Forest King had never failed its master hitherto, and Bertie would have been saved by his faithful steed, but for the fact that a blackguardly turf welcher doctored the horse’s mouth, and Forest King was beaten, and couldn’t finish the course.

“Something ails King,” said Cecil calmly, “he is fairly knocked off his legs.  Some vet must look to him; ridden a yard further he will fall.”

II “A Mystery—­An Error"

Cecil knew that with the failure of Forest King had gone the last plank that saved him from ruin, perhaps the last chance that stood between him and dishonour.  He had never looked on it as within the possibilities of hazard that the horse could be defeated, and the blow fell with crushing force; the fiercer because his indolence had persisted in ignoring his danger, and his whole character was so accustomed to ease and to enjoyment.

He got away from his companions, and wandered out alone into the gardens in the evening sunlight, throwing himself on a bench beneath a mountain-ash.

Here the little Lady Venetia, the eight-year-old sister of the colossal Seraph, found him, and Cecil roused himself, and smiled at her.

“They say you have lost all your money,” said the child, “and I want you to take mine.  It is my very own.  Papa gives it to me to do just what I like with it.  Please do take it.”

Twenty bright Napoleons fell in a glittering shower on the grass.

“Petite reine,” Cecil murmured gently, “how some man will love you one day.  I cannot take your money, and you will understand why when you are older.  But I will take this if you will give it me,” and he picked up a little enamelled sweetmeat box, and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.  It was only a child’s gift, but he kept it through many a dark day and wild night.

At that moment as he stood there, with the child beside him, one of the men of the gardens brought him an English letter, marked “instant.”  Cecil took it wearily, broke the envelope, and read a scrawled, miserable letter, blotted with hot tears, and scored out in impulsive misery.  The Lady Venetia went slowly away and when next they met it was under the burning sun of Africa.

Alone, Cecil’s head sank down upon his hands.

“Oh, God!” he thought.  “If it were anything—­anything except disgrace!”

An hour later and the Seraph’s servant brought him a message, asking him to come to Lord Rockingham’s rooms immediately.

Cecil went, and the Seraph crossed the room with his hand held out; not for his life in that moment would he have omitted that gesture of friendship.  There was a third person in the room, a Jew, M. Baroni, who held a folded paper, with the forged signature of Rockingham on it, and another signature, the name of the forger in whose favour the bill was drawn; that other signature was—­Bertie Cecil.

“Cecil, my dear fellow,” said the Seraph, “I’m ashamed to send for you on such a blackguard errand!  Here, M. Baroni, make your statement.  Later on, Mr. Cecil can avenge it.”