It was not until the limp body had been gently placed on an extemporized stretcher, to wait for the ambulance, that the cavalryman turned to David Dawlish. "Danny!" he said, thoughtfully. "Not Danny Drayton?" "Himself and no other," replied the secretary. "Masquerading as John Marston." The cavalryman whistled softly. "The last time I saw him was at Aintree, before the war. I never could get to the bottom of that matter." "Couldn’t you?" said David Dawlish. "And yet it’s not very difficult. ’The sins of the fathers are visited’—you know the rest. He disappeared; and every single sufferer in that crash is being paid back." "But why that dreadful quod to-day?" pursued the soldier. "All he could get, most likely. Boddington’s cattle are pretty indifferent these days." Dawlish glanced at the stretcher, and the corners of his mouth twitched. "The damned young fool could have had the pick of my stable if he’d asked for it," he said, gruffly. "Danny—on that herring-gutted brute—at Spinner’s Copse! But he was always as proud as Lucifer, was Danny: and I’m thinking no one will ever know what he’s suffered since the crash." And then, with apparently unnecessary violence, the worthy secretary blew his nose. "This cursed glare makes my eyes water," he announced, when the noise had subsided. The cavalryman regarded the dull gloom of the old pit dispassionately. "Quite so, Major," he murmured at length. "Er—quite so." *III* "Well, Sir Philip!" With her father and David Dawlish, Molly was waiting in the hall to hear the verdict. The ambulance had brought the unconscious man straight to the Master’s house: and for the last quarter of an hour Sir Philip Westwood, the great surgeon, who by a fortunate turn of Fate was staying at an adjoining place, had been carrying out his examination. Now he glanced at the girl, and smiled gravely. "There is every hope, Miss Gollanfield," he said, cheerfully. With a little sob the girl buried her face against Sir Hubert’s shoulder. "As far as I can see," continued the doctor, "there is nothing broken: only very severe bruises and a bad concussion. In a week he should be walking again." "Thank God!" whispered the girl, and Sir Philip patted her shoulder. "A great man," he said, "and a great deed. I’ll come over to-morrow and see him again." He walked towards the front door, followed by Sir Hubert, and the girl turned her swimming eyes on David Dawlish. "If he’d died, Uncle David," she said, brokenly, "I—I——" "He’s not going to, Molly," interrupted the secretary. Then, after a pause, "Why did you put the spur into Nigger?" he asked, curiously.