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Baring, who had drawn near with a certain eagerness, seemed to stiffen at her words.

“Can’t come!” he echoed. “Why not?”

Mrs. Latimer handed him a note.

“She sent this 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 silent. He began to think he understood Hope’s failure to put in an appearance.

Gradually the black Waler drew away from all but two others, who hotly contested the leadership. He was running superbly, though he apparently received but small encouragement from his rider.

As they drew round the curve at the further end of the course, he was galloping next to the rails. As they finally turned into the straight run home, he was leading.

But the horse next to him, urged by his rider, who was also his owner, made so strenuous an effort that it became obvious to all that he was gaining upon the Waler.

A great yell went up of “Carteret! Carteret! Wake up, Carteret! Don’t give it away!” And the Waler’s rider, as if startled by the cry, suddenly and convulsively slashed the animal’s withers.

Through a great tumult of shouting the two horses dashed past the winning-post. It seemed a dead heat; but, immediately after, the news spread that Hyde’s horse was the winner. The Waler had gained his victory by a neck.

Hyde was leading his horse round to the Rajah’s stand. His jockey, looking white and exhausted, sat so loosely in the saddle that he seemed to sway with the animal’s movements. He did not appear to hear the cheering around him.