For the moment Sir Patrick dropped the subject.  He was not in his usual spirits.

Since his interview with Anne had satisfied him that she was Geoffrey’s lawful wife, the conviction had inevitably forced itself on his mind that the one possible chance for her in the future, was the chance of Geoffrey’s death.  Horrible as it was to him, he had been possessed by that one idea—­go where he might, do what he might, struggle as he might to force his thoughts in other directions.  He looked round the broad ashen path on which the race was to be run, conscious that he had a secret interest in it which it was unutterably repugnant to him to feel.  He tried to resume the conversation with his friend, and to lead it to other topics.  The effort was useless.  In despite of himself, he returned to the one fatal subject of the struggle that was now close at hand.

“How many times must they go round this inclosure,” he inquired, “before the race is ended?”

Mr. Speedwell turned toward a gentleman who was approaching them at the moment.  “Here is somebody coming who can tell us,” he said.

“You know him?”

“He is one of my patients.”

“Who is he?”

“After the two runners he is the most important personage on the ground.  He is the final authority—­the umpire of the race.”

The person thus described was a middle-aged man, with a prematurely wrinkled face, with prematurely white hair and with something of a military look about him—­brief in speech, and quick in manner.

“The path measures four hundred and forty yards round,” he said, when the surgeon had repeated Sir Patrick’s question to him.  “In plainer words, and not to put you to your arithmetic once round it is a quarter of a mile.  Each round is called a ‘Lap.’  The men must run sixteen Laps to finish the race.  Not to put you to your arithmetic again, they must run four miles—­the longest race of this kind which it is customary to attempt at Sports like these.”

“Professional pedestrians exceed that limit, do they not?”

“Considerably—­on certain occasions.”

“Are they a long-lived race?”

“Far from it.  They are exceptions when they live to be old men.”

Mr. Speedwell looked at Sir Patrick.  Sir Patrick put a question to the umpire.

“You have just told us,” he said, “that the two young men who appear to-day are going to run the longest distance yet attempted in their experience.  Is it generally thought, by persons who understand such things, that they are both fit to bear the exertion demanded of them?”

“You can judge for yourself, Sir.  Here is one of them.”

He pointed toward the pavilion.  At the same moment there rose a mighty clapping of hands from the great throng of spectators.  Fleetwood, champion of the North, decorated in his pink colors, descended the pavilion steps and walked into the arena.