Mostyn remembered little of that race. He stood, indeed, his field-glasses raised, to all outward appearance as calm and placid as Isaacson himself. He followed the horses as they ran, he marked the failure of Bouncing Boy, he even commented upon the riding of the jockey who was up on Wisdom, a chestnut heavily backed for a place, and who was palpably giving the horse his head over much; but all the while he was staring through a mist: it was as though a fog had settled over the course, a fog which his eyes could penetrate but which made everything appear contorted, disproportionate, ridiculous. Somehow the thought came to him of that face which he had seen peering through the window at the Grange; every object he looked upon was disfigured in just the same way. There were men and women close by at whom he could have laughed, so absurd did they appear. And all the while there was a great thumping going on in his ears like the working of a vast machine; it was so loud that he could hardly hear the shouting of the crowd. Asmodeus was leading; he knew that. Asmodeus had been leading for quite a long time. Don Quixote, with his glitter of gold, was several lengths behind, and there were two or three horses in between. Which were they? Mostyn tried to distinguish them but failed. What did it matter? Asmodeus was leading. Suddenly the thumping that was the beating of his heart stopped. It was like the sudden cessation of work in a factory or the stopping of the engines on board a steamer. Mostyn swayed a little from side to side; he could imagine the rolling of a vessel. Asmodeus was no longer in the front. What did that matter? Stanhope was holding him in. There was time enough yet for a spurt. There was a cold wind blowing that afternoon, and the sky was grey. A drizzling rain began to fall. Here and there umbrellas made their appearance till angry protests from the crowd compelled them to be lowered. Mostyn noticed all these minor events through the mist that rendered everything so grotesque to his view. The horses were near by now, very near. They had swung round the bend and were nearly level with the Grand Stand. Asmodeus had dropped still further behind; there were several of his opponents who had caught up and passed him. The glitter of gold was to the fore. Don Quixote led. How the crowd was roaring! As a rule this was music to Mostyn's ears, but to-day it was a fantastic discord. He could distinguish nothing, not a single articulate word. Why on earth did not Stanhope spurt? Surely, surely he was waiting too long? Mostyn's brow was wet. He did not know if this was due to perspiration or to the rain; he could not say if he felt hot or cold. This was his last chance--literally his last chance--and still that spurt was delayed.