A SOLITARY foreigner, drifting about London, drifted towardFulham on the day of the Foot-Race.

Little by little, he found himself involved in the current of athrong of impetuous English people, all flowing together towardone given point, and all decorated alike with colors of twoprevailing hues--pink and yellow. He drifted along with thestream of passengers on the pavement (accompanied by a stream ofcarriages in the road) until they stopped with one accord at agate--and paid admission money to a man in office--and pouredinto a great open space of ground which looked like anuncultivated garden.

Arrived here, the foreign visitor opened his eyes in wonder atthe scene revealed to view. He observed thousands of peopleassembled, composed almost exclusively of the middle and upperclasses of society. They were congregated round a vast inclosure;they were elevated on amphitheatrical wooden stands, and theywere perched on the roofs of horseless carriages, drawn up inrows. From this congregation there rose such a roar of eagervoices as he had never heard yet from any assembled multitude inthese islands. Predominating among the cries, he detected oneeverlasting question. It began with, "Who backs--?" and it endedin the alternate pronouncing of two British names unintelligibleto foreign ears. Seeing these extraordinary sights, and hearingthese stirring sounds, he applied to a policeman on duty; andsaid, in his best producible English, "If you please, Sir, whatis this?"

The policeman answered, " North against South--Sports."

The foreigner was informed, but not satisfied. He pointed allround the assembly with a circular sweep of his hand; and said,"Why?"

The policeman declined to waste words on a man who could ask sucha question as that. He lifted a large purple forefinger, with abroad white nail at the end of it, and pointed gravely to aprinted Bill, posted on the wall behind him. The driftingforeigner drifted to the Bill.

After reading it carefully, from top to bottom, he consulted apolite private individual near at hand, who proved to be far morecommunicative than the policeman. The result on his mind, as aperson not thoroughly awakened to the enormous nationalimportance of Athletic Sports, was much as follows:

The color of North is pink. The color of South is yellow. Northproduces fourteen pink men, and South produces thirteen yellowmen. The meeting of pink and yellow is a solemnity. The solemnitytakes its rise in an indomitable national passion for hardeningthe arms and legs, by throwing hammers and cricket-balls with thefirst, and running and jumping with the second. The object inview is to do this in public rivalry. The ends arrived at are(physically) an excessive development of the muscles, purchasedat the expense of an excessive strain on the heart and thelungs--(morally), glory; conferred at the moment by the publicapplause; confirmed the next day by a report in the newspapers.Any person who presumes to see any physical evil involved inthese exercises to the men who practice them, or any moralobstruction in the exhibition itself to those civilizinginfluences on which the true greatness of all nations depends, isa person without a biceps, who is simply incomprehensible.Muscular England develops itself, and takes no notice of him.

The foreigner mixed with the assembly, and looked more closely atthe social spectacle around him.

He had met with these people before. He had seen them (forinstance) at the theatre, and observed their manners and customswith considerable curiosity and surprise. When the curtain wasdown, they were so little interested in what they had come tosee, that they had hardly spirit enough to speak to each otherbetween the acts. When the curtain was up, if the play made anyappeal to their sympathy with any of the higher and nobleremotions of humanity, they received it as something wearisome, orsneered at it as something absurd. The public feeling of thecountrymen of Shakespeare, so far as they represented it,recognized but two duties in the dramatist--the duty of makingthem laugh, and the duty of getting it over soon. The two greatmerits of a stage proprietor, in England (judging by the rareapplause of his cultivated customers), consisted in spendingplenty of money on his scenery, and in hiring plenty ofbrazen-faced women to exhibit their bosoms and their legs. Not attheatres only; but among other gatherings, in other places, theforeigner had noticed the same stolid languor where any effortwas exacted from genteel English brains, and the same stupidcontempt where any appeal was made to genteel English hearts.Preserve us from enjoying any thing but jokes and scandal!Preserve us from respecting any thing but rank and money! Therewere the social aspirations of these insular ladies andgentlemen, as expressed under other circumstances, and asbetrayed amidst other scenes. Here, all was changed. Here was thestrong feeling, the breathless interest, the hearty enthus iasm,not visible elsewhere. Here were the superb gentlemen who weretoo weary to speak, when an Art was addressing them, shoutingthemselves hoarse with burst on burst of genuine applause. Herewere the fine ladies who yawned behind their fans, at the bareidea of being called on to think or to feel, waving theirhandkerchiefs in honest delight, and actually flushing withexcitement through their powder and their paint. And all forwhat? All for running and jumping--all for throwing hammers andballs.

