The same old repetition in Chris Lisle’s brain:  “How am I to grow rich enough to satisfy the King?”

Always that question, to which no answer came.

Then would come, till he was half maddened by the thought, the idea that Glyddyr had returned after a few days’ absence and had the free run of the Fort, and would be always at Claude’s side.

“Constant dropping will wear a stone,” he would say to himself; “and she is not a stone.  I am sure she loved me, and I might have been happy if I had not been so cursedly poor ­no, I mean, if she had not been so cruelly rich.  For I am not poor, and I never felt poor till now.  But I can’t afford to keep a yacht, and go here and there to races, and win money.  He must win a great deal at these races.

“Why cannot I?” he said half aloud, after a long, thoughtful pause.  She would think no better of me, but the old man would.

“Surely I ought to be as clever as Mr Parry Glyddyr.  I ought to be a match for him.  Well, I am in brute strength.  Pish! what nonsense one does dream of at a time like this.  I can think of no means of making money, only of plenty of ways of losing it.  Nature meant me for an idler and dreamer by the beautiful river, so I may as well go out and idle and dream, instead of moping here, grumbling at my fate.

“It’s a fine morning, as the writer said; let’s go out and kill something.”

He stepped out into the passage, lifted down his salmon rod from where it hung upon a couple of hooks, took his straw hat, in whose crown, carefully twisted up, were sundry salmon flies, thrust his gaff hook through the loop of a strap, and started off along the front of the houses, in full view of the row of fishermen, who were propping their backs up against the cliff rail.

Plenty of “Mornin’s” greeted him, with smiles and friendly nods, and then, as he walked on, the idlers discussed the probabilities of his getting a good salmon or two that morning.

Away in the sheltered bay lay Glyddyr’s yacht, looking the perfection of trimness; and as it caught his eye, Chris turned angrily away, wondering whether the owner was up at the Fort, or on board.

Just as he reached the river which cut the little town in two, he saw the boy who did duty as telegraph messenger go along up the path which led away to the Fort, and with the habit born of living in a little gossiping village, Chris found himself thinking about the telegraph message.

“Big order for stone,” he said to himself as he studied the water.  “How money does pour in for those who don’t want it.”

But soon after he saw the boy returning, a red telegraph envelope in his hand, and that he was trotting on quickly, as if in search of an owner.

“Not at home,” he muttered; and then he became interested in the boy’s proceedings in in spite of himself, as he saw the young messenger go down to the end of the rough pier and stop, as if speaking to some one below, before coming quickly back, and finally passing him, going up the path by the river side, as if to reach the old stone bridge some hundred yards up the glen.

“Gartram must be over at his new quarry,” said Chris to himself, and as the boy disappeared, he thought no more of the incident till about fifty yards farther, as he had turned up by the bank of the river, he caught sight of him again.

He forgot him the next moment, for his interest was taken up by the rushing water, and he watched numberless little falls and eddies, as he went on, till, as he neared the bridge, he caught sight of a well-known figure seated upon the parapet smoking, and in the act of taking the telegram from the boy.

He tore it open and read the message, crumpled it up, and with an angry gesture threw it behind him into the stream; and as he pitched the boy a small coin, Chris saw the little crumpled-up ball of paper go sailing down towards the sea.

For a moment the young man felt disposed to avoid meeting Glyddyr, as, to reach the fishing ground he had marked down, he would have to go over the bridge, and then along the rugged path on the other side.

“And if he sees me going back, he’ll think I’m afraid of him,” muttered Chris.

At the thought, he swung his long lithe rod over his shoulder, and strode on, his heavy fishing boots sounding loudly on the rugged stones.

As Chris reached the bridge, Glyddyr was busy with his match-box lighting a fresh cigar, and did not look up till the other was only a few yards away, when he raised his head, saw who was coming, and changed colour.  Then the two young men gazed fiercely into each other’s eyes, the look telling plainly enough that what had passed and was going on made them enemies for life.

Chris tramped on, keeping his head up, and naturally, as he did not turn towards his rear, he was soon out of eyeshot, when the sharp report of a yacht’s gun rang out from behind him, the effect being that he turned sharply round to look at the smoke rising half a mile away.

It was a perfectly natural action, but Chris forgot that he was carrying a long, elastic salmon rod, and the effect was curious, for the rod swung through the air with a loud whish, and gave Glyddyr a smart blow on the cheek.

“I beg your pardon,” cried Chris involuntarily, as Glyddyr sprang from the parapet into the roadway, with a menacing look in his eyes.

