Knowing of these scenes, Pierce had gone to his father and again begged to be allowed to take Cicely away at once; but the old man had relented nothing of his stubbornness, though when he spoke of the year's probation which he had imposed upon his son, there was always that queer look upon his face which Pierce could not understand. "Don't let's worry our heads over these things to-night, old chap," Mostyn said at last. "To-morrow's the Guineas--another step in my progress. Come and sit down, and let's talk over our chances." After a few more rapid strides up and down, Pierce adopted the suggestion, and soon, for the time being, he had forgotten his own troubles in fighting anew with Mostyn their past battles, in preparing a brave face for what was still to come. There was not one race out of all those scheduled in the will which Mostyn had neglected. He had thrown himself, heart and soul, into his task. Pierce, with his better knowledge of the Turf, had ably advised and seconded him. In so many instances they had come near to victory--that was the heart-rending part of it all. Success had seemed within their grasp, only to be snatched away at the last moment. The Cesarewitch--that had perhaps been the greatest disappointment of all. A horse like Gulliver, with his pedigree and his record, hot favourite, too, as he had been made--Mostyn and Pierce had indeed been justified in their belief that with Gulliver their great object would be achieved. But Gulliver failed, and that apparently by sheer ill-luck. How clearly all the particulars were engraved upon Mostyn's brain! The bad news had come to him--the news that forecasted the failure that was to follow--a couple of days before the race, and almost immediately after the short, sharp tussle which he had had with Jack Treves outside the gates of the stables. He had found the trainer awaiting him, an ominous yellow paper in his hand, an expression of keen anxiety upon his honest face. "I'm sorry, sir, upon my word, I'm as sorry as if the affair were my own." Thus had spoken the blunt old man. "What's up, Treves?" Mostyn had asked, a sense of misgiving seizing upon him. Old Treves would not have looked so worried without a real cause. The latter handed over the telegram without another word, and Mostyn realised what had happened. The jockey who was to have ridden Gulliver--none other than the redoubtable Fred Martin himself, the same who had steered Hipponous to victory at the Derby--Fred Martin had been taken ill, was lying in hospital, and had been forced now, at the eleventh hour, to throw up the sponge. "It's all true, sir," Treves said, as if he had an idea that Mostyn might have doubted the genuineness of the story. "I'd stake my life that Fred Martin wouldn't give up unless he was forced--the lad's as straight as they make 'em."