He stood at the gate of the club enclosure as he spoke.

“Wait here,” he said, “with Cartoner, and I will be back in a few minutes.”

So Cartoner and Wanda were left in the now deserted paddock, while the distant roar of voices announced that the start for the next race had been successfully accomplished.

Wanda looked rather anxiously towards the little square pavilion into which her brother was hurrying, and Cartoner only looked at Wanda.  He waited till she should speak, and she did not appear to have anything to say at that moment.  Perhaps in this one case that clear understanding of which she was such a pronounced advocate was only to be compassed by silence, and not by speech.  The roar of voices behind them came nearer and nearer as the horses approached the winning-post.  The members of the club stood rigid beneath the pavilion awning, some with field-glasses, others with knitted brows and glittering eyes.  All eyes were turned in one direction, except Wanda’s and Cartoner’s.

Then, when the race was over and the roar had subsided, Martin came hurrying back, and one glance at his face told them that there was no need for anxiety.

“He is laughing in there over a glass of cognac.  He refuses absolutely to go home, and he wants me to help him up the stairs.  He will sit under the awning, he says.  And we are to go back to the grand-stand,” Martin said, as he approached.

“See,” he added, pointing to the paddock where the crowd was hurrying to gather round the winning horse.  “See, it is already a thing of the past.  And he wants it to be so.  He wants no fuss made about it.  It is no good advertising the fact of the existence of a dog with a bad name, eh?  Thank you all the same, Cartoner, for your good offices.  You and Deulin, they say, averted a catastrophe.  The incident is over, my dear Wanda.  It is forgotten by all except us.  Wait here a minute and I will come back to you.”

With a nod to Cartoner, as if to say, “I leave her to your care,” he turned and left them again.

Then at length Wanda spoke.

“You see,” she said, “you are not so strong as—­”

“As what?” he asked, seeing that she sought a word.

“As Fate, I suppose,” she answered, and her eyes were grave as she looked across the mournful level land towards the west, where the sun was sinking below parallel bars of cloud to the straight line of the horizon.  Sunset over a plain is one of nature’s tragic moments.

“Is it Fate?” she asked, with a sudden change of manner.

“Even Fate can be hampered in its movements, princess,” answered Cartoner.

“By what?”

“By action.  I have written for my recall.”

He was looking towards the pavilion.  It seemed that it was he, and not his companion, who was now anxious for Martin to return.  Wanda was still looking across the course towards the sinking sun.