The sporting chance

								

himself, and the things seemed strange to him.
"I have a curious idea," so Royce began at last, "that though you and
I have never met before, Clithero, I was once acquainted both with
your mother and with your father.  I thought so from the first moment
we met in Eaton Square, and I have been watching you and have noticed
all manner of little tricks of expression which remind me of Mary
Clithero--Mary Willoughby as she was, she who I fancy must be your
mother."  He was gazing straight before him, blowing out great clouds
of smoke.
"Yes, my mother's name was Willoughby!" cried Mostyn, surprised.
"How strange to think that you should have known her all those years
ago!  And you never saw her after her marriage?  She is dead now, you
know."
Royce nodded his head gravely.  "She'd have been alive to-day"--he
began, then broke off suddenly.  "I never met your mother as Mrs.
Clithero," he continued after a pause.  "It would not have been well
for either of us.  We loved each other once: Mary Willoughby is the
only woman who has ever influenced my life.  We were to have been
married."
"I never heard of this; I was never told."  Mostyn opened wondering
eyes and stared at his companion with new interest.
"No, it is hardly likely that you would have been told."  A great
bitterness had come into Royce's tone.  "The whole affair was a
discreditable one.  Your mother was not to blame; pray understand
that at once."  The words were called for because Mostyn had flushed
and glanced up quickly.  "I think as dearly of your mother to-day as
ever in the past, and it is for her sake, Mostyn--for I must call you
Mostyn--that I have been taking such an interest in you.  She was
deceived, and so I lost her."
He paused; for a second Mostyn could hardly see his face, because of
the volume of smoke that he emitted from his lips.
"Do you wish to speak to me of this?" Mostyn asked, a slight frown
wrinkling his brow.  He felt instinctively that the whole story might
be one that it would be better for him not to know.
Royce shrugged his shoulders.  "No," he said slowly; "the subject is
painful to me even after all these years, and it might be painful to
you to hear it.  I only wanted to know that you are really the son of
the woman I loved.  Your father dealt badly with me, Mostyn, and I
have never forgiven him.  I suppose he feels just the same towards
me.  John Clithero was always a hard man, the sort of man who would
never forgive anyone whom he has injured."  The words were spoken
with bitter sarcasm.  Mostyn looked away and shuffled with his feet,
for he knew that they were true, and yet, since they were spoken of
his father, he felt vaguely that he was called upon to resent them.
"That brings me to my point," Royce went on, after a moment's pause.
"I think I am right in believing that you have come to the Derby
to-day without your father's knowledge, and if he knows there will be
the devil to pay.  I don't suppose Clithero has changed much, and,