proffered help, was somewhat awkwardly--having but one good
hand--preparing to retire in Alan's room.

His mind worked somewhat faster than his fingers; several new problems
had been given it to labor over within the compass of a single moon.
That horse racing should ever become a disturbing interest in his life
had seemed very improbable; now it was like a gale about his soul, it
swayed him. He was storm-tossed in the disturbing element; he could come
to no satisfying conclusion. On the one hand the thoroughbred horses
were to be admired; they were brave and true, creatures of love. Also
Porter was an honest man, the one thing he admired above all else.

And Miss Allis! Somehow or other his eyes wandered to a picture that
rested on a mantelpiece in the room. He took it down, looking furtively
over his shoulder as he did so, and taking it close under the lamp that
was on the table sat and gazed steadfastly into the girlish face.

Even in the photograph the big, wondrous eyes seemed to say, "What
of wrong, if we are not wrong?" That was the atmosphere so thoroughly
straightforward and honest that wrong failed of contamination.

Still it was unconvincing to Mortimer. The horses might be good, the
man honest, and the girl pure and sweet, but the life itself was
distasteful. Reason as one might, it was allied to gambling. Mortimer
rose with a sigh, the whole thing wearied him. Why should he distress
his mind over the matter? As he put the photograph back on the mantel he
held it for an instant, then suddenly; with a nervous, awkward gesture,
brought it to his lips and kissed the eyes that seemed to command
tribute.

The movement twisted his broken-ribbed side and an agony of pain came
to him in quick retribution. It was as though the involuntary kiss had
lurched him forward into a futurity of misery. The spasm loosed beads
of perspiration which stood cold on his forehead. Swift take