The foreigner looked at it, and tried, as a citizen of acivilized country, to understand it. He was still trying--whenthere occurred a pause in the performances.

Certain hurdles, which had served to exhibit the presentsatisfactory state of civilization (in jumping) among the upperclasses, were removed. The privileged persons who had duties toperform within the inclosure, looked all round it; anddisappeared one after another. A great hush of expectationpervaded the whole assembly. Something of no common interest andimportance was evidently about to take place. On a sudden, thesilence was broken by a roar of cheering from the mob in the roadoutside the grounds. People looked at each other excitedly, andsaid, "One of them has come." The silence prevailed again--andwas a second time broken by another roar of applause. Peoplenodded to each other with an air of relief and said, "Both ofthem have come." Then the great hush fell on the crowd once more,and all eyes looked toward one particular point of the ground,occupied by a little wooden pavilion, with the blinds down overthe open windows, and the door closed.

The foreigner was deeply impressed by the silent expectation ofthe great throng about him. He felt his own sympathies stirred,without knowing why. He believed himself to be on the point ofunderstanding the English people.

Some ceremony of grave importance was evidently in preparation.Was a great orator going to address the assembly? Was a gloriousanniversary to be commemorated? Was a religious service to beperformed? He looked round him to apply for information oncemore. Two gentlemen--who contrasted favorably, so far asrefinement of manner was concerned, with most of the spectatorspresent--were slowly making their way, at that moment, throughthe crowd near him. He respectfully asked what national solemnitywas now about to take place. They informed him that a pair ofstrong young men were going to run round the inclosure for agiven number of turns, with the object of ascertaining whichcould run the fastest of the two.

The foreigner lifted his hands and eyes to heaven. Oh,multifarious Providence! who would have suspected that theinfinite diversities of thy creation included such beings asthese! With that aspiration, he turned his back on therace-course, and left the place.

On his way out of the grounds he had occasion to use hishandkerchief, and found that it was gone. He felt next for hispurse. His purse was missing too. When he was back again in hisown country, intelligent inquiries were addressed to him on thesubject of England. He had but one reply to give. "The wholenation is a mystery to me. Of all the English people I onlyunderstand the English thieves!"

In the mean time the two gentlemen, making their way through thecrowd, reached a wicket-gate in the fence which surrounded theinclosure.

Presenting a written order to the policeman in charge of thegate, they were forthwith admitted within the sacred precinctsThe closely packed spectators, regarding them with mixed feelingsof envy and curiosity, wondered who they might be. Were theyreferees appointed to act at the coming race? or reporters forthe newspapers? or commissioners of police? They were neither theone nor the other. They were only Mr. Speedwell, the surgeon, andSir Patrick Lundie.

The two gentlemen walked into the centre of the inclosure, andlooked round them.

The grass on which they were standing was girdled by a broadsmooth path, composed of finely-sifted ashes and sand--and thisagain was surrounded by the fence and by the spectators rankedbehind it. Above the lines thus formed rose on one side theamphitheatres with their tiers of crowded benches, and on theother the long rows of carriages with the sight-seers inside andout. The evening sun was shining brightly, the light and shadelay together in grand masses, the varied colors of objectsblended softly one with the other. It was a splendid and aninspiriting scene.

Sir Patrick turned from the rows of eager faces all round him tohis friend the surgeon.

