A small crowd was collected in front of the Hotel Mazarin, and its proportions were gradually being swelled by passing Saturday loungers. Walter Sedger's drag, drawn up in front of the hotel to receive his party for the races, was the attraction which drew together this inquisitive throng, and in spite of the expression of superior indifference assumed by most of the men and boys composing the crowd, it was easy to see that the red-wheeled coach, with its smart team of browns, was an object of more than passing interest. A park policeman was exchanging a word or two in a knowing manner with the stolid Briton in boots and breeches at the leaders' heads, and near him a slouch-hatted veteran, wearing a Grand Army badge, was talking condescendingly with an ice-man. A large cake of ice, which had been carried thus far on its way to the hotel bar, was slowly melting in the sun, and little streams of water flowed from it and trickled into the gutter; but the veteran and the ice-man still gazed at the shining panels of the drag, and eyed the "cattle" with the air of connoisseurs, while a butcher's boy with his white apron and basket of meat, and a German carpenter with his kit of tools, stood there stolidly, intent upon remaining until the show was over. A diminutive Italian boot-black, still attired in the rags of his native Naples, had crowded to the curb and was standing in front of two Norwegian sailors; just behind them was a party of Bohemian laborers, and a peddler from sunny Sicily touched elbows with a mortar-covered mason from Erin's shores, while some cadaverous clerks from the State Street shops, radiant in the ready-made attire of assumed gentility, were there, helping to swell this crowd of perhaps a hundred loungers. They were all citizen of the great Republic, and though few could speak intelligently the language of their adopted home, probably most of them, in their hearts, resented the appearance on the Chicago streets of this English coach as something unAmerican, for which "them doods" on the Avenue were responsible.

The hands of the hotel clock indicated that the hour was nearing two. The thin-faced veteran in the slouch hat plunged his hands deeper into his trousers' pockets, and, turning his head to a critical angle, said patronizingly to the ice-man: "Them's the things they calls 'tally-ho's.'" The ice-man rolled his shirt-sleeves a little higher above his elbows, folded his brawny arms and replied, in the accent of the Teuton, "I dink dot vas it."

"Them swells likes to show off mighty well. Wonder what that machine cost," answered the veteran. But before the ice-man could reply, a messenger boy at his side shouted out, "Golly! there goes another of them 'busses," and the attention of the crowd was attracted toward the street, where Jack Elliot's coach, with its team of roans, was passing along the Avenue, bearing a party to the races.

"I wish that chap in the white pants'd toot his horn," said the messenger boy; but Jack Elliot was a coaching man who did not believe in arousing the neighborhood with useless music, so the wish was not gratified.

While the attention of the crowd was thus diverted, Sedger and his friends emerged from the hotel. The party was composed of Marion and her husband, Florence Moreland, Harold Wainwright, a Mrs. Smith from Cincinnati, and Walter Sedger. They had been lunching in the restaurant of the hotel, and on reaching the sidewalk they at first found some difficulty in pushing their way toward the coach; but on seeing them the smart park policeman on duty officiously pushed the crowd back and made a way for them.

"I can't wait for Grahame any longer," Sedger was saying to Mrs. Sanderson. "He couldn't lunch with us, and I told him to be here at half-past one. It's a quarter to two, and we shall miss the first race."

"Don't wait for him, then," said Marion, thinking this was the only thing to be said, but feeling an inward disappointment at the thought that Duncan might not see her in her white crepon gown, with its gold corselet and braided trimmings, just sent her by Mrs. Mason of Burlington Street, London, W. She knew it was becoming, and she also liked her Virot hat, but she didn't think it wise to put Sedger in an ill-humor by asking him to wait, so she walked silently to where a groom was holding a ladder against the box-seat. Meanwhile Sedger passed round to his off side wheeler and picked up his reins. Assorting them in correct road fashion he mounted to his seat, wrapped a light driving apron about his legs, picked up his whip, caught the lash in a double thong, and waited while his party took their places. Marion mounted to the box seat and the rest took the longer seat behind. Just as Sedger was about to start his team, Marion, who had been constantly looking in the direction in which Duncan should appear, saw him hastening around the corner of Jackson Street. "There is Mr. Grahame," she called out, and while Duncan was hurrying along the street, Roswell Sanderson suggested that he and Wainwright had better change to the back seat, so as to give Duncan an opportunity of seeing something of the city.

Duncan came up almost breathless from his rapid walking, and after exchanging a hurried greeting with the party, mounted to the seat beside Florence left vacant by Harold Wainwright. "Let 'em go," Sedger called to the grooms. The lead bars rattled, the leaders pranced as the grooms jumped from their heads, the wheelers sprang into their collars, and the coach rolled off down the Avenue.

