"Was he, Mr. Marston? Was he? Or was it just part of that quixotic chivalry of which I have spoken? The horse was a rogue: there was no one else who could do him justice: so, rather than disappoint his friend, the owner, the son turned out." "And very rightly got hissed for his pains," said John Marston, grimly. "I remember the smash well—Drayton’s smash. It ruined thousands of poor people: and only a legal quibble saved a criminal prosecution." "True," assented the secretary. "But it was old Drayton’s fault. We all knew it at the time. Danny Drayton—the son——" "The man who died at Flers," interrupted John Marston, and the secretary looked at him quietly. "Perhaps: perhaps not. Mistakes _have_ occurred, But whether he died or whether he didn’t—the son was incapable of even a mean thought. He was not to blame." "I must beg to differ, sir," returned John Marston. "The firm was Drayton _and Son_: the Son was responsible as much as the father. If one member of a firm goes wrong, the other members must make good. It is only fair to the public." "I see," answered the secretary. "Then I wonder who the other member of the firm can have been? The father died soon after the exposure: the son died at Flers." He looked John Marston straight in the face. "That would seem to account for the firm, returned the other, indifferently. "Except for one thing," said the secretary, "the significance of which—strangely enough—has only just struck me. There’s a certain old farmer in this district, who invested one hundred pounds with Drayton—all his savings. Along with the rest, it went smash. A month or two ago he received one hundred and thirty-five pounds in notes, from an unknown source. Seven years’ interest at five per cent. is thirty-five pounds." And suddenly the secretary, usually one of the most unemotional of men, leaned forward in his saddle, and his voice was a little husky. "Danny! You damned quixotic fool! Come back to us: we can’t afford to lose a man who can go like you." The man in ratcatcher stared fixedly in front of him—his profile set and rigid. For a moment the temptation was well-nigh overwhelming: every account squared up—every loss made good. Then, ringing in his ears, he heard once more the yells and cat-calls as he had cantered past the stand at Aintree. "As I said to you before, sir," he said, facing the secretary steadily: "my name is John Marston. You are making a mistake." What Major Dawlish’s reply would have been will never be known. He seemed on the point of an explosion of wrath, when clear and shrill through the morning air came Joe Mathers’ "Gone away." The pack came tumbling out of covert, and everything else was forgotten. "It’s the right line," cried John Marston, excitedly. "Hangman’s Bottom, for a quid."