Peter sat down at his desk, doing nothing, for nearly an hour. How long he would have sat will never be known, if his brown study had not been ended by Rivington’s entrance. “The Appeals have just handed down their decision in the Henley case. We win.” “I thought we should,” said Peter mechanically. “Why, Peter! What’s the matter with you? You look as seedy as—” “As I feel,” said Peter. “I’m going to stop work and take a ride, to see if I can’t knock some of my dulness out of me.” Within an hour he was at the Riding Club. “Hello,” said the stable man. “Twice in one day! You’re not often here at this hour, sir. Which horse will you have?” “Give me whichever has the most life in him.” “It’s Mutineer has the devil in him always, sir. Though it’s not yourself need fear any horse. Only look out for the ice.” Peter rode into the Park in ten minutes. He met Lispenard at the first turn. “Hello! It’s not often you are here at this hour.” Lispenard reined his horse up alongside. “No,” said Peter. “I’ve been through a very revolt—a very disagreeable experience, and I’ve come up here to get some fresh air. I don’t want to be sociable.” “That’s right. Truthful as ever. But one word before we separate. Keppel has just received two proofs of Haden’s last job. He asks awful prices for them, but you ought to see them.” “Thanks.” And the two friends separated as only true friends can separate. Peter rode on, buried in his own thoughts. The park was rather empty, for dark comes on early in March, and dusk was already in the air. He shook himself presently, and set Mutineer at a sharp canter round the larger circle of the bridle path. But before they had half swung the circle, he was deep in thought again, and Mutineer was taking his own pace. Peter deserved to get a stumble and a broken neck or leg, but he didn’t. He was saved from it by an incident which never won any credit for its good results to Peter, however much credit it gained him. Peter was so deeply engrossed in his own thoughts that he did not hear the clutter of a horse’s feet behind him, just as he struck the long stretch of the comparatively straight path along the Reservoir. But Mutineer did, and pricked up his ears. Mutineer could not talk articulately, but all true lovers of horses understand their language. Mutineer’s cogitations, transmuted into human speech, were something to this effect: “Hello! What’s that horse trying to do? He can’t for a moment expect to pass me!” But the next moment a roan mare actually did pass him, going at a swift gallop. Mutineer laid his ears back, “The impudence!” he said. “Does that little whiffet of a roan mare think she’s going to show me her heels? I’ll teach her!” It is a curious fact that both the men and horses who are most seldom passed by their kind, object to it most when it happens.