Aviemore, where the Vanes lived, was barely four miles from my own place, and I had at first intended to drive myself over in the nice new car I had recently bought, but upon second thoughts I determined it should be Rataplan who should carry me on this great adventure.

I was racing Rataplan on the Saturday at the Port meeting, and had got him stabled down at Mitcham to be handy for the course. The ride to Aviemore would be a little gentle exercise for him, and apart from that his appearance at Aviemore was bound to be of some interest to Sir Henry, who was himself a most enthusiastic horse lover.

I had thought out all details of my visit most carefully, and planned everything just like a general setting on a great campaign.

I dressed myself carefully, and with a pink carnation in my buttonhole and accompanied by one of my men on a hack, at half-past eleven set out from my gates.

It was with mingled feelings that I rode up the gentle slopes on the mountain side. I was just a little nervous, but it was not the nervousness of fear. It was just that trembling that comes to most people when they are embarking upon some action upon which great issues depend.

I had felt the same sickly feeling in France just before going over the top.

But if in one way I felt nervous, in another way I felt bold as a lion. A sure instinct told me I should see and perhaps speak to Mary, and every shred of pride in me called to my manhood to assert itself and show to the girl I loved that I was strong enough and brave enough to overcome any resistance that might be offered to my wooing.

Fortune was a tricky jade I knew, but I would smile on her in spite of all set-backs she might be going to offer me.

Arriving at Aviemore in good time for my appointment, I rode confidently up the avenue, and giving Rataplan over to the care of my man, with instructions to keep him well under the shadow of the trees, boldly approached the house.

I was received by a staid, elderly butler, unmistakably English, and at once ushered into the library, where Sir Henry was sitting at his desk.

He was quite cordial to me, and we soon arranged the matter of the fillies. I, of course, agreed to what he asked at once, and we then passed on, as nearly all old soldiers do, to discussing the old days in France.

My last C.O. had been, it appeared, a great friend of his, and he was most interested to hear from one who had been actually present the story of his death. He had been killed by a shell only about three days before the conclusion of the Armistice.

We chatted most interestedly for quite half an hour; but, to my disappointment, Sir Henry said nothing about stopping to lunch, and at last, thinking I couldn’t well make my stay any longer, I reluctantly rose to go.

Sir Henry rose too and moved towards the bell. He stopped, however, with his finger on the push, and remarked:—

“I see you’re riding, Mr. Stratton.”

“Yes, I came up here on Rataplan,” I replied calmly.

“Oh!” he said briskly, “I must come and see Rataplan. I should like to have a good look at him. I’ll just put on my hat.”

We passed out through the hall on to the neatly gravelled path in front of the house, and my heart began to quicken.

A small group of people were standing by Rataplan, and in a flash I saw Mary was among them there.

Now for it, I thought. Sir Henry would be bound to introduce me at last.

There were four others besides Mary standing there, but their backs were turned and they didn’t notice us until the noise of our footsteps on the gravel made them all turn their heads.

Mary’s face was a delicious picture of perfect self-control. She must have been waiting for me to come out I thought, and preparing herself for the moment when I should actually appear.

Her sweet oval face was delicately flushed, and her lovely eyes showed what I knew well enough was only prettily assumed surprise.

Sir Henry introduced us.

“My daughter, Mr. Stratton. Admiral James, Mr. and Mrs. Ronaldson, my sister, Mrs. Townley.”

They all bowed formally except Mary, and she came forward at once with a little shy smile and gave me her hand.

“I hope you won’t mind, Mr. Stratton,” she said prettily, with just the faintest trembling in her voice, “but I’ve been giving Rataplan some sugar — your man says he loves it.”

“It’s quite all right, Miss Vane,” I replied, “he’ll eat as much sugar as he can get any time.”

“Oh, but isn’t he a beauty?” she went on. “I thought he looked lovely with you in the paddock the other day.”

I thought how lovely she looked. Pretty as I had thought her at a distance, I had never imagined the added beauty there would come into her face when she was animated. She smiled so happily with her eyes, and her cupid’s bow of a mouth broke into such pretty curves when she spoke.

“Oh, you angel,” I said to myself, “I’ll find another use for those pretty lips of yours some day, and soon too; see if I don’t.”

They all stood round the gelding admiring him.

“Yes, he’s perfectly magnificent,” Sir Henry said. “I never saw finer shoulders in my life. He’s running at the Port meeting, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” I replied; “next Saturday.”

