added, turning suddenly to where Penelope was standing a
little apart. "I am so sorry that Sir Charles' horse was not quite so
good as Lady Grace's. You will not blame me?"

She looked at him curiously. She did not answer immediately. Somerfield
was coming towards them, his pink coat splashed with mud, his face
scratched, and a very distinct frown upon his forehead. She looked away
from him to the Prince. Their eyes met for a moment.

"No!" she said. "I do not blame you!"

CHAPTER XXX. INSPECTOR JACKS IMPORTUNATE

They were talking of the Prince during those few minutes before they
separated to dress for dinner. The whole of the house-party, with the
exception of the Prince himself, were gathered around the great open
fireplace at the north end of the hall. The weather had changed during
the afternoon, and a cold wind had blown in their faces on the homeward
drive. Every one had found comfortable seats here, watching the huge
logs burn, and there seemed to be a general indisposition to move. A
couple of young men from the neighborhood had joined the house-party,
and the conversation, naturally enough, was chiefly concerned with the
day's sport. The young men, Somerfield especially, were inclined to
regard the Prince's achievement from a somewhat critical standpoint.

"He rode the race well enough," Somerfield admitted, "but the mare is
a topper, and no mistake. He had nothing to do but to sit tight and let
her do the work."

"Of course, he hadn't to finish either," one of the newcomers, a Captain
Everard Wilmot, remarked. "That's where you can tell if a fellow really
can ride or not. Anyhow, his style was rotten. To me he seemed to sit
his horse exactly like a groom."

"You will, perhaps, not deny him," the Duke remarked mildly, "a certain
amount of courage in riding a strange horse of uncertain temper, over a
strange country, in an enterprise which was entirely new to him."

"I call it one of the most sporting things I ever heard of in my life,"
Lady Grace declared warmly.

Somerfield shrugged his shoulders.

"One must admit that he has pluck," he remarked critically. "At the same
time I cannot see that a single effort of this sort entitles a man to be
considered a sportsman. He doesn't shoot, nor does he ever ride except
when he is on military service. He neither plays games nor has he the
instinct for them. A man without the instinct for games is a fellow
I cannot understand. He'd never get along in t