He holds out to her the card and the bank-note. As she takes them she bends over his hand and kisses it passionately. He draws it gently away. “Remember your promise,” he says quietly. “I will,” she answers, between her sobs. “Oh God! I would die for you, sir.” He watches her as she turns away and disappears in the gloom. Heavy tears are in his eyes. “I must go home now,” he whispers to himself. “_I cannot see more._” [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. “Ten to one bar one, ten to one bar one, ten to one bar one.” The ring is roaring itself hoarse over these words; the hubbub is deafening; it reverberates all around; it echoes and re-echoes through the hot June air. It is Derby Day. The waving downs of Epsom are alive with people; they swarm over every cranny and nook of the wide-stretching space on either side of the straight run-in; they surge to and fro like a sea of dark, moving matter; they contribute to the busy air of life, that has established its reign on all around. It is a great day. Always crowded, Epsom is more than usually so. Old _habitués_ of the place declare, that never in their memories—and some of them have pretty old ones—can they recollect such a swarming throng. But the reason for all this crowd is an excellent one. Have not the people come to see the great horse win? He is in the paddock now, and is being stripped, for the saddling bell has rung. He is the centre of a pushing, hustling throng, all eager to catch a glimpse of the unbeaten hero of the day; for have not his triumphs been such as a horse and its owner might well be proud of, carrying, as he does, the laurels of the Dewhurst Plate, the Middle Park Plate, and the Two Thousand Guineas upon him? What a grand-looking horse he is! How his rich, ruddy chestnut coat glistens in the sun like armour of burnished gold! Such a quiet beast, too, neither snatching, nor stamping, nor doing aught that a restive or vicious racehorse would. “He can’t be beat!” exclaims a young man who has been standing silently watching the stripping process. “I’ll be a man or a mouse, Florrie; I’ll stand every penny I’ve got on him or lose all, hanged if I won’t!” “Don’t be a fool, Reggie,” answers the lady addressed. She is close beside him, and has laid her hand on his arm. It is Flora Desmond. “Fool or no fool,” he answers quickly, “I mean to have this dash. I tell you he can’t be beat. It’s only a question of pluck laying the odds. Hanged if I won’t stand every penny of the £100,000 which I have got on him. They are taking twenty to one now.” “Suppose he is beaten,” she says quietly? “Then I shall be a beggar,” he answers, with a laugh; “but I’m not afraid. By God! I’ll stand my chance.”