or a great race at Baden, and piled on all he
could, determined to be sunk or saved by the race. If he won he might be
able to set things right for a time, and then family influence ought to
procure him an advance in the Guards.

Forest King had never failed its master hitherto, and Bertie would have
been saved by his faithful steed, but for the fact that a blackguardly
turf welcher doctored the horse's mouth, and Forest King was beaten, and
couldn't finish the course.

"Something ails King," said Cecil calmly, "he is fairly knocked off his
legs. Some vet must look to him; ridden a yard further he will fall."

_II "A Mystery--An Error"_

Cecil knew that with the failure of Forest King had gone the last plank
that saved him from ruin, perhaps the last chance that stood between him
and dishonour. He had never looked on it as within the possibilities of
hazard that the horse could be defeated, and the blow fell with crushing
force; the fiercer because his indolence had persisted in ignoring his
danger, and his whole character was so accustomed to ease and to
enjoyment.

He got away from his companions, and wandered out alone into the gardens
in the evening sunlight, throwing himself on a bench beneath a
mountain-ash.

Here the little Lady Venetia, the eight-year-old sister of the colossal
Seraph, found him, and Cecil roused himself, and smiled at her.

"They say you have lost all your money," said the child, "and I want you
to take mine. It is my _very_ own. Papa gives it to me to do just what I
like with it. Please do take it."

Twenty bright Napoleons fell in a glittering shower on the grass.

"_Petite reine_," Cecil murmured gently, "how some man will love you one
day. I cannot take your money, and you will understand why when you are
older. But I will take this if you will give it me," and he picked up a
little enamelled sweetmeat box, and slipped it into his waistcoat
pocket. It was only a child's gift, but he kept it through many a dark
day and wild night.

At that moment as he stood there, with the child beside him, one of the
men of the gardens brought him an English letter, marked "instant."
Cecil took it wearily, broke the envelope, and read a scrawled,
miserable letter, blotted with hot tears, and scored out in impulsive
misery. The Lady Venetia went slowly away and when next they met it was
under the burning sun of Africa.

Alone, Cecil's head sank down upon his hands.

"Oh, God!" he thought.