It was a bright June day, and all Chicago seemed to be in the long, tree-lined boulevard which stretched away to the south. Hundreds of vehicles of every description known to the coach-builder's craft were rolling over the hard macadam pavement, bearing people to the races, and in this motley array were to be found all sorts and conditions of men and carriages. Buggies and express wagons, stanhopes and butcher carts, mail-phaetons and road-carts, char-À-bancs and extension tops, victorias and "hacks," coaches and omnibuses, aristocracy and democracy scattered the same dust and rolled toward the same goal. Only the road to Epsom can present a scene more varied than this; only the Champs ÉlysÉes excels the noble avenue down which Walter Sedger tooled his team of browns.

"It is a pleasure to live on such a day, with four such horses to drive behind, isn't it, Mr. Grahame?" asked Florence, as the coach rolled past the Auditorium, and the team settled down to their work.

"I am surprised you think so," answered Duncan, with a bantering expression in his eyes.

"Why?"

"Because I don't see how you reconcile so Anglican an institution as a drag with your patriotic sentiments."

"You forget that George Washington hunted, and had his clothes made in London."

"Then I am to infer that the highest type of patriot is he who rides to hounds and gets his coats on Hanover or Conduit Street."

"You are to infer that the highest type of patriot is not he who blusters sectional prejudice from under the shade of a slouch hat, but he who is sufficiently liberal to combine foreign excellencies with native virtues."

"You have a flow of expression which would do credit to a campaign orator," laughed Duncan. "For my part I don't believe in patriotism, at least in the sentimental sense of the word. Patriotism is a compound of pride and jealousy. Eliminate these two factors, to use an algebraic expression, and nothing remains."

"I fear we shall never agree on such questions," said Florence, anxious not to enter into a useless argument with Duncan.

"Perhaps, after all, it is my fault," answered Duncan with an expression of sadness in his eyes which seemed strange to Florence. "I wish I might believe in noble sentiment, but a man who has had his wings clipped in Wall Street is not the chap for sentiment."

"Perhaps you will change your mind one day," answered Florence.

"It would only take one example of true sentiment to convert me," said Duncan gravely. "Well," he added, after a moment, "there may be rough spots in a worldly life, but there is no dullness, and, after all, that is what most of us try to avoid. While the sparkle lasts life is sweet, but when it is gone one might as well give up the fight."

Mrs. Smith of Cincinnati interrupted them by asking Florence if she knew what the large, brick building on the left was.

"That is the Calumet Club," Florence answered, and then they subsided, for a moment, into silence.

Approaching Grand Boulevard the crowd of vehicles became denser, and the coaching party found much to amuse them. Sedger pointed his leaders around the corner of Thirty-fifth Street, and the coach swayed and rocked as the four browns dashed around the turn into the short cross-street. The horn was sounded to warn the street cars of their approach, and then, after a passing glance of horses, coach, and party, reflected in the broad shop windows of the street, another corner was turned, and they were rolling along the broad boulevard leading to Washington Park. Sedger was late, and, anxious to be in time for the first race, he sent his lash under the lead bars, and touched the off leader a clip on the legs which made him jump into his collar in quick order. The team all caught the inspiration of the lash, the pace was quickened, and the great vehicle rumbled on past the small fry of the road, quickly measuring off the two miles or more of straight avenue stretching away toward the park. The party on the drag laughed and talked, and occasionally glanced at the quickly changing scene. Soon the coach was rolling past the great, green meadow of the park so English in its aspect, and then, after passing a bit of lake where hundreds of holiday seekers were now stretched in the cool shade of the shrubs on its banks, rattled down the little incline which leads to the Club House road. The strains of band-music came over the bit of level ground and the party could see the great Grand Stand crowded with its ten thousand spectators. By its side was the Club House, standing on a rise of ground skirted by lawns and flower-beds, its two verandas filled with people, and the driveway in front crowded with arriving vehicles.

Sedger urged his team to a gallop, and the horses scampered through the lodge-gate and up the little hill to the Club House, where he brought them up "all standing." The people on the veranda crowded forward to see the coaching party, while Sedger and his guests descended, and the coachman drove the steaming horses off to the stables. Scores of smart traps followed the drag up to the club steps, and the party stopped a moment to view the brilliant scene. Sleek horses and polished brass, neat liveries and shining panels, bright gowns and gay parasols, moved in seemingly endless succession to the accompanying music of champing bits and the restless pawing of countless hoofs. After watching the changing throng for a moment, Sedger and his party walked through the Club House to the veranda facing the course, which they found filled with members and their friends. On the enclosed lawn before them people were sitting in chairs, or walking up and down. Considering this the best place to view the sport, they placed seats on the green turf and sat down in the shade of the Club House.