"Is there one person to be found in this vast crowd," he asked,"who has come to see the race with the doubt in his mind whichhas brought _us_ to see it?"

Mr. Speedwell shook his head. "Not one of them knows or careswhat the struggle may cost the men who engage in it."

Sir Patrick looked round him again. "I almost wish I had not cometo see it," he said. "If this wretched man--"

The surgeon interposed. "Don't dwell needlessly, Sir Patrick, onthe gloomy view," he rejoined. "The opinion I have formed has,thus far, no positive grounds to rest on. I am guessing rightly,as I believe, but at the same time I am guessing in the dark.Appearances _may_ have misled me. There may be reserves of vitalforce in Mr. Delamayn's constitution which I don't suspect. I amhere to learn a lesson--not to see a prediction fulfilled. I knowhis health is broken, and I believe he is going to run this raceat his own proper peril. Don't feel too sure beforehand of theevent. The event may prove me to be wrong."

For the moment Sir Patrick dropped the subject. He was not in hisusual spirits.

Since his interview with Anne had satisfied him that she wasGeoffrey's lawful wife, the conviction had inevitably forceditself on his mind that the one possible chance for her in thefuture, was the chance of Geoffrey's death. Horrible as it was tohim, he had been possessed by that one idea--go where he might,do what he might, struggle as he might to force his thoughts inother directions. He looked round the broad ashen path on whichthe race was to be run, conscious that he had a secret interestin it which it was unutterably repugnant to him to feel. He triedto resume the conversation with his friend, and to lead it toother topics. The effort was useless. In despite of himself, hereturned to the one fatal subject of the struggle that was nowclose at hand.

"How many times must they go round this inclosure," he inquired,"before the race is ended?"

Mr. Speedwell turned toward a gentleman who was approaching themat the moment. "Here is somebody coming who can tell us," hesaid.

"You know him?"

"He is one of my patients."

"Who is he?"

"After the two runners he is the most important personage on theground. He is the final authority--the umpire of the race."

The person thus described was a middle-aged man, with aprematurely wrinkled face, with prematurely white hair and withsomething of a military look about him--brief in speech, andquick in manner.

"The path measures four hundred and forty yards round," he said,when the surgeon had repeated Sir Patrick's question to him. "Inplainer words, and not to put you to your arithmetic once roundit is a quarter of a mile. Each round is called a 'Lap.' The menmust run sixteen Laps to finish the race. Not to put you to yourarithmetic again, they must run four miles--the longest race ofthis kind which it is customary to attempt at Sports like these."

"Professional pedestrians exceed that limit, do they not?"

"Considerably--on certain occasions."

"Are they a long-lived race?"

"Far from it. They are exceptions when they live to be old men."

Mr. Speedwell looked at Sir Patrick. Sir Patrick put a questionto the umpire.

"You have just told us," he said, "that the two young men whoappear to-day are going to run the longest distance yet attemptedin their experience. Is it generally thought, by persons whounderstand such things, that they are both fit to bear theexertion demanded of them?"

"You can judge for yourself, Sir. Here is one of them."

He pointed toward thepavilion. At the same moment there rose a mighty clapping ofhands from the great throng of spectators. Fleetwood, champion ofthe North, decorated in his pink colors, descended the pavilionsteps and walked into the arena.

Young, lithe, and elegant, with supple strength expressed inevery movement of his limbs, with a bright smile on his resoluteyoung face, the man of the north won the women's hearts atstarting. The murmur of eager talk rose among them on all sides.The men were quieter--especially the men who understood thesubject. It was a serious question with these experts whetherFleetwood was not "a little too fine." Superbly trained, it wasadmitted--but, possibly, a little over-trained for a four-milerace.

The northern hero was followed into the inclosure by his friendsand backers, and by his trainer. This last carried a tin can inhis hand. "Cold water," the umpire explained. "If he getsexhausted, his trainer will pick him up with a dash of it as hegoes by."

A new burst of hand-clapping rattled all round the arena.Delamayn, champion of the South, decorated in his yellow colors,presented himself to the public view.