“I for one shall back him again,” broke in the jolly-looking old admiral. “I had a pound on him last time he ran, but on Saturday I’ll have to sport a fiver. I hope you’ll have a good jockey up.”

“Oh, well, I hope so too,” I said smiling; “I’m going to ride him myself.”

“You are, are you?” remarked the old man at once in a most unmistakable change of tone. “Well, I’ll have a pound on, anyway.”

Everyone burst out laughing, and Sir Henry said genially:—

“That’s a nasty one, Mr. Stratton, isn’t it? I hope you’re not unduly sensitive.”

“Oh,” apologised the admiral quickly, “I assure I didn’t mean anything at all. I was only thinking that these rough professional jockeys understand the racecourses over here better than amateurs, however good. I’m sure from the look of you, you’re a devilish good rider; now, aren’t you?”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” I replied, laughing, “but Rataplan here and I have gone many hundreds of miles together and no one gets more out of him than I do.”

“I really think,” said Sir Henry in a severe tone of mock solemnity, “that the very least Admiral James can do is to apologise to Mr. Stratton. I must say that in spite of the admiral’s explanation it seems to me a great reflection on Mr. Stratton’s horsemanship that the admiral should be reducing his investment on Rataplan from five pounds to one so quickly.”

“Yes, Sir Henry,” I said, joining in the fun, “no one can blame me now if on Saturday I ‘pull’ Rataplan out of pique.”

Just then a gong sounded in the distance, and I got ready promptly to say my good-byes.

But Mary, plucky little darling that she was, came to my rescue at once before I could say anything.

“Perhaps Mr. Stratton will stay to luncheon, father,” she said, meeting my eyes boldly, with the frankest expression of friendliness.

Sir Henry hesitated for perhaps the slightest fraction of a second, but then joined in heartily with the invitation.

“We shall be delighted if Mr. Stratton will,” he said, and then, perhaps to make up, I thought, for not having been the first to offer me his hospitality, he went on genially, “and Mary, as Mr. Stratton has just agreed to take over those two dreadful fillies of mine we’ll have a magnum of champagne to wish him luck. Tell Bunting some of the Heidsieck, 1906. You’ll stay, of course, Mr. Stratton?”

“With pleasure,” I returned, with my eyes full on Mary. “I’m sure, it’s very good of you to ask me.”

“I’m very glad you’ve bought the fillies,” now joined in the admiral. “That idea of the champagne too is an excellent one, Sir Henry. I always think that when a man’s bought anything from anybody there’s nothing like a champagne to seal the bargain with. At any rate the buyer then gets something for his money.”

“Really, admiral, we shall have to put you in Coventry,” frowned Sir Henry. “You first insult Mr. Stratton here about his riding ability, and now you insinuate that all the good he is going to get from buying these fillies of mine will be a few glasses of miserable champagne.”

“Miserable champagne, be hanged. Why, that 1906 is the best stuff you’ve got in your cellar. But come on, Sir Henry. Let’s fall in. There’s Mary beckoning to us.”

It was indeed a merry party at luncheon. We all sat together at one big round table, and the champagne soon put us all on good terms with one another.

Personally, I wanted that touch of champagne. It just took away the slight feeling of nervousness I was experiencing, and gave me confidence to be natural and like myself.

In a few minutes I found myself talking easily and without embarrassment, as if I had known them all my life.

Mary sat nearly opposite me, and many times during the meal, whilst the others were talking, our eyes met and held each other in the friendliest way possible. When it happened that she caught me looking at her, as she often did, she made no pretence at all of turning her eyes away, but looked back at me with such a sweet provoking look upon her face that it was I who had to drop my eyes lest the others should see there the admiration in them.

Everybody was very nice to me, and, of course, being the greatest stranger at the table, I was generally the centre of their conversation.

I soon found they all apparently knew something about me, for they asked me a lot of questions about bush life. Then Mrs. Townley said, “You’re interested in sheep, aren’t you, Mr. Stratton?” and when I replied “Rather,” she asked me interestedly if I had many.

“Well,” I said cautiously, “probably, what you would call many; I have about twenty-eight thousand at Velvet Hills.”

“Good gracious,” she exclaimed, “I should think I should call it many; and who looks after them when you’re away?”

“Oh,” I replied, “I have a splendid manager and he has overseers under him, who in turn look after the station hands.”

