‘Well,’ said Michael, indifferently, and more for something to say than for any feeling he had about it, ‘it was not a safe expedition, and I rather wonder that your brother allowed it.’ ‘Oh, I know perfectly well that Otho would not allow it, so I seized upon the opportunity while he was away.’ ‘Ah, he is away?’ ‘Yes. He has gone to some place called Friarsdale. I don’t know where that is. Can you tell me?’ ‘Easily. It is over beyond Swaledale and Wensleydale; a good way off, and very out of the way; but, of course, that makes it all the better fitted for your brother’s purpose. It is a good place for the stables, and capital exercise for the——’ ‘Stables!’ echoed she, quickly. ‘Has Otho got stables there?’ ‘The training stables, I mean. He has some splendid yearlings there. You should get him to take you over to see them—if you care for horses, that is.’ ‘But, Mr. Langstroth, you do not mean to tell me that Otho has anything to do with racing—my brother? Oh, well, I have heard that he took an interest in “the turf,” as they call it; but in a racing stable—impossible!’ Michael suppressed a ‘whew!’ of sheer astonishment. The natural reply to the question, and the one which he would have made to any man, would have been to laugh, and say, ‘Oh, hasn’t he, though?’ But he remembered himself in time, and, after a moment’s pause, said, ‘Oh, didn’t you know? I thought every one was acquainted with that fact. It is certainly no secret; only I rather think you are mixing up two things. Your brother’s place is not what one would call a “racing stable”—that is, it is not a place where they train race-horses. They breed horses there for racers, and sell them. It is a purely business kind of thing. I’m surprised you have not happened to hear of it, because his stables are very well known, though, it’s true, not perhaps in your world, up to now.’ ‘But,’ said Eleanor, anxiously, her mind apparently fixed on one point, ‘he doesn’t race with them, does he?’ ‘With the horses?’ said Michael, laughing, in spite of himself. ‘He has not run one of his own, so far; but I believe he intends to at the next Derby, and some people say that Crackpot will be the favourite.’ ‘Crackpot—is that the horse’s name?’ asked Eleanor, in the tone with which one speaks of some extremely ugly and repulsive thing, so that Michael again smiled to himself in the dark. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He’s called after a waterfall in Swaledale, noted for its swiftness.’ Eleanor did not smile at the joke, if joke it were. ‘It seems,’ thought Michael, ‘that I have opened her eyes in an unexpected manner—by accident. Who was to suppose that she could be so exceedingly simple as never to gather what he was after in Friarsdale? If she’s going to take that so much to heart, I am afraid there will be some other rather unpleasant surprises in store for her.’ At this point she broke in again, in a voice which betrayed her uneasiness.