The immense hum of voices rose louder and louder as he walkedinto the centre of the great green space. Surprise at theextraordinary contrast between the two men was the prevalentemotion of the moment. Geoffrey was more than a head taller thanhis antagonist, and broader in full proportion. The women who hadbeen charmed with the easy gait and confident smile of Fleetwood,were all more or less painfully impressed by the sullen strengthof the southern man, as he passed before them slowly, with hishead down and his brows knit, deaf to the applause showered onhim, reckless of the eyes that looked at him; speaking to nobody;concentrated in himself; biding his time. He held the men whounderstood the subject breathless with interest. There it was!the famous "staying power" that was to endure in the lastterrible half-mile of the race, when the nimble and jauntyFleetwood was run off his legs. Whispers had been spread abroadhinting at something which had gone wrong with Delamayn in histraining. And now that all eyes could judge him, his appearancesuggested criticism in some quarters. It was exactly the oppositeof the criticism passed on his antagonist. The doubt as toDelamayn was whether he had been sufficiently trained. Still thesolid strength of the man, the slow, panther-like smoothness ofhis movements--and, above all, his great reputation in the worldof muscle and sport--had their effect. The betting which, withoccasional fluctuations, had held steadily in his favor thus far,held, now that he was publicly seen, steadily in his favor still.

"Fleetwood for shorter distances, if you like; but Delamayn for afour-mile race."

"Do you think he sees us?" whispered Sir Patrick to the surgeon.

"He sees nobody."

"Can you judge of the condition he is in, at this distance?"

"He has twice the muscular strength of the other man. His trunkand limbs are magnificent. It is useless to ask me more than thatabout his condition. We are too far from him to see his faceplainly."

The conversation among the audience began to flag again; and thesilent expectation set in among them once more. One by one, thedifferent persons officially connected with the race gatheredtogether on the grass. The trainer Perry was among them, with hiscan of water in his hand, in anxious whispering conversation withhis principal--giving him the last words of advice before thestart. The trainer's doctor, leaving them together, came up topay his respects to his illustrious colleague.

"How has he got on since I was at Fulham?" asked Mr. Speedwell.

"First-rate, Sir! It was one of his bad days when you saw him. Hehas done wonders in the last eight-and-forty hours."

"Is he going to win the race?"

Privately the doctor had done what Perry had done before him--hehad backed Geoffrey's antagonist. Publicly he was true to hiscolors. He cast a disparaging look at Fleetwood--and answeredYes, without the slightest hesitation.

At that point, the conversation was suspended by a suddenmovement in the inclosure. The runners were on their way to thestarting-place. The moment of the race had come.

Shoulder to shoulder, the two men waited--each with his foottouching the mark. The firing of a pistol gave the signal for thestart. At the instant when the report sounded they were off.

Fleetwood at once took the lead, Delamayn following, at from twoto three yards behind him. In that order they ran the firstround. the second, and the third--both reserving their strength;both watched with breathless interest by every soul in the place.The trainers, with their cans in their hands, ran backward andforward over the grass, meeting their men at certain points, andeying them narrowly, in silence. The official persons stoodtogether in a group; their eyes following the runners round andround with the closest attention. The trainer's doctor, stillattached to his illustrious colleague, offered the necessaryexplanations to Mr. Speedwell and his friend.

"Nothing much to see for the first mile, Sir, except the 'style'of the two men."

"You mean they are not really exerting themselves yet?"

"No. Getting their wind, and feeling their legs. Pretty runner,Fleetwood--if you notice Sir? Gets his legs a trifle better infront, and hardly lifts his heels quite so high as our man. Hisaction's the best of the two; I grant that. But just look, asthey come by, which keeps the straightest line. There's whereDelamayn has him! It's a steadier, stronger, truer pace; andyou'll see it tell when they're half-way through." So, for thefirst three rounds, the doctor expatiated on the two contrasted"styles"--in terms mercifully adapted to the comprehension ofpersons unacquainted with the language of the running ring.