“You cad!” he roared.  “You did that on purpose.”

“No, I did not,” said Chris, quite as hotly.  “If I had meant to do it, I should have used the butt of the rod, and knocked you over into the river.”

Glyddyr’s lips seemed to contract till his white teeth were bare; and, dashing down cigar and match, he advanced towards Chris with his fists clenched, till he was within a couple of feet of his rival.

Chris’s face grew set and stony looking, but he did not move.  One hand held the rod, and the other was in his pocket, so that he offered an easy mark for a blow such as he felt would pay him back for the one which had sent Glyddyr over in the study at the Fort.

But he knew that the blow would not come, and a curiously mocking smile slowly dawned upon his lip as he saw that Glyddyr was trembling with impotent rage, and dared not strike.

“Well?” said Chris.  “Have you any more to say?”

“You shall pay bitterly for these insults,” whispered Glyddyr; for he could not speak aloud.

“When you like, Mr Glyddyr,” said Chris coolly; “but you dare not ask me for payment.  I told you that blow was an accident ­so it was.”

“You lie!”

Chris flushed.

“Do I?” he said hoarsely.  “A minute ago I was sorry that I had struck you inadvertently, and I apologised as a gentleman should.”

“A gentleman!” said Glyddyr mockingly.

“Yes, sir, a gentleman; but you called me a cad and a liar, so now I tell you I’m glad I did strike you, and that it wouldn’t take much to make me undo the rod and use the second joint to give you a good thrashing.  Good-morning.”

There was a peculiar sound in the still sunny glen heard above the dull rush and murmur of the river.  It was the grating together of Glyddyr’s teeth, as Chris turned round once more, and unintentionally brushed the top of his rod against his rival again.

Glyddyr made a sharp movement, as if to snatch hold of and break the rod, but his hand did not go near it; and he stood there watching the fisherman as he turned down to the waterside, and went on up the glen, soon disappearing among the birches and luxuriant growth of heath and fern which crowned the stones.

“Curse him!” muttered Glyddyr, picking up the fallen cigar and lighting it, without smoking for a few minutes.  “I’ll pay him out yet.  Well,” he said, with a bitter laugh, “I’m going the right way.  Poor devil; how mad he is.  He shall see me come away from the church some day with little Claude on my arm, and I’d give a hundred pounds ­if I’d got it ­ to let him see me take her in my arms, and cover her pretty face with kisses.”

There was a peculiarly malignant screw in his face as he stood looking up the glen, and then he laughed again.

“Poor devil,” he cried.  “I can afford to grin at him.”

He turned to go, and at that moment a puff of wind came down the glen, rustling a piece of paper in the road, and drawing his attention to the fact that it was the envelope of the telegram.

Then he stooped and picked it up, and shaped it out till it was somewhat in the form of a boat, as he dropped it over the stone parapet, and stood watching as it swept round and round in an eddy, and then went sailing down the stream.

“That’s the way to serve you, Master Gellow,” he muttered; “and I wish you were with it sailing away out yonder.  No, no, my fine fellow, once bit twice shy; once bit ­a hundred times bit, but I’ve grown too cunning for you at last.  Now, I suppose some other scoundrel is in that with you.  Back it.  Not this time, my fine fellow; not this time.”

He smoked away furiously as he watched the scrap of paper float down, now fast, now slowly.  At one time it was gliding down some water slide, to plunge into a little foaming pool at the bottom, where it sailed round and round before it reached the edge and was whirled away again.  Now it caught against a stone, and was nearly swamped; now it recovered itself, and was swept towards the side, but only to be snatched away, and go gliding down once more in company with iridescent bubbles and patches of foam.

“Hah!” ejaculated Glyddyr, “if I only had now all that I have fooled away by taking their confounded tips, and backing the favourites they have sent me.  No, Master Gellow, I’m deep in enough now, and I’m not the gudgeon to take that bait.  Money, money.  There’ll be a fresh demand directly, and the old bills to renew.  How easy it is to borrow, and how hard to pay it back.  If I only had a few hundreds now, how pleasant times would be, and how easy it would be to get what I want.”

Oddly enough, just at the same time, Chris Lisle was busily whipping away at the stream in foaming patch and in dark gliding pool, thinking deeply.

“Such a despicable coward!” he muttered.  “Why, if a man had served me so, I should have half killed him.  What a fate for her if it were possible, and here is he accepted by that sordid old wretch of a fellow, just because he has money.  Now, if I had a few thousands!  Ha!”

