George Manville Fenn (continued 2)

“It is to save yourself from shame, and me, a weak, helpless woman, from absolute ruin. Don’t live to see me sold up, stock, lock, and barrel. Why, Hilt, old man, I shall be as badly off as you. All my poor gee-gees, including the mare, knocked down, and poor me marrying some tyrant who will now and then write me a paltry cheque.”

“Ha, yes!” cried Sir Hilton, drawing himself up as rigidly as if he had been struck by a cataleptic seizure, while Lady Tilborough stared at him in horror, and, unseen by either, Sydney, armed with mounted fly-rod and creel, appeared at the window, stopped short, and looked in in astonishment.

“Ha!” ejaculated the baronet, again, drawing a deep breath, as he changed into the little, wiry, alert man, with a regular horsey look coming over his face, and tightening lips. “All right, Hetty,” he cried. “I’m on.”

“Hurrah!” cried Lady Tilborough, waving her whip about her head, and then stroking it down softly on first one and then on the other side of her old friend, before making believe to hold a pair of reins and work them about, jockey fashion. “Sir Hilton up—he’s giving her her head—look at her—away she goes—a neck—half a length—a length—two lengths! Sylphide wins! Sylphide wins—a bad second, and the field nowhere.”

“Ha!” breathed Sir Hilton, with his eyes flashing.

“What about your silk and cap?”

“All right.”

“Get ’em; come on, then, Hilt. I’ll gallop back to the paddock like the wind. There’ll be some scene-shifting there by now, and the bookies working the oracle, for the news was flying when I came away that my mare was to be scratched.”

“Ha,” cried Sir Hilton. “We’ll scratch ’em, old girl. She must—she shall win.”

“Three cheers for the gentleman-rider!”

“But my wife—my election?”

“What! Win the race, and you’ll win the seat, old man. Can’t you see?”

“Only the saving of the money we have on.”

“What! Not that the popular sporting rider who won the cup will win no end of votes to-day?”

“Ah, to be sure. Yes, of course,” cried Sir Hilton, excitedly. “Be off. I’ll join you at the hotel. My word! I seem to be coming to life again, Hetty. I can hear the buzzing of the crowd, the beating of the hoofs, the whistling of the wind, and see the swarming mob, and yelling of the thousand voices as the horse sweeps on with her long, elastic stride.”

“First past the post, Hilt.”

“Yes, first past the post.”

“Now, get all you want and drive over at once. I’ll go round to the stables, shout for Mark, and tell him the news. Then I’ll gallop back at once.”

The “at once” came faintly, for Lady Tilborough was already passing through the door.

“Phew!” whistled Sir Hilton. “By George! it sends a thrill through a man again. La Sylphide. My first old love.”

He stood motionless, staring after his visitor for a few moments, and then dashed through the opposite door.

The next moment a fishing-rod was thrust in at the window, dropped against the table, and Syd, with a creel hanging from its strap, vaulted lightly through into the room, to give vent to what sounded like the tardy echo of his uncle’s whistle.

“Phe-ew!” And then he said softly, with a grin of delight upon his features: “Auntie seems to be very much out. The ball’s begun to roll, gentlemen, so make your little game.”

Chapter Eight.

The Other Woman in the Case.

Syd Smithers ran to the door through which Lady Tilborough had passed, went through the hall to the other side of the house, and stopped to listen, just as there was the pattering of a pony’s feet, and he caught a glimpse of a dark-blue riding-habit, which was gone the next moment.

“Scissors!” he exclaimed. “Here, I must be on in this piece.”

He darted back into the hall, to come full butt upon Mark Willows.

“Hallo, Marky! What’s up now?”

“Dunno, sir. Message for the guv’nor, I think. Someun must be ill.”

“Awfully,” said the lad, and he grinned to himself as the man ran through the hall to the back staircase so as to get to his master’s dressing-room.

“I’m not such a fool as I look,” said Syd, as he entered the breakfast-room and stood in the middle picking up his fly-rod and thinking. “Marky’s going to the race. Driving, I bet. Well, I was going to nobble one of the ponies and ride, but I seem to see a seat alongside of the old man on the dogcart if I play my cards right. Oh, scissors!”

He started back for a step or two, and then ran to the window, to gaze out with starting eyes at a handsome-looking youth in a loose, baggy knickerbocker suit, mounted upon a bicycle, which he cleverly manipulated with one hand as he thrust open the swing gate, rode through, and escaped the rebound by pushing onward, riding right up to the window, leaping down with agility, leaning the bicycle against the wall, and, as if in imitation of Syd, vaulting lightly into the room to fling arms round the lad’s neck.

“Oh, Syd darling!” came from a pair of rosy lips, in company with a sob.

“Oh, Molly!” cried the boy, excitedly, beginning to repel his visitor, but ending by hugging her tightly in his arms.

“Got you again at last, dear,” cried the very boyishly-costumed young lady.

“Yes, but—oh, here’s a jolly shine!”

“Yes, dear, awful. But now I am come, don’t send me away from you. I feel as if we must part no more.”

“What are you talking about, pet?” cried the boy. “You must be off at once.”

“Oh, no, I shan’t. I’ve come, never to leave you any more.”

“You’re mad, Molly. A March hare isn’t in it with you. Auntie’ll be here directly.”

“Gammon! I met her ever so long ago, in the carriage and pair. She looked at me, and turned up her nose and sniffed.”

“Did she know you?”

“Not she. I should have been here before, only Lady Tilborough galloped by me on her pony, and I followed and saw her come in, and I’ve been hiding in the copse till she came away, for I knew she wouldn’t stop, as your aunt was out. As soon as she galloped off I came on. If it hadn’t been for that I should have been here before. So no fudge; everybody’s out, and we can talk. Oh, ain’t you jolly ready to get shut of me?”

“But everybody isn’t out, pussy. Uncle’s at home.”

“Is he? Come out, then. Let’s get into the woods.”

“But I can’t, dear.”

“Oh, why don’t you tell them? You must now.”

“I can’t, dear. It’s impossible yet. Oh, why did you come?”

“Because I wanted to see you pertickler.”

“But I was coming over to the races, and you’d have seen me then.”

“You got my telegram, then?”

“Telegram? No. What telegram?”

“The one I sent, saying I must see you. Yesterday.”

“No telegram came.”

“Then it’s got stuck, because there’s so many racing messages going. I sent one.”

“Then you must have been a little fool.”

“That I ain’t,” said the girl, petulantly.

“I told you not to write or send.”