At the fourth round--in other words, at the round which completedthe first mile, the first change in the relative position of therunners occurred. Delamayn suddenly dashed to the front.Fleetwood smiled as the other passed him. Delamayn held the leadtill they were half way through the fifth round--when Fleetwood,at a hint from his trainer, forced the pace. He lightly passedDelamayn in an instant; and led again to the completion of thesixth round.

At the opening of the seventh, Delamayn forced the pace on hisside. For a few moments, they ran exactly abreast. Then Delamayndrew away inch by inch; and recovered the lead. The first burstof applause (led by the south) rang out, as the big man beatFleetwood at his own tactics, and headed him at the criticalmoment when the race was nearly half run.

"It begins to look as if Delamayn _was_ going to win!" said SirPatrick.

The trainer's doctor forgot himself. Infected by the risingexcitement of every body about him, he let out the truth.

"Wait a bit!" he said. "Fleetwood has got directions to let himpass--Fleetwood is waiting to see what he can do."

"Cunning, you see, Sir Patrick, is one of the elements in a manlysport," said Mr. Speedwell, quietly.

At the end of the seventh round, Fleetwood proved the doctor tobe right. He shot past Delamayn like an arrow from a bow. At theend of the eight round, he was leading by two yards. Half therace had then been run. Time, ten minutes and thirty-threeseconds.

Toward the end of the ninth round, the pace slackened a little;and Delamayn was in front again. He kept ahead, until the openingof the eleventh round. At that point, Fleetwood flung up one handin the air with a gesture of triumph; and bounded past Delamaynwith a shout of "Hooray for the North!" The shout was echoed bythe spectators. In proportion as the exertion began to tell uponthe men, so the excitement steadily rose among the people lookingat them.

At the twelfth round, Fleetwood was leading by six yards. Criesof triumph rose among the adherents of the north, met bycounter-cries of defiance from the south. At the next turnDelamayn resolutely lessened the distance between his antagonistand himself. At the opening of the fourteenth round, they werecoming sid e by side. A few yards more, and Delamayn was in frontagain, amidst a roar of applause from the whole public voice. Yeta few yards further, and Fleetwood neared him, passed him,dropped behind again, led again, and was passed again at the endof the round. The excitement rose to its highest pitch, as therunners--gasping for breath; with dark flushed faces, and heavingbreasts--alternately passed and repassed each other. Oaths wereheard now as well as cheers. Women turned pale and men set theirteeth, as the last round but one began.

At the opening of it, Delamayn was still in advance. Before sixyards more had been covered, Fleetwood betrayed the purpose ofhis running in the previous round, and electrified the wholeassembly, by dashing past his antagonist--for the first time inthe race at the top of his speed. Every body present could see,now, that Delamayn had been allowed to lead on sufferance--hadbeen dextrously drawn on to put out his whole power--and hadthen, and not till then, been seriously deprived of the lead. Hemade another effort, with a desperate resolution that roused thepublic enthusiasm to frenzy. While the voices were roaring; whilethe hats and handkerchiefs were waving round the course; whilethe actual event of the race was, for one supreme moment, stillin doubt--Mr. Speedwell caught Sir Patrick by the arm.

"Prepare yourself!" he whispered. "It's all over."

As the words passed his lips, Delamayn swerved on the path. Histrainer dashed water over him. He rallied, and ran another stepor two--swerved again--staggered--lifted his arm to his mouthwith a hoarse cry of rage--fastened his own teeth in his fleshlike a wild beast--and fell senseless on the course.

A Babel of sounds arose. The cries of alarm in some places,mingling with the shouts of triumph from the backers of Fleetwoodin others--as their man ran lightly on to win the now uncontestedrace. Not the inclosure only, but the course itself was invadedby the crowd. In the midst of the tumult the fallen man was drawnon to the grass--with Mr. Speedwell and the trainer's doctor inattendance on him. At the terrible moment when the surgeon laidhis hand on the heart, Fleetwood passed the spot--a passage beingforced for him through the people by his friends and thepolice--running the sixteenth and last round of the race.

