London after the Derby is more like Pandemonium even than on the night before; the winners are wild with joy, and inclined for any sort of dissipation; the losers also crave for the Circean cup, that they may temporarily forget their misfortunes. With the unusual roar of wheel and hoof in the streets, there mixes a still more unusual shouting; and from the open windows of places of entertainment, there streams forth the tangled talk which is confined within doors at other times. Before Arthur could reach the _Turf Hotel_, he learned from these sources, without further inquiry, that _The King_ had won the race, in consequence of some mischance having happened to the jockey of _Menelaus_. He knew, therefore, that Walter Lisgard had lost money. Still, when upon reaching his lodging he first set eyes upon the young dragoon, moodily stretched upon the sofa, with eyes staring straight before him, and a face as pale as the tablecloth, on which stood an untasted meal, he was astonished and shocked. For the moment--such a rigidity was there about those exquisite features--Arthur thought with a shudder that he was dead. Even after he entered the room, lit only from the glaring street, not a limb stirred, not a muscle moved to mark any consciousness of his presence; but when he exclaimed: “Walter! what's the matter, man?” the figure leapt up with a cry of pleasure, and took both his hands in his. “I am glad to see you, Arthur,” cried he. “This is very kind of you, and I do not deserve it. I thought it was that infernal scoundrel Derrick.” “He is not here, then?” “No; he may have come and gone, for all I know, for I believe I have been in a sort of nightmare; only it was a horse that caused it. Derrick's partner--or Derrick himself, for what I know--sold the race. I know what you are going to say, that you always told me how it would be”---- “No, indeed, Walter,” interrupted Arthur kindly. “I am not come hither to reproach you. I am only the bearer of good news.” “I should like to hear some of that,” said the other bitterly. “Where is it? Have you brought a loaded pistol with you? That would be the most friendly action you could do me just now, I believe.” “Walter, you should not talk like that,” answered Arthur very gravely, for there was a look in his friend's eyes which seemed to harmonise only too well with his despairing words. “When we kill ourselves so philosophically, we forget how we wound others by that selfish act. Think of your mother, lad.” “Yes. She would be sorry, would she not?” “It would break her heart, Walter; that's all. And besides, you have a wife now--yes, we all know it, and you're both forgiven--and why you have not written to her in answer to the letter she wrote you, none of us can imagine.” “I only got it this very day,” groaned Walter. “Am I in a fit state to write upon business, think you?”