He whipped away, fishing with most patient energy till he reached the pool where Claude had caught her first fish, and where, as he stood by the water side, he seemed to feel her little hands clasping the rod with him as mentor, instructing her in the art.

But, try hard as he would, no salmon rose.  Every pool, every eddy which had proved the home of some silvery fish in the past, was essayed in vain; and at last, after a couple of hours’ honest work, he gave it up as a bad job, and determined to try at the mouth of the river, just where the salt tide met the fresh water, for one of the peel which frequented that part.

Winding up his line, and hesitating as to how he should fish, he walked swiftly back, wondering whether Glyddyr would still be on the bridge, waiting to insult him with word and look, and feeling heartily relieved to see that the place was clear.

Reaching the bridge, he went on down by the river on the same side as that on which he had been fishing.

There was no path there, and the way among the rugged stones and bushes was laborious, but he crept and leaped and climbed away till he was within a hundred yards of the sea, where the river began to change its rough, turbulent course to one that was calm and gliding.

It was extremely tortuous here, and in places there were eddies, in which patches of foam floated, just as they had come down from the little falls above, lingering, as it were, before taking the irrevocable plunge into the tide which would carry them far out to sea.

Close by one of these eddies, where the water looked black and dark, the fisher had to make his way down to the very edge of the river, to climb round a rugged point, and so reach the wilderness of boulders below, among which the river rushed hurriedly towards the bar.

It was the most slippery piece of climbing of all, and about half-way along Chris was standing with one foot upon an isolated stone, the other on a ledge of slatey rock, about to make his final spring, when something floating on the surface of the still water took his attention.

It was only a scrap of pinkish paper, printed at the top, carefully ruled and crossed, and bearing some writing in coarse blue pencil.

Chris stared hard at the object, for it was a telegram.  Glyddyr had received a telegram, crumpled it up and thrown it into the water, where, in all probability, consequent upon the action of the water, it had slowly opened out till it lay flat, as if asking to be read.

“Bah!” ejaculated Chris, turning away from temptation ­as it seemed to him.

The intention was good, but the mischief was done.  Even as he glanced at the telegram lying there upon the water he took in its meaning.  The writing was so large and clear, and the message so brief, that he grasped it all in what the Germans call an augenblick.

“Back the Prince’s filly. ­Gellow.”

A curious feeling of annoyance came over Chris as he climbed on ­a feeling which made him pick up a couple of heavy stones, and dash them down one after the other into the river.

The second was unnecessary, for the first was so well aimed that it splashed right into the middle of the paper, and bore it down into the depths of the river beneath the rocky bank; and Chris walked on towards the smiling sea, with those words fixed in his mind and standing out before him.

“Back the Prince’s Filly.”

The thing seemed quite absurd, and he felt more and more angry as he went a few yards farther and prepared his tackle, and began to fish just in the eddy where the stream and sea met.  And there goodly fish, which had come up with the tide to feed on the tasty things brought down by the little river from the high grounds, gave him plenty of opportunities for making his creel heavy, but he saw nothing save the words upon the telegram, and could think of nothing else.

It was evidently a very important message to Glyddyr about some race, but for the time being he had no idea what race was coming off.  He was fond of sport in one way, but Epsom, Ascot, Newmarket, Doncaster and Goodwood had no charm for him.

But he knew accidentally that Glyddyr was a man who betted heavily, and report said that he won large sums on the turf, while by the irony of fate here was he, possibly Glyddyr’s greatest enemy, suddenly put in possession of one of his great turf secrets ­undoubtedly a hint from his agent by which he would win a heavy sum.

“Well, let him win a heavy sum,” cried Chris petulantly, as if some one were present tempting him to try his luck.  “Let him win and gamble and lose, and go hang himself; what is it to me?”

He hurriedly wound in his line, to find that a fish had hooked itself; but, in his petulant state, he gave the rod a sharp jerk, snatched the hook free, and began to retrace his way to the bridge; but before he reached the spot where he had had to step amid the big stones, he caught sight of a scrap of pink paper sailing down to meet the tide, and he could not help seeing the words, ­

“Prince’s fil ­”

And directly after another ragged fragment floated by showing, at the torn edge where the stone had dashed through, the one mutilated word, ­

“Bac ­”

“Any one would think there were invisible imps waiting to tempt me,” thought Chris.  “How absurd!”

He strode on, leaping and climbing along the rugged bank till he once more reached the bridge, crossed it, and was half-way back to his apartments when he saw Gartram coming along the road with Claude and Mary.

