"Don't bet!" Armitage sank back into his chair again. "Well, I'm blessed! Here's a young man who professes to be going in for racing, and who says he doesn't bet! Never heard of such a thing, never!" Armitage stared at Mostyn as though he were looking upon some new and remarkable species of animal. "I suppose you don't understand racing for the mere sake of sport," Mostyn said. "Anyway, that's how it appeals to me, and though I've lost Castor I propose to look out for another horse for next year's Derby. Your daughter and I are going to be rivals, Captain Armitage." The captain was on the alert again. "Another horse--next year's Derby," he mused. "Well, let me see; perhaps I can be of use to you after all." He was evidently turning over in his mind the means of effecting another deal, probably as advantageous to himself as the last. But Mostyn wanted no further business dealings with Captain Armitage. "Thank you," he said, "but I need no assistance in this matter. But now as to Castor," he went on; "I want it to be clearly understood--and you must write me a letter to this effect, Captain Armitage--that the horse is to be, and to remain, your daughter's property: Castor is to run in the Derby in her name, and of course, should he win, the money that accrues is to be her property absolutely. Upon that understanding, and that understanding only, I give up possession." "Surely, surely. It shall be just as you wish. I always meant Rada to have Castor, and I don't grudge her the money a bit," said Armitage magnanimously. "I'll write you the letter--yes, certainly. And now you'll have a drink, won't you, since this matter has been so amicably settled? And perhaps I can find you one of these cigars; I can recommend them." To give away a cigar was an extravagance of which Captain Armitage was rarely guilty, but one, upon this occasion, he felt he could afford. Mostyn, however, refused both the drink and the cigar. He took his leave of Captain Armitage, feeling after this, his second dealing with that gentleman, that Rada was more than ever to be excused for her waywardness and inconsistency. "With such a father," he muttered to himself, as he swung along the leafy lanes, "brought up by him in the atmosphere of that wretched cottage, with no other example before her--good heavens! It's a wonder she's turned out as well as she has. And beautiful, too--for she is a beauty, there's no denying that; she must inherit her looks from her mother. What a pity--what a terrible pity for the girl--that her mother died when she was little more than a baby. It's just that that she has missed out of her life, the influence of a woman, the tender hand of a mother."