s round half an hour ago."

Baring read the note with bent brows. It merely stated that the writer
had been working all the morning and was a little tired. Would Mrs.
Latimer kindly understand and excuse her?

He handed it back without comment.

"Where is young Carteret?" he asked. "Have you seen him yet?"

"No," she answered. "Somebody was saying he was late. Ah! There he is,
surely--just going into the weighing-tent. What a superb horse that is
of Mr. Hyde's! Do you think he will win the Cup?"

Baring thought it likely, but he said it with so preoccupied an air that
Mrs. Latimer smiled, and considerately refrained from detaining him.

She watched him walk down towards the weighing-tent; but before he
reached it, she saw the figure of young Carteret issue forth at the
farther end, and start off at a run with his saddle on his shoulder
towards the enclosure where the racers were waiting. He was late, and
she thought he looked flurried.

A few minutes later Baring returned to her.

"The boy is behindhand, as usual," he remarked. "I didn't get near him.
Time is just up. I hear the Rajah thinks very highly of Hyde's Waler."

Mrs. Latimer looked across at the Indian Prince who was presenting the
Cup. He was seated in the midst of a glittering crowd of natives and
British officers. She saw that he was closely scanning the restless line
of horses at the starting-point.

Through her glasses she sought the big black Waler. He was foaming and
stamping uneasily, and she saw that his rider's face was deadly pale.

"I don't believe Ronnie can be well," she said. "He looks so nervous."

Baring grunted in a dissatisfied note, but said nothing.

Another two minutes, and the signal was given. There were ten horses in
the race. It was a fair start, and the excitement in the watching crowd
became at once intense.

Baring remained at Mrs. Latimer's side. She was on her feet, and
scarcely breathing. The black horse stretched himself out like a
greyhound, galloping splendidly over the shining green of the course.
His rider, crouched low in the saddle, looked as if at any instant he
might be hurled to the earth.

Baring watched him critically, his jaw set and grim. Obviously, the boy
was not himself, and he fancied he knew the reason.

"If he pulls it off, it'll be the biggest fluke of his life," he
muttered.

"Isn't it queer?" whispered Mrs. Latimer. "I never saw young Carteret
ride like that before."

Baring was silen