“But I was obliged to, I tell you; and as you didn’t come to me in my trouble, I jumped on my bike and I’ve come to you.”

“But what for—what trouble?” cried the boy, stamping impatiently.

“Father’s got hold of your letters and found out everything, dear. You ought to have told ’em by now.”

“But—but—but,” stammered Syd, “where—what—what—oh! why did you come?”

“That’s what I keep telling you, dear. Dad’s half mad, and he’s coming over to see your aunt and uncle.”

“Coming here?”

“Yes, Syd love. He’d have come before if it hadn’t been for the race.”

“You must go back at once and stop him from coming here.”

“Stop him? Oh, Syd dear, you don’t know father.”

“Don’t know him? Oh, don’t I? Why, if he came here—oh, dear, dear, what a horrid mess! Well, I don’t know what to do.”

“Hadn’t I better stop here?”

“Hadn’t I better go and jump in the river? I wish you’d stopped at the Orphoean.”

“But I couldn’t, Syd; they’re rebuilding it.”

“Coming down here to this quiet place and making eyes at me in church till I didn’t know what I was about.”

“For shame, sir! It was you made eyes at me. I couldn’t help it.”

“Yes, you could. You’d got a church at Tilborough, and might have gone there.”

“Oh, what a shame, Syd! You know I did, and you went on writing letters to me, saying your aunt kept you at home, and that you couldn’t eat or sleep for longing to see my pretty face.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did, sir!” cried the girl, stamping her foot.

“I swear I didn’t.”

“Oh, you wicked wretch! Why, I’ve got six letters with it in.”

“What! You’ve kept my letters? I told you to burn ’em all.”

“Well, I haven’t. I’ve got ’em all tied up with red ribbon, the colour of my heart’s blood, all but those father found.”

“Yes, that’s it. If you’d done as I told you the old man would never have known.”

“Oh, wouldn’t he, Syd? Now say, if you dare, that you didn’t write to me to come over so that you might see my darling sweet face again.”

“Oh, I’m a gentleman, I am. I’m not going to tell any lies. If I said so, I must have been half cracked.”

“So you were—with love. I’ve got four letters that say so when you wanted me to go to London and get married.”

“Yes, I must have been mad, Molly. It’s been like a nightmare to me ever since. I wish I’d never seen you.”

“Oh, oh, oh!” began the pretty little bicyclist, beginning to sob. “Has it come to this so soon?”

“Don’t—don’t—don’t cry. The servants’ll hear you.”

“I—I—I can’t help it, Syd. Oh, dear, dear! You’ve broke my heart.”

“No, I haven’t, darling. There, there. Kisses’ll mend the place. There—and there—and there.”

“But you’re sorry you met me, and you don’t love me a bit. If I’d known what getting married meant you wouldn’t have caught me running off on the sly.”

“Don’t—don’t cry, I tell you,” cried the boy, passionately. “I didn’t mean it. You know that I love you awfully, only a man can’t help saying things when he’s in such a mess. You don’t know what my aunt is.”

“And you don’t know what my father is.”

“Oh, don’t I? An old ruffian,” added the boy to himself.

“Your aunt’s only a woman, and she got married herself.”

“Oh, yes, that’s true; but she isn’t like other women. She didn’t marry for love.”

“And I don’t wonder at it,” said the girl, dismally. “Love ain’t, as father says, all beer and skittles.”

“Don’t cry, I tell you,” said Syd, angrily, as the girl rubbed her eyes, boy-fashion, with the cuffs of her jacket, after a vain attempt to find her handkerchief.

“Well, ain’t I wiping away the tears, and got no—here, lend us yours, Syd.”

She snatched the boy’s handkerchief out of his breast-pocket, and had a comfortable wipe.

“You used to kiss my eyes dry once, when father had been rowing me, Syd.”

“Yes, and so I will now if you’ll go away, darling.”

“But I’m afraid, Syd. What with the letters, and the races and the people, and the book he’s making on Jim Crow he’s in such a temper that I thought he’d beat me.”

“What!” cried Syd, furiously, “strike my wife?”

“He didn’t, Syd dear; but I thought he would.”

“An old wretch! I’d kill him!”

“No, you wouldn’t, Syd dear,” said the girl, kittening up to him and rubbing her cheek up against his; “but it’s so nice of you to say so, and it makes me feel that you do love your little wifey ever so much.”

“Of course I do, soft, beautiful little owlet.”

“Then had I better stay?”

“What! Here?”

“Yes; I’m sure Lady Lisle’ll like me when she sees me. I’ll stop, and we’ll go down on our knees together, like they do at the Orphoean, and say: ‘Forgive us, mother—I mean, aunt dear—and it’ll be all right.’ ‘Bless you, my children.’ You know, Syd.”

“Look here, don’t put me in a passion again, or I shall be saying nastier things than ever.”

“But why, dear? What for? I am your little wife, you know.”

“Oh, yes, I know, Titty, but it’ll make such a horrid upset. Here, I’m expecting uncle down every moment.”

“Well, then, let’s both go down on our knees to him.”

“But he’s just off to the races.”

“Well, what of that? It wouldn’t take long, and it would be like rehearsing our parts ready to appear before your aunt.”

“No, no, no. Now, look here, I’ve got it. Wife must obey her husband. You swore you would.”

“Yes, dear, I did, but—”

“But be blowed! You’ve got to do it, Tit. Now, then, you hop on your bike.”

“But, Syd, there you go again.”

“Hold your tongue, or how am I to teach you your part?”

“Very well,” said the girl, stifling a sob.

“You told me just now that your father’s making up a book on Jim Crow.”

The girl used the handkerchief, stuffed it back in her boy-husband’s pocket, and nodded rather sulkily.

“What’s he doing that for?”

“Because the other—La Sylphide’s scratched.”

“That she isn’t. She’s going to run.”

“No. Josh Rowle’s down with D.T.”

“That don’t matter. She’s going to run and win. You’ve got to go back and dress for the race. You can’t go like that. There’d be too much chaff on the course, and I’m not going to have my wife show up like this on the stands.”

“No, dear. I’ve got a new frock—lovely.”

“Well, look sharp and run back, and I’ll come over in the dogcart with uncle, and come straight to your dad and give him a tip that will put him in a good temper.”

“You will, Syd?” cried the girl, joyfully. “And confess all?”

“Every jolly bit. Quick! Kiss! Cut.”

La Sylphide, of the Orphoean, Dudley Square, London, was quick as lightning. She kissed like a wife who loved her juvenile lord, and she “cut”. In other words, devoid of slang, she vaulted out of the window, stagily, as she had been taught by a ballet-master, sprang on to her bicycle, and went off like the wind; but rather too late, for the door opened, and Sir Hilton hurried in, closely followed by Mark Willows, bearing a large brown leather Gladstone bag.

