of five pounds that he would willingly have paid to escape the boredom
of the bout. Where would they be by now? Past Newbury; Gyp sitting
opposite that Swedish fellow with his greenish wildcat's eyes. Something
furtive, and so foreign, about him! A mess--if he were any judge of
horse or man! Thank God he had tied Gyp's money up--every farthing!
And an emotion that was almost jealousy swept him at the thought of the
fellow's arms round his soft-haired, dark-eyed daughter--that pretty,
willowy creature, so like in face and limb to her whom he had loved so
desperately.

Eyes followed him when he left the card-room, for he was one who
inspired in other men a kind of admiration--none could say exactly why.
Many quite as noted for general good sportsmanship attracted no such
attention. Was it "style," or was it the streak of something not quite
typical--the brand left on him by the past?

Abandoning the club, he walked slowly along the railings of Piccadilly
towards home, that house in Bury Street, St. James's, which had been his
London abode since he was quite young--one of the few in the street
that had been left untouched by the general passion for puffing down and
building up, which had spoiled half London in his opinion.

A man, more silent than anything on earth, with the soft, quick, dark
eyes of a woodcock and a long, greenish, knitted waistcoat, black
cutaway, and tight trousers strapped over his boots, opened the door.

"I shan't go out again, Markey. Mrs. Markey must give me some dinner.
Anything'll do."

Markey signalled that he had heard, and those brown eyes under eyebrows