After that the course became a sea of black, rushing humanity; the two great waves had broken and the space between them was annihilated. And presently there was another roar from the crowd, no longer of doubt. The numbers had gone up, and, a little later, the "all right" was cried. Hipponous first; Black Diamond and Peveril tied for second place. Bravo, Hipponous! Hurrah for Sir Roderick Macphane! Another Derby had been won, and the victory was to the best horse. Sir Roderick Macphane had realised the ambition of his life, and Mostyn Clithero had caught the infection of a great passion. The latter, no doubt, was but a small event in itself, but the young man felt vaguely, as he stood there gazing straight before him, though the race was over, that he had somehow reached a turning point in his life. CHAPTER III. MOSTYN ACCEPTS A CHALLENGE. "You enjoyed it?" Anthony Royce laid his hand on Mostyn's arm and looked smilingly into his face. It was palpably a superfluous question, for Mostyn's appreciation was plainly writ upon every feature. He was flushed and his lips were quivering, nor could he give an immediate answer, finding it hard to struggle back from the new world in which he had been revelling to the commonplaces of life. Yet he felt that he was being keenly scrutinised; that those sharp grey eyes were fixed upon him, taking in every detail of his appearance, reading him like a book, gauging his emotions, studying, not only his face but his very soul. He wondered if he appeared a fool, and grew hot at the thought. "It's my first Derby," he said apologetically, taking refuge in a self-evident fact. "I have never seen a race before." "And you enjoyed it?" Royce repeated his question, rather for the sake of opening conversation than for any other reason. "Enjoyed it!" Mostyn placed a heavy accent upon the first word. "Why, I don't think I have ever enjoyed anything so much in all my life. I haven't been alive till to-day. Oh!" he cried, clasping his hands together, and yet half ashamed of giving utterance to such a sentiment, "how I should like to win a Derby myself!" Royce laughed, aloud this time. "Who knows?" he, remarked; "the future is on the knees of the gods." Once more his grey eyes appeared to be reading the young man's face, taking in every detail of his appearance. Mostyn Clithero was good to look at, or so the older man was telling himself, as he wondered if it could be possible that an idea which had come into his head earlier in the day, might have foundation in fact; that reminiscent look, that semblance of gazing back into the past, had returned to Royce's eyes, and for the moment he seemed to have forgotten all else.