Little as Sir Reginald was prepared to expose his domestic concerns to public criticism, he felt that it behoved him to extend some hospitality to his two brother-officers--one of them his particular friend, so he exclaimed, with well-feigned cordiality: “Sundown is in our part of the world--only eight miles from our place. Of course you will both come to Monkswood, and I can drive you over to the races to-morrow.” “Thanks, my dear fellow, we shall be delighted,” returned Mr. Campell warmly, “if it won’t be putting you out--nor Lady Fairfax?” “Lady Fairfax will be very glad to see you. I am going down by the 4.30, and we might travel together. It is now,” pulling out his watch, “five minutes past three; I must go and get my traps. Whatever you do, don’t be late, Vaughan; I leave you to take charge of Campell, who never was in time in his life--not even for an Indian train.” The two hussars were not a little curious to see Fairfax as a family man. What was his home like? his surroundings? his wife? There must be something odd about her. She had always been shrouded in mystery, but now the veil was about to be pulled aside, and their long-starved curiosity would be satisfied at last! 4.30 found Sir Reginald and his two guests, comfortably settled in a smoking carriage, slowly gliding out of Waterloo Station _en route_ for Monkswood; but, owing to a stoppage on the line they arrived at Manister fully two hours behind time. “Anything here for me?” inquired Sir Reginald of a gracious porter. “No, sir; the dog-cart waited till the half-hour and then went home; but Blake said as how he would come for the express.” “How far is it to your place?” asked Mr. Campell. “Only two miles and a-half by the fields.” “Then I vote we walk. Anything is better than a stifling fly this fine warm evening. ‘Quick march’ is the word,” gaily shouldering his umbrella. His motion was carried unanimously, and, leaving their luggage to be despatched in their wake, they started off at a smart pace, each armed with a cheroot. The great event of the following day was the one topic of Mr. Campell’s conversation. Sir Reginald lent him a ready ear, and together they made arrangements for an early visit to Tornado the next morning; they discussed weights, saddles, handicappers, and bits with much animation and enthusiasm, Captain Vaughan walking rather behind them, and smoking sullenly. “If he’s as good as you say, he ought to be first past the post to-morrow, for his company is, after all, only second rate; and if he does pull off this race I want you to promise me one thing, Campell.” “I’ll promise you any earthly thing, my dear fellow,” returned Captain Campell impulsively, stopping for an instant in the narrow moonlit path to give full emphasis to his asseveration. “You will sell Tornado directly the meeting is over and give up racing for the next five years.”