"A capital course this," said Duncan to Marion, as he glanced across the turf-covered enclosure filled with smartly dressed people to the track beyond, where a half dozen racers were taking their preliminary gallop. "I had no idea you had such a place as this in Chicago," he added, and then Sedger suggested that they go to the betting ring and see how the betting was.

"Wait till after this race," put in Wainwright. "There go the horses to the post."

"Well, if we can't play this race, we must have a hat pool," answered Sedger, who felt that not to have something on a race was to lose half the sport. "Let's see, there are just seven horses and seven of our party. Five dollars apiece for a flyer."

No one objected, so Sedger wrote the seven numbers on little pieces of paper which he tore off his programme, and, shaking them up in his hat, he passed them about among his party.

"What horse have you, Mrs. Sanderson?" asked Duncan as she drew her number from the hat.

"Number seven," answered Marion, and Duncan looked at his card to see what horse it was. "Orion," he said, "and his colors are purple and white."

"My husband's university colors; that ought to bring me luck."

"Not on Orion, I am afraid," interrupted Sedger, who prided himself on his knowledge of the turf. "He was a 'twenty-to-one shot' in town last night, but I'll be generous and give you two dollars for him."

"No, I prefer to keep him. Orion may prove a lucky star after all."

"By Jove, they're off!" shouted Duncan, who had been watching the horses at the post on the other side of the course. They were all well bunched, the red flag dropped, and away they scampered on a five-furlong dash.

"Orion's last, Mrs. Sanderson," called Sedger, who was following the race with a large pair of russet-leathered field-glasses. "Orion's last, but I'll give you a dollar for your chance."

"Don't take it, Mrs. Sanderson, he's coming up," said Duncan, as the horses dashed around the first turn, scattering a cloud of dust behind them. Then the crowd in front of the Grand Stand began to surge and sway, and the sea of ten thousand hats was lashed to excitement. A murmur broke forth from the distant crowd as a mass of color and racers emerged from the dust and rushed down the home stretch; then the cheering grew louder and the hats swayed more furiously as the horses dashed on to the finish.

"Look at Orion now," said Duncan, "he's a good second. By Jove, he wins!" he shouted, as the purple and white rushed to the front and won hands down by a neck. "I congratulate you, Mrs. Sanderson."

"Who would have thought the brute could beat 'The Wizard' who sold at two to one on" said Sedger, and then he suggested that the men should go to the betting ring and play the Derby.

Duncan turned to Marion and asked if she would not choose him a horse to play. "You are so lucky that I feel sure of winning," he added.

"But I know nothing about the horses," remonstrated Marion.

"Neither do I, so we have a fair chance."

"Well, I choose Belle of Newport."

"You think she ought to be fast, I suppose."

"No, but the Marquis, who, Mr. Sedger says, is a favorite, will be sure to follow her."

"Don't you play the Belle, Grahame," said Sedger, as he and Duncan left the ladies and wandered toward the Grand Stand. "Her owner told me last night that he is afraid she isn't fit."

"Perhaps he intends playing her himself," laughed Duncan.

Sedger and Duncan passed over the bridge connecting the Club House lawn with the Grand Stand, and were soon in the midst of the great crowd moving toward the betting-rooms. The sun beat down upon the heads of this army of enthusiasts, but, despite the heat, thousands of men crowded into the low room where scores of keen book-makers, with their coats off, were ranged in little booths, calling off the odds on the next race, and taking the money of the eager crowd of gamblers. By the time Sedger and Duncan had worked their way through this throng up to a book-maker, and had purchased two tickets on Marquis and Belle of Newport respectively, they were thankful to hurry out of the stifling place into the open air.

"I took your advice, Mrs. Sanderson," said Duncan, after he had returned to the club lawn. "Belle of Newport is my horse."

"I hope my choice won't bring you ill luck."

"We shall soon know, for there go the horses to the post."

Five of the starters trotted past the Club House, and there was a perceptible movement among the people on the veranda and lawn as the contestants for the great event passed before them. The Marquis was the favorite and he was greeted by a round of applause, as Jockey Gannon urged him into a brisk hand gallop. The sleek sides of the chestnut gelding glistened in the sunshine, and he certainly looked a winner. Close at his heels was the bay Kentucky filly, Belle of Newport, ridden by the veteran Forest, and the knowing ones could see that the Southern mare was in prime condition. The first horses were followed by three stragglers who had been late in saddling, and then the starter's carriage rolled across the green turf of the field toward the half-mile post at the opposite side of the course. Hundreds of glasses were leveled at the bunch of racers over by the stables, restlessly tugging at their bits. Then there was a scramble and a rush of horses past the red flag, but one horse was slow in getting away and the flag still fluttered in the breeze. The jockeys pulled up their mounts and turned them back to the starting-post. After much manoeuvring for positions, they scrambled away again, scattering the dust behind them. They were well bunched, the red flag dropped, and away they went on the mile and a half gallop for the American Derby. The crowd surged wildly and eager eyes were strained toward the mass of horses scampering over the first half-mile of the course.