Chapter Nine.

Syd Plays Trumps—and Wins.

As Sir Hilton entered, Syd started from the window, whistling loudly to drown the click, click, click, clack of the swing gate, shuffled his creel round to his back, and seized the fly-rod, wincing though, and bracing himself up as he saw his uncle staring after the flying figure.

“Here, you, sir,” he cried; “what chap’s that?”

“Schoolfellow of mine, uncle.”

“You fibbing young dog, how dare you tell me that lie! Why, it’s a girl, and I’ve seen her before somewhere.”

“A girl, uncle, in knickerbockers?”

“Yes, sir, a girl in knickerbockers. None of your sham innocency with me. Here, I know; it’s La Sylphide.”

“La what, uncle?”

“Mary Ann—old Simpkins’s daughter. That Tilborough barmaid girl. Here, speak up. What does this mean? Never mind; I can’t stop to talk to you now, but—go and slip that bag into the dogcart, Mark, and see that it’s ready.”

“All ready, Sir Hilton. I told Jim to be sharp, and I heard the wheels.”

“That’s right. But you saw, Mark. Wasn’t that Miss Simpkins?”

“Didn’t see her face, Sir Hilton; only her back.”

“Well, never mind now, I’ve no time. But look here, sir, I’ll have this over when I come back, and if I find that you—you shrimp of a boy—have been carrying on a flirtation with that saucy music-hall hussy, I’ll wale your jacket with one of the joints of that fishing-rod. A boy like you! What’s that you say?”

“No, you won’t, uncle.”

“What!” roared Sir Hilton.

“If you touch me I’ll tell aunt of the game you’re carrying on with Lady Tilborough.”

Mark said afterwards to Jane that the guv’nor looked as if you could have knocked him down with a feather.

But the baronet recovered himself.

“What!” he cried. “Lady Tilborough? Because that lady happens to call here when your aunt is out, you dare to—to insinuate—you vile young viper—that—that—”

“Here, tit for tat, uncle. I’m not a baby,” said the boy. “I know. Gammon! Lady T. don’t visit with aunt, and I can see your little game.”

“My little game, sir!” stuttered Sir Hilton.

“Yes; you’re carrying on some game with her ladyship about the races. You told aunt you’d given up all racing.”

“Of course, sir!” cried Sir Hilton.

“Yes, and Dr Jack Granton’s been here to take your instructions this morning; Lady Tilborough rides over to see you on the sly as soon as auntie’s out; and Marky’s had orders to get the dogcart ready and pack your traps. Why, uncle,” shouted the boy as a sudden idea glanced through his sharp young mind, “you’re going to ride!”

“Hush!” shouted the guilty man, seizing the boy and clapping a hand over his mouth. “Silence, you wicked young scoundrel!”

Mark rushed out with the bag to hide the guffaw ready to burst forth.

Then there was a short struggle, and the boy got his mouth free and began to roar with laughter, as he gazed merrily in his uncle’s face.

“Here’s a game!” he cried. “Bowled out, nunky. Look here, I won’t split. I want to go to the races too.”

“How dare you say anything about races, sir!”

“There, chuck it up, uncle. I’m a man of the world too. Give me a lift to the race, and shut your eyes and I’ll shut mine.”

“You treacherous young viper!”

“Oh, no, I’m not. Don’t you tell about Molly Simpkins—ahem!—coming here, and I won’t say a word to auntie about Lady T. and the races.”

“I’ll make no such bond with you, you dog!”

“Oh, yes, you will, uncle; and, look here, I haven’t done yet. You’re going to give me a fiver.”

“Money to bribe you? No!” pried Sir Hilton, firmly.

“No, to put on the winning horse. I want the right tip. What is it?”

“I’ll make no such infamous contracts with you, sir,” cried Sir Hilton, furiously, “and I’m going out on business—business of vital importance.”

“Of course, uncle. I understand,” said the boy, mockingly.

“And I’m not going to leave you behind to make mischief between me and your aunt. Come along; I shall take you with me in the dogcart I have waiting.”

“All right, uncle. I know.”

“And as a prisoner, sir.”

“That’s your sort, uncle.”

“You wicked young wretch! Come along, quick!”

“Quick as quicksilver, uncle,” cried the boy, grinning, as, evading his uncle’s clutch, he thrust his hand through his elder’s arm. “Here, I may as well put the pot on as it seems to be something extra good, so you’ll have to make it two fivers, uncle, and two make ten.”

Sir Hilton uttered a wicked word totally unfitted for the ears of youth standing in such close relationship to him, and a few minutes later the dogcart—with uncle and nephew in front, and Mark grinning to himself as he sat behind pressing the bag so that it could not drop off—spun out of the yard gate, and off and away by the back lanes for the Tilborough road, now pretty lively with vehicles of all sorts, all bound in the same direction.

Fate plays strange pranks!

Chapter Ten.

How Jane Listened and Told.

Just at the same time Lady Lisle’s barouche was getting very close to the swing gates and the carriage drive of the Denes, with her ladyship leaning back.

“Was not that a vehicle of some kind leaving the stable yard, Thomas?” she said to the coachman.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Could you see what it was?”

“Not quite, my lady, but I think it was ours, with Black Nelly in the sharps, for I heard one of the clicks she gives when she oversteps with her off hind hoof.”

Lady Lisle wondered, and started the next minute when she heard another click.

But this time it was the latch of the swing gate, half-drowned by the carriage wheels on the drive leading to the front door.

Then she fell to wondering again, and alighted to enter the house.

Just as she stepped down, a telegraph-boy came up on his bicycle, smiling, and ready to touch his cap, as he held out to her one of the familiar tinted envelopes, with prophetic notions about Christmas-boxes in the future.

“A message!” she said, changing colour for the moment, as thoughts of the possibilities so often hidden beneath one of those official envelopes crossed her mind.

“Yes, m’lady. Any answer?”

As head of the establishment of the Denes, bought and paid for with the money which formed her dowry, she took the message as a matter of course, and opened it without glancing at the direction, dropped the envelope on to the stone steps, and the pleasant breeze whisked it in among the shrubs.

She had turned pale on receiving the telegram. As she read it she turned pink on finding it was a private communication not intended for her eyes, and then scarlet with indignation and wrath.

“Why, this is dated yesterday,” she cried angrily.

