The sporting chance

								

hands together, and yet half ashamed of giving utterance to such a
sentiment, "how I should like to win a Derby myself!"
Royce laughed, aloud this time.  "Who knows?" he, remarked; "the
future is on the knees of the gods."  Once more his grey eyes
appeared to be reading the young man's face, taking in every detail
of his appearance.
Mostyn Clithero was good to look at, or so the older man was telling
himself, as he wondered if it could be possible that an idea which
had come into his head earlier in the day, might have foundation in
fact; that reminiscent look, that semblance of gazing back into the
past, had returned to Royce's eyes, and for the moment he seemed to
have forgotten all else.
"There is something in the boy's face that reminds me of her," he was
muttering to himself.  "It's about the eyes or about the mouth--I'm
not quite sure which.  Anyway, if I should turn out to be right, the
lad's got nothing of his father about him, and I'm glad of that; I'm
glad of that."
Mostyn was indeed a young man whose personal appearance might attract
attention.  He was tall, standing well over six foot, and broad of
shoulder in proportion.  His athletic training had done much for him,
and he was in every way, physically as well as mentally, a contrast
to his two brothers.  He had often been told, indeed, that he
resembled his mother, who in her younger days had been stately and
handsome, a recognised beauty in London society, while James and
Charles were always supposed to take after their father.  Mostyn had
fair hair, which he wore cut short, striving thereby to overcome its
tendency to curl, an attempt at which he was not always quite
successful; his eyes were blue, very large and gentle, though they
could be stern at times, as could his lips, which were otherwise
prone to smile.
Anthony Royce, who had a keen insight into the minds of men, and who
had observed the boy very carefully almost from the first moment of
their meeting, was pleased with what he had seen, and, for more
reasons than one, felt well disposed towards Mostyn Clithero.
He glanced at his watch.  "I guess we'll stop here awhile," he said;
"it's restful.  Besides, I want to have a quiet chat with you."  He
took a bulky cigar-case from his pocket, extracted a large and dark
cigar, which he proceeded to light up.  Then he offered the case to
his young friend.
Mostyn shook his head.  He did not smoke; it was one of those things
to which his father objected.
They had been standing upon the box of the coach, and it was here
that they seated themselves, Royce occupying the driver's place.  He
puffed thoughtfully at the cigar before breaking the silence.  Mostyn
sat silent too, wondering what this new friend of his would have to
say, and why Anthony Royce, the American millionaire, should have
apparently taken so much interest in him.  Mostyn had hardly given a
thought to the matter before, but now he was more collected, more