At the same moment a coach-and-four swept in sight, driven by a man in a whitey-brown coat and stiff furry hat, with two grooms behind and a coachman next to him on the box.

It was heading straight for the club.
Every man was on his feet.
"By Jove!--it's Rutter.

Bowdoin!--Clayton!--here comes the colonel!" Again the horn gave out a long withering, wiry note ringing through the leaves and along the brick pavement, and the next instant the leaders were gathered up, the wheel-horses hauled taut, the hub of the front wheel of the coach halting within an inch of the horse-block of the club.
"Bravo, Rutter! Best whip in the county! Not a man in England could have done it better.

Let me help you down!" The colonel shook his head good-humoredly, rose in his seat, shifted a bunch of violets to his inner lapel, slipped off his driving-coat, threw it across the rail, dropped his whip in the socket, handed his heavy gloves to his groom, and slid gracefully to the sidewalk.

There he shook hands cordially with the men nearest him, excused himself for a moment until he had inspected his off leader's forefoot--she had picked up a stone on the way in from Moorlands--patted the nigh wheel-horse, stamped his own feet lustily as if to be sure he was all there, and, with a lordly bow to those about him, slowly mounted the steps of the club.
Harry had already risen to his feet and stood trembling, one hand clutching the iron railing that guarded the marble steps.