“Yes, m’lady. We had such a lot o’ racing messages, my Gee couldn’t get ’em all through. But we’ve got a special gal on, and it’ll be all right now.”

“No answer!” said Lady Lisle, sharply, and she hurried into the hall, and from thence into the breakfast-room, to stand with temples throbbing, reading the message again—

“All found out at last. Do pray tell her ladyship. She won’t be very hard upon us if you confess everything. Not sorry, after all, for it must have been known soon. Do, do come over, and face it out with me. Pray, pray come.—La Sylphide.”

“Oh-h-h-h!” moaned the poor woman, in a quivering sob; and she stood rigid for a few minutes, crushing the message in her hand, suffering agonies from the awakening for the first time in her life of the passion known as jealousy. It filled her, so to speak, and overmastered everything. There could be no other possibility—no doubt—the demon had her in its grasp, and everything now had some bearing upon the message. All passages in her life during the past few months tended towards proving that she had been basely, cruelly deceived.

Hilton had gradually been growing colder and more indifferent; he had grown moody and thoughtful. It had struck her that he was careless about the Parliamentary business, and had not seemed to be grateful when, in a mingled spirit of generosity and vanity, she, the wife to whom he had sworn fidelity, had placed four thousand pounds to his credit in the bank.

Here was the reason.

“Stop!” she cried mentally. “I will not be rash.”

She looked at the telegram again, read it, and then noted that the postmark was Tilborough; and she turned it over to examine the envelope, which she had dropped—she did not recall in her half-crazy state when or where.

But it was enough—the boy had given it to her, and it could be for no one else.

“Oh, Hilton, Hilton!” she groaned. “Has it come to this? A liaison with some low-born, base creature. Kept with my money. This is why you have always been so short; this is why you have always been degrading yourself by asking for more. ‘All found out at last. Do pray tell her ladyship. She won’t be very hard upon us!’ Indeed!” she said, half-aloud, and through her hard-set teeth. “Of course not. Oh-h-h! I could have overlooked a relapse into his old gambling vice, but this—this baseness! The villain—the villain!”

“Who is it?” she muttered, reading again, “La Sylphide. Some French creature, dwelling in that nest of infamy, Tilborough. Why! Oh, great heavens! That wretched racing woman—that widow! She must have been coming here to see him this morning when we passed. Oh, I see it all now. The telegram—dated yesterday—he did not join her according to her request, and she had the daring effrontery to come after him here. That is it. ‘All found out at last!’ What could be all found out at last? Oh—oh—oh!”

Lady Lisle covered her face with her hands, the coloured paper crackling softly as it touched her temples, making her start as if it had stung her burning skin, and dash it down upon the carpet and stamp upon it in disgust.

But it was a proof of her husband’s infidelity, she thought, and she stooped and picked it up, wishing her fingers were the tongs, as she smoothed it out, doubled it, and held it ready for the interview about to take place.

“And so I am not to be very hard I am to condone everything. Well,” she added, with a bitter laugh which seemed to tear itself from her throbbing breast, “we shall see.”

She paused again, with her poor brain seeming to seethe with wildly jealous thoughts, every one garnished with cruel suspicions, and seeming to tell more and more against the culprit, till everything was in a whirl. But all the time she was suffering from the belief that she was seeing more and more clearly as the cruel moments glided on.

“Yes, I see it all now,” she cried passionately; “poor, weak, deluded, loving fool that I have been! Vile, treacherous wretch! Horrible creature! Yes, of course. A woman who is said to have refused offer after offer since her poor husband’s death. La Sylphide—of course, as if I had not heard that she bought a portion of Hilton’s stud when his horses were sold, and one was this Sylphide, whose name she dares to assume in her clandestine communications to him. Oh, how kind to me Fate has been! To think of it! I might have been a trusting victim for years—hoodwinked—blinded to their infamy. Ah! he shall find out what the weak, loving, confiding woman whom he has deceived can be.”

There was a very peculiar smile upon Lady Lisle’s handsome face as she crossed to the fireplace, to be met by Khan, the Persian cat, who descended from his ottoman, stretched himself, and made ready to give himself a comforting electric rub against his mistress’s silk dress, but to his astonishment was—not kicked, but thrust violently aside by a boot, to stand staring, while her ladyship continued her march.

She did not rush, but went to the bell deliberately.

“Yes, I will be firm and calm,” she said, half-aloud, and the smile grew more strained and peculiar. It was such a look as Medea of old might have worn when a certain trouble of classic fame had arisen with a gentleman named Jason; but she dragged at the bell-handle in a way which brought Jane in a hurry to the room.

“I will not seek him in his study,” muttered the poor woman, tragically. “I will have him fetched to me here.”

“Your ladyship rang?” said Jane, looking at her mistress wonderingly.

“Yes. Go and—no, stop. Where is Master Sydney?”

“I think he has gone fishing, my lady. I saw him with his rod and basket. Oh, yes, my lady, I remember, he asked me to cut him some sandwiches.”

Jane’s tongue wanted to say a few words about the flask and sherry, but she had a sort of sneaking liking for the saucy young rascal, and she suppressed that.

“To be sure, I remember,” said Lady Lisle, quite cold and calm now—upon the surface. “Go and ask Sir Hilton to join me here.”

“Sir Hilton, my lady?”

“Yes. Did I not speak plainly?” said her ladyship, cuttingly.

“Yes, my lady, but I thought you had forgotten again. Sir Hilton’s gone out.”

“Gone out?”

This came like a volcanic burst through the calm envelope.

“Yes, my lady.”

The eruption was checked, and the calm aspect closed up, as the bright envelope of the sun eliminates a sun-spot at times.

“Has he—er—gone fishing with Master Sydney?”

“No, my lady; I didn’t see, for I was doing your room. But he ordered the dogcart, Mark said, and they’ve gone together.”

“Where did Mark say they were going?”

Lady Lisle was losing her calmness at this check to her plans.

Jane was silent.

“Why do you not speak, girl?” came in sternly tragic tones.

“Please, my lady, I’d rather not.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to get a fellow-servant into trouble.”

“Speak out at once, girl. No fellow-servant of yours will meet with injustice while I am mistress of the Denes.”

“Of course not, my lady.”

“Tell me then, at once, what more Sir Hilton’s groom and valet said.”

“Well, my lady, if I must I must; but it wasn’t Mark’s fault.”

“Certainly not. Go on.”

“Mark said he thought they were going over to the races, but he was not sure.”

“H’m!” sighed Lady Lisle, and then to herself: “Tilborough—the telegram—an excuse.”