“Did you say Velvet Hills?” interrupted Mr. Ronaldson, who hitherto hadn’t spoken much.

“Yes, Velvet Hills, beyond Pimba.”

“Then you must be a relation of the Mr. Sidney Stratton who died about three months ago.”

“Yes, he was my cousin, and the station came to me through him. Did you know him?”

“I knew him very well years ago. I am a member of the legal profession, Mr. Stratton, and at one time did a lot of conveyancing for your cousin. Besides the sheep station he had a great many interests in the city, hadn’t he?”

“Yes,” I replied; “so many that when he died I really don’t think he knew how many he did have.”

“And did he — did he?” he went on, and then hesitated, apparently not wishing to be too inquisitive.

“Oh, yes,” I said, guessing the drift of his question. “He left everything to me. I was his sole heir.”

“Then you’re a lucky man, Mr. Stratton, and you must be a very rich one, too.”

Everyone had been listening with interest to our remarks, but a silence fell over the table after Mr. Ronaldson had finished speaking.

It was an opportunity I had been waiting for, and turning towards Sir Henry I said impressively:—

“And do you know, Sir Henry, everything I have today I owe to you.”

Sir Henry looked at me very puzzled, and I went on.

“Yes, sheep station, lands, houses — everything. Every brick I own, every yard of land, indeed, every penny I possess, came to me in the first instance through you.”

“Well, I’m very pleased, indeed, Mr. Stratton, very pleased, but,” smiling and shrugging his shoulders, “I’m quite in the dark.”

“Oh, do tell us, Mr. Stratton,” said Mrs. Townley; “I’m sure it’ll be a nice story.”

They all looked at me interestedly, but Mary, I noticed, seemed rather embarrassed. She dropped her eyes on her plate and nervously crumbled a piece of bread between her pretty white fingers.

“Well, it was like this,” I began. “One Saturday a little over a year ago, I had no money at all. I had never had much at any time, but the little I did have had been stolen from me, and I was very hard up. You dropped your pocket book, Sir Henry, in King William Street, by the G.P.O. I picked it up and returned it to you, and you gave me a ten-pound note. At first I didn’t want to take it, but,” and here I flashed a look at Mary, who looked up and smiled encouragingly, “I did. Well, I was so shabby that I thought the only place to change the ten-pound note was at the post office, where they wouldn’t ask me any questions. So I bought a post card to get change, and I was so pleased and excited at having so much money that in fun I sat down, there and then, and wrote myself a post card. I remember, I congratulated myself upon the good luck that had come, and told myself everything would now be all right. I addressed the post card to myself, care of the G.P.O., and slipped it in the box.

“Then I went to the races and turned that ten pounds into nearly three hundred in the afternoon.”

“Great Scott!” ejaculated the admiral, “what did you back?”

“Be quiet at once, admiral,” remonstrated Mrs. Townley, “don’t interrupt, or you shan’t have any port.”

The admiral made a wry face at me and subsided. I went on: “Well, on the Monday I was passing the post office, and I happened to remember quite casually about the post card. I went in for it, and found there was a letter waiting for me as well — a letter from my cousin at Velvet Hills. I had never dreamed of him writing to me, for we had quarrelled, and he was the last person in the world I should have expected a letter from. Well, I went up to Pimba, as my cousin begged me to in his letter, and made it up with him. I was with him for nine months, and when he died he left me all he had. The point is, Sir Henry, that if you hadn’t given me that ten-pound note, I should never have bought a post card, and should never have called for any more letters at all. I should never have gone near my cousin, and he would have left everything to his brother-in-law, already a rich man, who was a hot favourite, and lived on the spot. So, that is why I owe everything to you.”

“Well, sir,” said Sir Henry, after a moment’s silence, “I’m sure I’m very glad to have been the unwitting means of helping you. I remember the circumstances very well. There was over ￡200 in that pocket book, and it was a shock to me when you brought it to the car. I didn’t know I had dropped it. And you went and actually made nearly ￡300 at the races?”

“Yes, I had ￡2 on Rose of Dawn at sixty-one and a half to one, and afterwards ￡50 on the favourite in the last race, Rattler’s Pride.”

“Well,” broke in the admiral, “you deserve to win. Anyone who had the pluck to put fifty quid on Rattler’s Pride ought to get everything he wants in this world. The rotten beast belongs to a friend of mine, and he’d never won a race before nor has done since. Confound him.”

“Take no not............