"I'm glad I caught sight of you," he said with assumed geniality of tone, "for I was going away by myself, and I hate being alone. We'll walk together a bit, my young friend, and you shall tell me of your ambitions to run race-horses and to win the Derby." He chuckled as he spoke, with an irritating noise in the depth of his throat, and he passed his arm under Mostyn's, leaning heavily upon it. "I'm not going far," Mostyn said shortly; "only to Northumberland Avenue. Perhaps I'd better help you into a cab." The old man shook his head. "I want a little fresh air first," he mumbled. "It does me good to walk part of the way home, and I love the London streets at this time of night." He waved his free hand. "It's life," he chuckled, "and it makes me think of the days when I was a boy and full of life. It's too early to go home yet." "Where do you live?" asked Mostyn. "Bloomsbury," was the muttered answer. "Lodgings--a dirty hole; not fit for a gentleman to live in--not fit for a girl like Rada. People don't know where we stay when we are in London; I keep it dark." As a matter of fact, everybody who knew Captain Armitage knew that his lodgings were of the poorest; he made the same confession to everybody, when, as was usually the case towards night, he exchanged the braggart for a sort of maudling sentimentality. By day he was the old soldier, a man who was as good as any in the land--his swagger was proverbial; at night, or after an exaggerated bout of drinking, his mood would change, and it was sympathy for which he craved. There was nothing he enjoyed more at such times than to dwell upon his bye-gone sins. "Walk with me a little way, at any rate," he urged. "There is something I should like to tell you." So Mostyn complied, his good-nature compelling him; and Captain Armitage, with palpable enjoyment, recounted his tale of woe. Of course, it was false for the best part: the man was a failure through drink, a fact that was plainly writ upon his mottled and congested cheeks, which contrasted so forcibly with his fine white beard and moustache. Certainly, he had sufficient means to indulge his passion for the racecourse, though none but himself knew if it was upon this, and this alone, that he spent his income. Mostyn felt constrained to remonstrate. "I didn't think you were in such desperate straits, Captain Armitage," he said. "What about Castor?" "Ah!" The old man drew himself up with a sudden jerk. "You remind me: that's just what I wanted to talk about. Castor's my horse, a two-year old; you wouldn't find a better if you searched the United Kingdom from end to end. Old Rory's Pollux isn't in it with the colt. A Derby winner, sir, if I know anything about racing. Well, I can sell Castor if I think fit." He glanced meaningly at Mostyn as he spoke. "Why would you sell Castor if you feel so sure about him?" queried Mostyn, "There may be a fortune in the horse."