Jane backed towards the door, and had already taken the handle, when, after a fierce internal struggle with the jealous rage within her, Lady Lisle said in a slow, would-be careless way: “Did anyone call while I was out?”

“Yes, my lady; Dr Granton.”

“That was while I was away with the pony-carriage, Jane. I returned and saw him.”

“Of course; so you did, my lady.”

“I meant since.”

“Yes, my lady; after you’d gone in the b’rouche. Lady Tilborough came on horseback.”

“To call on me?”

“She asked for Sir Hilton, my lady.”

“Ha!” ejaculated the jealous woman, through the envelope.

“But she said something, my lady,” cried Jane, womanlike, grasping her mistress’s feelings and eager to put matters right. “Ah, what did she say?” came like lightning.

“She said you wasn’t at home, my lady, for she met you in the road.”

“The brazen deception!” said Lady Lisle to herself. “A cloak of cunning to try and hide her sin.”

“She did not stop very long, my lady, but went off before I could get to the door. I think she wanted to see Dr Granton.”

“Of course,” cried her mistress, with the calm envelope now rent to tatters, and the agony of passion carrying all before it. “And what then?”

Jane was silent.

“I said what then? Speak out, girl; I command you!”

“I beg pardon, my lady,” stammered the girl, growing fluttered before the fierce gaze and losing her presence of mind completely, and wildly misconstruing the stern question.

For maddened by her feelings, Lady Lisle took three or four quick steps towards the girl and caught her by the wrist. “You are keeping something back,” she cried. “How dare you! Answer me at once, and tell me all you know.”

Jane burst out sobbing. “Don’t, my lady; don’t,” she cried. “You hurt my arm.”

“Then speak out—at once.”

“But I don’t like to, my lady. I’m very sorry for you; I am, indeed, but—but—but pr’aps it mayn’t be so bad as you think, and—and—and—I don’t like to make mischief.”

The girl’s genuine suffering had a peculiar effect upon Lady Lisle.

“Thank you, Jane,” she said sadly. “I have always tried to be a good mistress to you.”

“You have, my lady, though you’ve always been a bit ’aughty,” cried Jane, through her sobs and tears, “and I’d do anything to help you now you’re in such grief.”

“Tell me, then, all—all, my good girl.”

“Well, my lady, I was in the room over here—the blue room, my lady.”

“Yes, yes; go on.”

“And I happened to be at the window, when I saw, as I thought, a boy come up quick on his bicycle, slip in through the gate, and come up.”

“To the front door. Yes, yes, with another telegraphic message?”

“No, my lady; that’s what I thought, but he—he only come to the window here, and got in.”

“Got in?”

“Yes, my lady; for I reached out and there was the bicycle leaning up against the creepers and the roses, and I could hear voices, and someone sobbing, and—and—”

Jane’s mouth shut with a snap.

“Why do you stop?” said Lady Lisle, excitedly.

“I don’t—don’t like to tell you any more, my lady. I don’t—I don’t indeed.”

“Jane!”

“Pray don’t make me tell, my lady,” sobbed the girl; “it will hurt you so.”

“I must bear it, Jane,” said the poor woman, hoarsely. “I must know the truth.”

Jane gave a gulp, as if she was swallowing something, and her voice changed almost to a whisper, as she went on: “I could hear whispering, my lady, and—and—and—Oh! don’t make me tell, my lady.”

“I must know, Jane,” cried the quavering questioner, in a tone which completely mastered all further hesitation.

“There was kissing, my lady, quite plain, and she—”

“She?”

“Yes, my lady—began sobbing and crying, and him whispering to her not to make such a noise or she’d be heard, and calling her dear and darling, I think, but it was all so low.”

Lady Lisle groaned.

“And it went on ever so long, my lady,” continued Jane, whose hesitation was turned now in her excitement to volubility; “and then, as I stood there at the window listening, she jumped out, and I drew my head in; but I peeped out once more and she—”

“She?” gasped Lady Lisle, again.

“Oh, yes, my lady, it was a she, of course, for I just caught sight of her face as she turned to hold the gate back when she went through on her bicycle. It was a girl in national costume”—Jane meant rational—“and she was very little and very pretty and one side of her hair had come half down.”

“Oh!” groaned Lady Lisle, closing her eyes and reeling towards the nearest chair; but she would not have reached it if the girl with clever alertness had not caught her round the waist and saved her from a fall.

“Oh, don’t—don’t faint, my lady!—Pray—pray hold up!”

“I shall be better directly, Jane,” said the poor woman, hoarsely. “Let me sit still a few moments. Ha!” she sighed. “I am coming round. That giddiness is passing away.”

“Let me fetch you your salts, my lady.”

“No, Jane; I shall not need them. There, I am growing strong again. Yes, I can go on now.”

“Go on, my lady?”

“Yes, girl. Go into the hall and ring the coachman’s bell.”

“Yes, my lady; but oh! please forgive me—what are you going to do?”

“To do, Jane?”

“Yes, my lady. Don’t do anything rash.”

“Oh, no; I shall do nothing rash, Jane,” said the lady, smiling sadly.

“I mean, don’t you go and run away to your father, because perhaps it ain’t so bad as we think.”

“Not so bad as we think, Jane?” said Lady Lisle, drearily.

“No, my lady. You see, it might all be a mistake.”

“Yes, Jane,” said her mistress, looking desolately in the girl’s eyes, while a piteous smile came upon her lips; “as you say, it might all be a mistake. But go now, and do as I bid you.”

“Ye-e-es, my lady.”

“Ring, and when the coachman comes tell him to bring the carriage round as quickly as he can.”

“But, oh, my lady,” sobbed Jane, and she caught and kissed her mistress’s hands one after the other, “don’t, pray don’t! You are going to run away and leave him, and my mother said a lady ought never to do that unless he’s been very, very bad.”

“I am not going away from my home, Jane,” said Lady Lisle, growing firmer now. “Tell Thomas I want him to drive me over to Tilborough at once.”

“To the races, my lady?”

“No,” was the reply, firmly given; and then, as the girl glided out of the door, rubbing her eyes the while, the stricken woman repeated the word aloud: “No,” and added thoughtfully: “I have been deceived about Lady Tilborough. Now to trace out my husband and that other wretch!”

Chapter Eleven.

Busy Times at Tilborough.

