Slightly quickening his pace, the secretary followed his quarry. He overtook him just as he had joined the bare dozen, who, with hats rammed down, sat waiting for the first whimper. They were regarding the newcomer with a certain curiosity as the secretary came up; almost with that faint hostility which is an Englishman’s special prerogative on the entrance of a second person to his otherwise empty railway carriage. Who was this fellow in ratcatcher mounted on a hopeless screw? And what the devil was he doing here, anyway? "Mornin’, David." A chorus of greeting hailed the advent of the popular secretary, but, save for a brief nod and smile, he took no notice. His eyes were fixed on the stranger, who was carefully adjusting one of his leathers. "Excuse me, sir." Major Dawlish walked his horse up to him, and then sat staring and motionless. "My God, it can’t be——" He spoke under his breath, and the stranger apparently failed to hear. "What is the cap?" he asked, courteously. "A fiver this season, I believe." "Danny!" The secretary was visibly agitated. "You’re Danny Drayton! And we thought you were dead!" "I fear, sir, that there is some mistake," returned the other. "My name is John Marston." In silence the two men looked at one another and then Major Dawlish bowed. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Marston," he said, gravely. "But you bear a strange resemblance to a certain very dear friend of mine, whom we all believed had been killed at Flers in 1916. He combined two outstanding qualities," continued the secretary, deliberately, "did that friend of mine: quixotic chivalry to the point of idiocy, and the most wonderful horsemanship." Once more the eyes of the two men met, and then John Marston looked away, staring over the wonderful bit of country lying below them. "I am sorry," he remarked, quietly, "that you should have lost your friend." "Ah, but have I, Mr. Marston; have I?" interrupted David Dawlish, quickly. "You tell me he died at Flers," returned the other. "And very few mistakes were made in such matters, which have not been rectified since." "He disappeared a year or two before the war," said the secretary, "suddenly—without leaving a trace. We heard he had gone to New Zealand; but we could get no confirmation. Do you ever go to the Grand National, Mr. Marston?" he continued, with apparent irrelevance. The stranger stiffened in his saddle. "I have been," he answered, abruptly. Merciful heavens! wouldn’t some hound own to scent soon? "Do you remember that year when a certain gentleman rider was booed on the course?" went on the secretary, reminiscently. "It was the year John Drayton and Son went smash for half a million: and it was the son who was booed." "I don’t wonder," returned the stranger. "He was a fool to ride."