Down they came to the Grand Stand, a cloud of dust enveloping them and almost concealing the bright colors of the riders. Men rushed to the railings and strained their eyes down the course; a faint murmur broke from the crowd and grew louder and louder. "Marquis! Marquis wins!" was shouted by the favorite's friends, as they saw the long stride of the chestnut gelding in front. Then the racers clattered past the Grand Stand, urged on by cheers and applause.

It was nobody's race yet, but Marquis still led, with Belle of Newport a good second. They passed the Club House with Marquis close to the inside railing for the turn, when he swerved against the railing and stumbled. There was a shout of horror, and the women at the Club House turned their heads away. The racers rushed on to the finish, but the favorite lay there in the dust, with the blood gushing from a broken knee, and Jockey Gannon motionless at his side. Some men ran on to the course and carried Gannon away. The poor Marquis tried to rise and looked pleadingly at his owner who had rushed to his side. From the distance came a cheer. It was for the Belle of Newport, the winner of the great race. Jockey Forest had seen the Marquis go down before him, and pressing his knees to the sides of the Belle, had raised the filly and carried her over the fallen favorite. The other riders had seen the accident in time, and, swerving their mounts aside, they had rushed on to the finish, while the Marquis lay there in the dust pleading for help with his mournful eyes. A veterinary bent over the horse's wound. He held a hurried consultation with the owner; then some one placed a revolver against the poor beast's head; there was a loud report, a convulsive kick, and the noble racer lay dead on the field he had striven so hard to win. A pair of work-horses was brought on to the course and all that remained of the Marquis was dragged away, while over by the little lake, under the shade of an elm, Jockey Gannon lay stretched on the turf. A physician was by his side, and a crowd of curious people gazed at the pale face before them. "He may live till morning," the physician said, and then the wounded jockey was silently borne away. The band played again, the blood stains on the course were covered by fresh dirt, and the bell rang for the next race. People asked a few questions about the dying man, and then he was forgotten in the excitement of the sport. It was only a jockey.

"You see, you brought me luck, Mrs. Sanderson," Duncan said to Marion, after he had returned from getting his Belle of Newport ticket cashed. "Two hundred dollars for forty. That is luck, isn't it?"

"Yes, but that reminds me of the accident. Do you know, I feel quite unnerved after that sight."

"You had better walk with me on the lawn. It will do you good, I am sure."

"I hope so," said Marion as she rose to go with him.

For perhaps a quarter of an hour they walked up and down the lawn, chatting away unconcernedly about the people around them. It was the first time they had been alone together since Duncan's return, but he made not the slightest reference to their last meeting. He was careless and unconcerned, and Marion tried to appear the same, but there was a strange feeling in her heart, half of fear and half of resentment, which told her that indifference had no place there. She laughed and chatted, but waited anxiously, thankful that so many people were there, but hopeful that he might say something to tell her that he remembered the words he had spoken at the Patricians' ball.

Suddenly Duncan stopped at a secluded part of the lawn where there was an empty bench. "Let us sit down here in the shade. You must be tired," he said, and then, after they had taken seats, a moment of silence came, and Marion could feel that Duncan was looking into her face, but she did not dare to meet his glance. He leaned toward her and spoke in the soft tones she remembered so well. "You are cruel," he said.

She looked up, startled. "Cruel, what do you mean?" she asked.

"You are cruel to forget so easily. You are cruel to treat me as you have."

"I, cruel; I don't understand," she said, and she thought of his careless manner and how she had waited for him to speak.

"Yes, you women are all alike. You play with us men for the moment, and then we are cast aside like a toy which no longer pleases. I thought you were different from the rest."

Marion looked up into his face with an expression of astonishment. She met his grey eyes, and for a moment she felt again that subtle power she had been dreaming of so long.

"Have you forgotten?" he said slowly.

Marion turned her head away. "Don't talk of that, Mr. Grahame," she answered. "That is all ended."

"It can't be ended while——" He did not finish for he saw a man approaching. "Here we are, Sanderson," he called carelessly. "I suppose you are looking for your wife."

"Yes," answered Roswell, coming nearer. "Mr. Sedger has tea ready on the upper veranda, and he wants his party. You look pale, Marion, is anything the matter?"

"I felt very much upset by that accident. I came here to get away from the people for a moment."

"A cup of tea will put you right," said Duncan.