The Tilborough Arms had, from its position in the famous old racing town, always been a house to be desired by licenced victuallers, who mostly gain their living by supplying a very small amount of victuals, and drink out of all proportion, to guests; but in the hands of Sam—probably christened Samuel, but the complete name had long died out—Sam Simpkins, the inn had become an hotel of goodly proportions, where visitors could be provided with comfortable bedrooms off the gallery and snug breakfasts and dinners in suitable places, always supposing that they were on “the Turf.” For Sam Simpkins had prospered, not only with the old inn, but in other ways. He did a bit of farming, bred horses in the meadows where the thick, succulent waterside grasses grew, and always had a decent bit of blood on hand for sale, or to run in some one or another of the small races.

Sam was known, too, as a clever trainer, who had for a long time been in the service of that well-known sportsman, Sir Hilton Lisle. He had transferred his services when Sir Hilton went from the horses to the dogs, and did a good deal of training business for Lady Tilborough, till there was a bit of a tiff—something about money matters, it was said—when her ladyship and he parted company, but remained good friends. Then, to use his own expression, he went on his own hook, where he wriggled a great deal between the crooked and the square. But still he prospered, and grew what his friends called a thoroughly warm party.

The fact was that Sam was a regular gatherer-up of unconsidered trifles, not above taking a great deal of pains to make a pound, and he made it, too, wherever there was no chance of making a hundred or more.

He never lost a chance, though he lost his wife when his daughter was at a dangerous age. And when a well-known sporting member of the Orphoean Music-Hall—I beg its pardon, Temple of Music and the Arts—was staying at Tilborough so as to be present at the races, something was settled one evening over pipes and several glasses of brandy and water.

“Take my word for it, Sammy, old man—I ought to know—there’s money in her, and if you’ll let her come up to me and the missus we’ll put her through. She’s a little beauty.”

Miss Mary Ann Simpkins, only lately from a finishing school where young ladies were duly taught all accomplishments, was, in her finished state, newly at home, where she was promoted to attending upon, and attracting, the better-class customers in the old-fashioned bar-parlour, where she looked like a rose among the lemons, heard of the old professional friend’s proposal, declared that it was just what she would like, and soon after went to the professional and his missus.

There she studied, as it was termed; in other words, she went under professors of singing, dancing and dramatic action, who completely altered her style in a few months, so that she was soon able to make her début at the Orphoean, where, to use the theatrical term, she immediately “caught on,” and became a popular star, thoroughly proving that the P.F. was right as to there being money in her.

In fact, “all London,” of a class, flocked to see her and hear her, and she made so much money for the place of entertainment that its proprietary determined to rebuild, add, and decorate as richly as possible while “La Sylphide,” as she was called in the bills, was “resting”; in other words, playing the little hostess of the Tilborough Arms, attracting customers and bringing more money into her father’s till. People of all degrees were attracted like moths to flutter round the brilliant little star. All made love, and the most unlikely of all who seized the opportunity of being served by the clever little maiden was believed in and won.

On that busy special day, when the town was crowded and the Tilborough Arms was at its busiest, Sam Simpkins, a heavy, red-faced, bullet-headed, burly, rather brutal-looking personage, a cross between a butcher and prize-fighter, with a rustic, shrewd, farmer-like look thrown in, sat in one of the seats in his fox head, brush, and sporting-print adorned hall, cross-legged so as to make a desk of his right knee, upon which he held a big betting-book, wherein, after a good deal of chewing of the end of a lead-pencil, he kept on making entries, giving some order between the efforts of writing by shouting into the bar-parlour, the kitchen, or through a speaking-tube connected with extensive stables.

It was an attractive-looking, old-fashioned place, that great hall, with its flight of stairs leading up into a gallery showing many chamber-doors, its glazed-in bar-parlour, and its open windows looking out on to the common and racecourse, quite alive on that bright summer’s morning with all the tag-rag and bob-tail of a race day, as well as with the many lovers of the race from town and country who had come to enjoy the sport.

“Here, ’Lizbeth,” shouted the landlord, reaching back so as to send his hoarse voice well into the bar-parlour, “ain’t yer young missus come back yet?”

“Yes, sir, and gone up to dress,” came back.

“Humph! Time she had,” growled the man, wetting the lead of his pencil. “I dunno what she wanted to go out biking for on a morning like this. I’d ha’ biked her, if I’d seen her going.”

There was an interval of writing. Then more grumbling—

“Might have attended to the business a bit as she is at home, and me up to my eyes in work. Humph! That’s right.”

Another entry was made.

“Blest if I can recklect so well as I used. Blow bikes! Why, they’ll be wanting to run races with ’em next, and—Mornin’, doctor; ain’t seen yer for months.”

“Morning, Sam. No; I’ve been away with my regiment. Here, someone, S. and B.”

This to the attendants in the bar, where he stopped for a few minutes discussing the cooling drink, while behind the landlord’s back he made a few quick entries in his book with a metallic pencil.

“Dear old Hilt,” he said to himself. “I was just in time. Got on for him, so that he ought to be pretty warm by to-night. How’s the little star, Sam?” he cried, turning back.

“Oh, she’s all right, sir, thank ye.”

“You ought to be proud of her. She has taken all London by storm.”

“So I hear, sir. I am proud on her, for she’s as good as she is high.”

“That I’m sure she is, Sam; bright, clever, witty, and not a bit of harm in her, I’ll swear.”

“Right you are, sir. Sleep here to-night, sir?”

“Of course. I wired down.”

“I didn’t know, sir. Then, of course, it’s booked. Dine too, sir?”

“Can’t say, Sam. I hope I shall be engaged. If I’m not I shall throw myself on Miss Simpkins’s mercy.”

“You’ll be all right, sir. I’ve laid in plenty o’ grub.”

The doctor nodded, and as the landlord went on studying his betting-book he unstrapped and took out his race-glass, wiped the lenses thoughtfully, took a look through, after careful focussing, and put it back in the case.

“Bless her!” he said to himself. “She’s the dearest little witch that ever breathed. She ought to have been here by now. They haven’t seen her at the paddock, and I can’t get a peep at La Sylphide. I believe they haven’t brought her up yet. Well, no wonder, considering her temper. Josh Rowle knows what he’s about.”

He took out his glass again, focussed it, and had a good look through it at the common, alive with horse, foot and artillery, in the shape of carriages laden with ammunition, loaded bottles ready to go off included.

“Does she do it to lead me on?” thought the doctor. “I wish I wasn’t such a coward. But, there, if the Sylph wins I shall feel independent, and can go at her without thinking I’m a money-hunter. Then, if shell ask me to dinner, which I think she will, the wine will be in and the wit may be out, but I’ll pop as well as her champagne, and know the worst. By Jove!”

