Word came out from the house that afternoon that Bobby was to try the new mustang. Billy saddled the horses--Apache, and Blue Gypsy for Miss Ethel, and a cob for Peter--and led them out, while Peter in his most immaculate riding clothes swaggered after. The maids were all on the back porch and the family at the _porte-cochère_ to watch the departure. Bobby would accept no assistance, but mounted from the ground with a fine air of pride. Apache plunged a trifle, but the boy was a horseman and he stuck to his saddle. "Be careful, Bobby," his mother warned. "You needn't worry about me," Bobby called back gaily. "I'm not afraid of any horse living!" Blue Gypsy never stood well, and Miss Ethel was already off. Bobby started to follow, but he wheeled about to say: "You come, Billy; I don't want Peter." "Bobby, dear," his mother expostulated, "you don't know the horse; it would be safer----" "I want Billy! I won't go if Peter has to come tagging along." Peter removed his foot from the stirrup and passed the horse over to the groom. The cavalcade clattered off and he walked slowly back to the stables. He felt the slight keenly. He could remember when he had held Bobby, a baby in short dresses, on the back of his father's hunter, when he had first taught the little hands to close about a bridle. And now, when the boy had his first horse, not to go! Peter's feeling for Bobby was almost paternal; the slight hurt not only his pride but his affections as well. He spent an hour puttering about the carriage room, whistling a cheerful two-step and vainly pretending to himself that he felt in a cheerful frame of mind. Then suddenly his music and his thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the house telephone bell, long and insistently. He sprang to the instrument and heard Annie's voice, her words punctuated by frightened sobs. "Oh, Pete! Is that you? Something awful's happened. There's been an accident. Master Bobby's been throwed. The doctor's telephoned to get a room ready and have a nurse from the hospital here. You're to hitch up Arab as fast as you can and drive to the hospital after her. Oh, I hope he won't die!" she wailed. Peter dropped the receiver and ran to Arab's stall. He led him out and threw on the harness with hands that trembled so they could scarcely fasten a buckle. "Why can't I learn to mind me own business?" he groaned. "What right have I to be floggin' Master Bobby?" The young woman whom Peter brought back decided before the end of the drive that the man beside her was crazy. All that she could get in return for her inquiries as to the gravity of the accident was the incoherent assertion: "He's probably dead by now, ma'am, and if he is it's me that done it." As they turned in at the Willowbrook gate Peter strained forward to catch sight of the house. A strange coupé was drawn up before the _porte-cochère_. He involuntarily pulled Arab to a standstill and looked away, but the nurse reached out and grasped the reins.