Had the beaten man fainted under it, or had he died under it?Every body waited, with their eyes riveted on the surgeon's hand.

The surgeon looked up from him, and called for water to throwover his face, for brandy to put into his mouth. He was coming tolife again--he had survived the race. The last shout of applausewhich hailed Fleetwood's victory rang out as they lifted him fromthe ground to carry him to the pavilion. Sir Patrick (admitted atMr. Speedwell's request) was the one stranger allowed to pass thedoor. At the moment when he was ascending the steps, some onetouched his arm. It was Captain Newenden.

"Do the doctors answer for his life?" asked the captain. "I can'tget my niece to leave the ground till she is satisfied of that."

Mr. Speedwell heard the question and replied to it briefly fromthe top of the pavilion steps.

"For the present--yes," he said.

The captain thanked him, and disappeared.

They entered the pavilion. The necessary restorative measureswere taken under Mr. Speedwell's directions. There the conqueredathlete lay: outwardly an inert mass of strength, formidable tolook at, even in its fall; inwardly, a weaker creature, in allthat constitutes vital force, than the fly that buzzed on thewindow-pane. By slow degrees the fluttering life came back. Thesun was setting; and the evening light was beginning to fail. Mr.Speedwell beckoned to Perry to follow him into an unoccupiedcorner of the room.

"In half an hour or less he will be well enough to be taken home.Where are his friends? He has a brother--hasn't he?"

"His brother's in Scotland, Sir."

"His father?"

Perry scratched his head. "From all I hear, Sir, he and hisfather don't agree."

Mr. Speedwell applied to Sir Patrick.

"Do you know any thing of his family affairs?"

"Very little. I believe what the man has told you to be thetruth."

"Is his mother living?"

"Yes."

"I will write to her myself. In the mean time, somebody must takehim home. He has plenty of friends here. Where are they?"

He looked out of the window as he spoke. A throng of people hadgathered round the pavilion, waiting to hear the latest news. Mr.Speedwell directed Perry to go out and search among them for anyfriends of his employer whom he might know by sight. Perryhesitated, and scratched his head for the second time.

"What are you waiting for?" asked the surgeon, sharply. "You knowhis friends by sight, don't you?"

"I don't think I shall find them outside," said Perry.

"Why not?"

"They backed him heavily, Sir--and they have all lost."

Deaf to this unanswerable reason for the absence of friends, Mr.Speedwell insisted on sending Perry out to search among thepersons who composed the crowd. The trainer returned with hisreport. "You were right, Sir. There are some of his friendsoutside. They want to see him."

"Let two or three of them in."

Three came in. They stared at him. They uttered brief expressionsof pity in slang. They said to Mr. Speedwell, "We wanted to seehim. What is it--eh?"

"It's a break-down in his health."

"Bad training?"

"Athletic Sports."

"Oh! Thank you. Good-evening."

Mr. Speedwell's answer drove them out like a flock of sheepbefore a dog. There was not even time to put the question to themas to who was to take him home.

"I'll look after him, Sir," said Perry. "You can trust me."

"I'll go too," added the trainer's doctor; "and see him littereddown for the night."

(The only two men who had "hedged" their bets, by privatelybacking his opponent, were also the only two men who volunteeredto take him home!)

They went back to the sofa on which he was lying. His bloodshoteyes were rolling heavily and vacantly about him, on the searchfor something. They rested on the doctor--and looked away again.They turned to Mr. Speedwell--and stopped, riveted on his face.The surgeon bent over him, and said, "What is it?"

He answered with a thick accent and laboring breath--uttering aword at a time: "Shall--I--die?"

"I hope not."

"Sure?"

"No."

He looked round him again. This time his eyes rested on thetrainer. Perry came forward.

"What can I do for you, Sir?"

The reply came slowly as before. "My--coat--pocket."