His first instinct was to avoid them.  The second, to go straight on and meet them, and this he did, to find that, as he raised his hat, Gartram turned away to speak to Claude, and completely check any attempt at recognition on her part.

“How contemptible!” thought Chris.  “Now, if I had been as well off as Glyddyr, I should have been seized by the hand, asked why I did not go up more to the Fort, and generally treated as if I were a son.”

“Back the Prince’s filly!”

The idea came with such a flash across his brain that he started and looked sharply over his shoulder to see if any one had spoken.

“How curious,” he thought.  “It just shows how impressionable the human mind is.  If I gave way to it, I should begin calculating odds, and fooling away my pittance in gambling on the turf.  I suppose every man has the gaming instinct latent within him, ready to fly into activity directly the right string is pulled.  Ah, well, it isn’t so with me.”

He walked on, trying to think of how beautiful the day was, and how lovely the silver-damascened sea, with the blue hills beyond; but away softly, describing arcs of circles with the tips of her masts, lay Glyddyr’s yacht, and there, just before him, was Glyddyr himself going into the little post office, where the one wire from the telegraph pole seemed to descend through the roof.

“Gone to send a message,” thought Chris, with a feeling of anger that he could not for the moment analyse, but whose explanation seemed to come the next moment.  To back the Prince’s horse, perhaps make more thousands, and then ­“Oh! this is maddening!” he said, half aloud; and he increased his pace till he reached the pretty cottage where he had long been the tenant of a pleasant, elderly, ship-captain’s widow; and after hanging his rod upon the hooks in the little passage, entered his room, threw the creel into the corner, and himself into a chair.

“Cut dead!” he exclaimed bitterly.  “After all these years of happy life, to be served like that.”

“Back the Prince’s filly.”

The words seemed to stand out before him, and he gave quite a start as the door opened and the pleasant smiling face of his landlady appeared, the bustling woman bearing in a large clean blue dish.

“How many this time, Mr Lisle?” she said.  “Of course you’ll like some for dinner?”

“What?  No; none at all, Mrs Sarson,” said Chris hastily.

“No fish, sir?  Why, James Gadby came along and said that the river was just full.”

“Yes; I daresay, but I came back.  Headache.  Not well.”

“Let me send for Dr Asher, sir.  There’s nothing like taking things in time.  A bit of cold, perhaps, with getting yourself so wet wading.”

“No, no, Mrs Sarson; there’s nothing the matter.  Please don’t bother me now.  I want to think.”

The woman went out softly, shaking her head.

“Poor boy!” she said to herself; “I know.  Things are not going with him as they should, and it’s a curious thing that love, as well enough I once used to know.”

“Back the Prince’s filly.”

The words stood out so vividly before Chris Lisle that he sprang from his seat, caught up a book, and threw himself back once more in a chair by the window to read.

But, as he turned over the leaves, he heard a familiar voice speaking in its eager, quick tones, and, directly after, there was another voice which seemed to thrill him through and through, the sounds coming in at the open window as the light steps passed.

“No, Mary dear.  Let’s go home.”

There was a ring of sadness in the tone in which those words were uttered, which seemed to give Chris hope.  Claude could not be happy to speak like that.

He crept to the window, and, from behind the curtain, watched till he could see the white flannel dress with its blue braiding no more.

“If I were only rich,” thought Chris; and then he gave an angry stamp on the floor as he heard a quick pace, and saw Glyddyr pass, evidently hurrying on to overtake the two girls, who must have parted from Gartram lower down.

Half mad with jealousy, he made for the door, but only to stop with his fingers upon the handle, as he felt how foolish any such step would be, and, going back to his chair, he took up his book again, and opened it, and there before him the words seemed to start out from the page.

“Back the Prince’s Filly.”

He closed the book with an angry snap.

“Look here,” he said to himself, “am I going to be ill, and is all this the beginning of a fit of delirium?”

He laughed the next instant, and then, as if obeying the strange impulse within him, he crossed the room and rang the bell.

“Have you taken away the newspaper that was here, Mrs Sarson?” he said sharply.

The pleasant face before him coloured up.

“I beg your pardon, sir.  I didn’t think you’d be back yet, and so I’d made so bold.”

“Bring it back,” said Chris sternly.

“Bless the poor man, what is coming to him?” muttered the landlady, as she hurried out to her own room.  “He was once as amiable as a dove, and now nothing’s right for him.”

“Thank you; that will do,” said Chris, shortly; and as soon as he was alone he stood with the paper in his hand.