Rather he had held out for terms-the full honors of war, as became a man rising thirty, and prospective heir to more millions than he well knew what to do with. Two or three of the millions had taken shape in the Bay Park, the newest and finest of metropolitan courses. Hilary's father, a power alike on the turf and in the street, had built it, and controlled it absolutely-of course through the figment of an obedient jockey club.

A trace of sentiment, conjoined to a deal of pride, had made him revive an old-time stake-the Far and Near. It dated back to that limbo of racing things-"before the war." Banker Hilary's grandfather, a leader among gentlemen horsemen of that good day, had been of those who instituted it-a fact upon which no turf scribe had failed to dilate when telling the glories of the course.