"This one, Sir?"

"No."

"This?"

"Yes. Book."

The trainer felt in the pocket, and produced a betting-book.

"What's to be done with this. Sir?"

"Read."

The trainer held the book before him; open at the last two pageson which entries had been made. He rolled his head impatientlyfrom side to side of the sofa pillow. It was plain that he wasnot yet sufficiently recovered to be able to read what he hadwritten.

"Shall I read for you, Sir?"

"Yes."

The trainer read three entries, one after another, withoutresult; they had all been honestly settled. At the fourth theprostrate man said, "Stop!" This was the first of the entrieswhich still depended on a future event. It recorded the wagerlaid at Windygates, when Geoffrey had backed himself (in defianceof the surgeon's opinion) to row in the University boat-race nextspring--and had forced Arnold Brinkworth to bet against him.

"Well, Sir? What's to be done about this?"

He collected his strength for the effort; and answered by a wordat a time.

"Write--brother--Julius. Pay--Arnold--wins."

His lifted hand, solemnly emphasizing what he said, dropped athis side. He closed his eyes; and fell into a heavy stertoroussleep. Give him his due. Scoundrel as he was, give him his due.The awful moment, when his life was trembling in the balance,found him true to the last living faith left among the men of histribe and time--the faith of the betting-book.

Sir Patrick and Mr. Speedwell quitted the race-ground together;Geoffrey having been previously removed to his lodgings hard by.They met Arnold Brinkworth at the gate. He had, by his owndesire, kept out of viewamong the crowd; and he decided on walking back by himself. Theseparation from Blanche had changed him in all his habits. Heasked but two favors during the interval which was to elapsebefore he saw his wife again--to be allowed to bear it in his ownway, and to be left alone.

Relieved of the oppression which had kept him silent while therace was in progress, Sir Patrick put a question to the surgeonas they drove home, which had been in his mind from the momentwhen Geoffrey had lost the day.

"I hardly understand the anxiety you showed about Delamayn," hesaid, "when you found that he had only fainted under the fatigue.Was it something more than a common fainting fit?"

"It is useless to conceal it now," replied Mr. Speedwell. "He hashad a narrow escape from a paralytic stroke."

"Was that what you dreaded when you spoke to him at Windygates?"

"That was what I saw in his face when I gave him the warning. Iwas right, so far. I was wrong in my estimate of the reserve ofvital power left in him. When he dropped on the race-course, Ifirmly believed we should find him a dead man."

"Is it hereditary paralysis? His father's last illness was ofthat sort."

Mr. Speedwell smiled. "Hereditary paralysis?" he repeated. "Whythe man is (naturally) a phenomenon of health and strength--inthe prime of his life. Hereditary paralysis might have found himout thirty years hence. His rowing and his running, for the lastfour years, are alone answerable for what has happened to-day."

Sir Patrick ventured on a suggestion.

"Surely," he said, "with your name to compel attention to it, youought to make this public--as a warning to others?"

"It would be quite useless. Delamayn is far from being the firstman who has dropped at foot-racing, under the cruel stress laidon the vital organs. The public have a happy knack of forgettingthese accidents. They would be quite satisfied when they foundthe other man (who happens to have got through it) produced as asufficient answer to me."

Anne Silvester's future was still dwelling on Sir Patrick's mind.His next inquiry related to the serious subject of Geoffrey'sprospect of recovery in the time to come.

"He will never recover," said Mr. Speedwell. "Paralysis ishanging over him. How long he may live it is impossible for me tosay. Much depends on himself. In his condition, any newimprudence, any violent emotion, may kill him at a moment'snotice."

"If no accident happens," said Sir Patrick, "will he besufficiently himself again to leave his bed and go out?"

"Certainly."

"He has an appointment that I know of for Saturday next. Is itlikely that he will be able to keep it?"

"Quite likely."

Sir Patrick said no more. Anne's face was before him again at thememorable moment when he had told her that she was Geoffrey'swife.