He closed his glass suddenly, for, brightly and fashionably dressed, Lady Tilborough passed close to the window and stopped his view of the common. The next minute she was entering the hall.

Chapter Twelve.

The Floating Cloud.

“Oh, there you are, Simpkins! You must make room for my carriage. Order them to give my coachman a separate stable. Lock up. Ah, Dr Granton, I thought you’d come and see my mare win.”

“I came down on purpose to see you, Lady Tilborough,” was the reply, given with a warm pressure of the hand. “But, of course, I am longing to see your mare carry all before her.”

“Thanks, doctor, thanks,” said the lady, with a meaning smile which made the doctor thrill. “Yes, I mean to win. There are some nice people staying at the Court. I’ll introduce you on the stand, if I have time. But you’ll come over afterwards and dine?”

“Oh, thank you, yes,” cried the doctor, flushing with pleasure. “So good of you. Can I do anything? Let me see that your horses are properly put up.”

“Oh, no, no, no, the coachman will see to that, I could not think of troubling you.”

“Trouble?” said the doctor, with what was intended for an intense gaze full of meaning. “Don’t talk of trouble, Lady Tilborough, when you know.”

“Yes, I know that I am full of anxiety about my mare, and in no humour for listening to nonsense, so hold your tongue. Oh, here’s that dreadful man again.”

For the visitor to the Denes of that morning, minus his little white mongrel, but flourishing his pack of race-cards, suddenly appeared at the window with: “Success to your ladyship, and may yer win every race! You’ll buy a few c’rect cards of Dandy Dinny, the only original purveyor of—”

“Get out, you scoundrel!” cried the doctor, fiercely.

“Cert’ny, my noble doctor; but you’ll buy a c’rect card of—”

He did not finish, for the doctor threw a coin quickly out of the window, and the wretched-looking lout rushed to field it, before he was outpaced.

“Poor wretch!” said Lady Tilborough. “But that was very nice of you. But there, don’t follow me—now.”

She walked off quickly, and the doctor drew a quick breath.

“Bless her! She never spoke to me like that before.”

He turned, full of elation, to find the landlord, with his pencil between his lips, watching him keenly.

“I shan’t dine here, Simpkins,” he said.

“Very good, sir. So I heered.”

“Splendid day for the race.”

“Yes, sir, and the ground’s lovely. Made good book, sir?”

“Oh, yes, capital.”

“Glad to see her ladyship bears it so well.”

“Bears it? Oh, she never gives way to excitement. She’d be cool, even if she felt she would lose.”

“Oh, yes, sir; I know well enough what spirit she has.”

“Rather a big field, though, Sam.”

“Yes, sir; but there’s only one as can stay.”

“Exactly. La Sylphide, of course. By George! I’ll take the liberty of making her namesake a present.”

“Very good of you, sir, but she’s out of it.”

“What?”

“Jim Crow’s the horse, sir. First favourite now.”

“Bah!” cried the doctor.

“What! Ain’t you heard, sir?”

“Heard! Heard what?”

“Lady Tilborough’s mare won’t run.”

“You don’t mean it?” cried the doctor, turning pale.

“Fact, sir. I never plays tricks with gents I knows. Honesty’s the best policy, sir; and you know as you can trust Sam Simpkins.”

“But—but—Good heavens! What does it mean? Lady Tilborough never said a word. Then that’s why I couldn’t see any sign of her people down by the paddock.”

“That’s it, sir.”

“But why? What’s the reason?”

“No jock, sir. Ladyship’s man’s down—acciden’, killed, or ill, or some’at. Anyhow, he can’t ride the mare, and as you well know, nobody else can.”

“Oh!” groaned the doctor.

“Why, you hain’t put anything on her, have you, sir?”

“I have, Sam, heavily, and for a friend as well.”

“Then you’re in the wrong box, sir, and no mistake. That comes o’ gents going on their own hook instead o’ taking a honest agent’s advice.”

“Give me yours now, then, Sam, and I shall be for ever grateful.”

“Anything to oblige an old patron, sir.—All right, I’m a-coming,” cried the trainer, in answer to a call from one of the servants, who came out of a side door. “What is it?”

“Wanted by one of the men from the stables.”

“All right. Here, you look out and hedge all you can, sir. Jim Crow’s your game.”

“The dark horse,” groaned the doctor, wildly; “he must be black. Ah, poor darling, there she is!”

For Lady Tilborough came back, in her quick, eager way. “Ah, doctor, still here?” she cried. “Where’s that scoundrel Simpkins? Hallo! What’s the matter? Bad news?”

“Yes, horrible, I didn’t know. It’s ruin for me; but I don’t care; I’m in agony about you and the losses it means to you.”

“What!” cried the lady, turning pale. “Is there another crux?”

“Yes,” cried the doctor, catching her hands, and the genuine tears stood in his eyes.

“Don’t shilly-shally, man,” she cried angrily. “Out with it, and get it over.”

“La Sylphide!”

“What about her? Some accident?”

“Yes. I’d have given anything not to be the bearer of such hideous news.”

“Let me have it at once, and I’ll bear it like a woman, doctor. I’m not one of your hysterical sort.”

“No; the bravest lady I ever met.”

“Then let me have it. What has the mare done?”

“Thrown your jockey or something. He’s half-killed, I believe.”

“Oh, bosh! Stale news. You mean Josh Rowle?”

“Yes. How can you bear it like that?”

“Bear it?” cried the lady. “You should have seen me a couple of hours ago. Mad, doctor, mad.”

“While now—”

“Merry as a lark, man; I’ve got another rider.”

“You have? Oh, thank goodness! Thank goodness! Don’t take any notice of me, Lady Tilborough. I was quite knocked over.”

“On account of my losing?”

“Well, yes. I was heavily on too, for myself and poor Hilt Lisle.”

“Oh, you did the business for him then? I knew he was in to the tune of four thou’.”

“But your man, Lady Tilborough? Can you trust him to ride the mare?”

“Trust him! Why, it’s Hilt himself.”

“What! Hilt going to ride the mare?”

“Yes, my dear boy; and he’ll save the race.”

“Lady Tilborough, you’ve made me a happy man,” cried the doctor.

“Have I?” she said drily, and with a merry look in her eye. “Well, be happy, for I don’t think you’ll lose, Granton,” she said softly. “I can read men pretty well. Long experience. That was real. You were cut up at the thought of my losing.”

“Cut up?” he cried earnestly and naturally. “It made me forget poor Hilt and myself.”

“Thank you, dear boy,” she said quietly. “I never thought you so true a friend before.”

She glanced at her watch.

