too rapid a traveller to gather much upon the way. For though keen for
pleasure, he was too restless for its enjoyment when attained. But even
that friend had not fathomed all the possibilities of that strange
personality. Perhaps there was only one woman in the world who would ever
do that.

It was a showery spring day, and the turf of the race-course shone with a
fresh greenness. Saltash strolled through the paddock to find Jake
Bolton, whistling a careless air as he went. Several stable-boys saluted
him as he passed, and finally a man he knew, Sam Vickers, Bolton's
right-hand man, came up and accosted him.

"Are you looking for Mr. Bolton, my lord? He's round by the boxes with
Sir Bernard Brian. We've got our best two-year-old round there--Prince
Charlie his name is. He's by the old Hundredth Chance and Queen of the
Earth. Your lordship ought to see him. He is a royalty and no mistake;
tame as a dog too, and that knowing--well, there, you'd hardly believe
it, but we have to talk in French sometimes so as he shan't know what we
say!"

Saltash chuckled. "You must let me hear you, Sam. All right. I'll go
round. Ah! Here is Sir Bernard! Hullo, Bunny, my boy! You, is it? Where's
the boss?"

A black-haired, black-eyed lad of about three-and-twenty, handsome,
spare, and very upright, had come suddenly round the corner of a
building. He greeted Saltash with enthusiasm.

"Why, Charlie! I'm awfully pleased to see you! We all thought you were
done for. How are you, I say? It was rotten luck for you to lose the poor