“Time’s on the wing,” she said. “Hilt Lisle ought to be here by now; he was to meet me at the hotel, but I must have a look at the mare.”

“May I go with you?”

“If you wish to,” was the reply, and joy began a triumphant dance in the young doctor’s brain, for there was a something in the way in which those words were uttered. None of the light badinage, laughter and repartee, for Lady Tilborough seemed to have suddenly turned thoughtful and subdued, as she passed out, unconscious of the fact that the trainer had entered the hall and was watching her keenly.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, following up Granton.

“Oh, bother! Well, what is it?”

“Sorry to see her ladyship so down in the mouth now. You should put her up to a bit of hedging on Jim Crow.”

Granton gave him a peculiar look, full of perfect content, and laughed aloud.

“Moonshine!” he cried, and dashed after the sporting countess.

Chapter Thirteen.

“My Daughter and my Son-in-Law.”

“Moonshine!” said the trainer, with a puzzled look after the departing doctor. “Laughing like an idiot. Rum how it takes different people. Here’s my stepping lady looking as if she meant to take pyson in her five o’clock tea, the doctor regularly off his chump, and I dessay someone’ll go home by train to-night, load a revolver, and—click! All over. Well, they shouldn’t meddle with what they don’t understand. Reg’lar gambling, and they deserve all they get. Hullo! You here again?”

This to the pink-coated tout, who came smiling and cringing up to the door.

“Brought yer a tip. Something good, Mr Simpkins, sir.”

“Yah! Rubbish! My book’s chock.”

“But it’s the tippiest tip, sir, as ever was,” whispered the man from behind his hand. “Worth a Jew’s eye.”

“I’m fly, Dinny,” said the trainer, with a wink. “Tell it to some one else. I don’t trade to-day.”

“You’ll repent it, Mr Sam, sir,” whispered the man, earnestly, and with many nods and jerks of the head, as he kept looking about furtively to see that they were not overheard.

“Of course. All right,” said the trainer, contemptuously. “Down on your luck, eh, Dinny?”

“Terrible, sir.”

“Want a drink?”

The man smiled, and drew the back of a dirty hand across his cracked and fevered lips.

“Go round to the tap and say I sent you. Here, twist those cards round.”

The man obeyed promptly, and after placing the point of his black lead-pencil to his lips the trainer scrawled laboriously: “One drink.—S.S.”

“Used to be private bar—once,” muttered the man, with an eager, thirsty look in his bleared and bloodshot eyes.

“Thank ye, Mr Sam, sir, and good luck to yer. My word, what a beauty she have growed, sir! Lady T.’s nothing to her.”

“Right you are, Dinny,” said the trainer, smiling proudly, as his child came tripping down the staircase as light, flowery, and iridescent in colours as a clever, fashionable modiste and milliner could make her, regardless of expense, after being ordered to produce something “spiff” for the races. “She’ll take the shine out of some of ’em.”

“Shine, sir!” cried the tout, in his genuine admiration of the pretty, rosy-faced, rustic little beauty. “Why, she’ll put ’em out like a silver ’stinguisher. Thank ye, Mr Sam, sir,” he continued, as in his satisfaction at the praise and the pleasure felt over an anticipated grand coup, the trainer’s heart opened, and he slipped a florin into the tout’s hand. “You wouldn’t buy my tip, sir, but I’ll give it to the little gal I’ve knowed since she was as high as one of your quart pots. Good luck to you, my beauty! You lay gloves or guineas on your pretty namesake—La Sylphide’s the winner. You’re clippers, both on you, that you are. Tlat!”

The last was a smack of the lips as the tout went from the door on his way to the tap, and in anticipation of the draught that would cool his parching throat.

“Nasty old man!” cried the little bouquet of a body, exhaling scent all round, as she tripped to the trainer’s side, raised herself on tiptoe, with her delicate, rose-coloured gloves on his shoulders, and gave him a couple of rapid kisses. “There, dad, shall I do?”

“Oh, yes, you’ll do,” said the trainer, grimly; “but don’t you get putting anything on La Sylphide.”

“Not going to, daddy,” said the girl, merrily, and making three or four breakdown steps she brought a little foot down on the floor with a light pat. “I’ve put all on her that she’s going to win to-day. Now, say I look fit as a fairy.”

“Out and out. There’ll be nothing to-day as can touch yer. But—”

“Ah, you mustn’t—you shan’t!” cried the charming little thing, dashing at her father as he uttered that but in a growl. “We’ve had it out together, and made it up, and kissed, and you shan’t scold me any more.”

“I dunno ’bout that,” said the trainer, walking round his daughter admiringly, while she mockingly and mincingly drew herself up to be inspected, looking as if she were on a London stage, the focus of every eye in an applauding house.

“Ah, it’s all very well for you to come kittening round me, my gal, but it warn’t square, after what I’ve done, for you to go courting and marrying on the sly.”

“But I had hundreds of offers and heaps of presents from all over London, dad, and I wouldn’t take one of them—the offers, I mean.”

“Of course; but you took the presents—”

The girl nodded and winked merrily.

“You didn’t send them back?”

“Likely!” said the girl. “But lots of ’em were stupid bunches of flowers, bouquets—buckets—and they were all squirmy next day.”

“But to go and get married to a little bit of a boy like that!”

“But I was obliged to marry somebody, daddy,” cried the girl, petulantly. “And you saw how he used to admire me and be always coming.”

“Of course, my gal, but I didn’t think it meant any more than lots more did.”

“But we just matched so nicely, daddy.”

“Humph!” in a regular bearish grunt.

“And we did love one another so.”

“Yah! Sweetstuff! Well, it’s done, and it can’t be undone.”

“No, dad. I don’t want it to be, and you won’t when you get used to Syd. Now you’re going to be a good loving old boy and say no more about it.”

“I dunno so much about that.”

“You’d better, dad.”

“Oh, had I?”

“Yes; if you don’t kiss me again and be friends I’ll cry, and spoil everything I’ve got on, and won’t go to the races.”

“You’d better!”

“I will,” cried the girl, with her eyes flashing, and her little cupid-bow-like mouth compressed in a look of determination. “No, I won’t. I’ll go into hysterics, and scream the house down. I’ll make such a scene!”

“You be quiet, you saucy hussy. There, it’s the races, and I’ve got a lot of business to see to. But, look here, your place is along with your husband.”

“Well, that’s where I’m going to be,” said the girl, with a merry look. “I went over on my bike this morning and saw him.”

“Oh, that’s where you were off to?”

“Yes, and Syd’s promised to be a good boy, and come over to see you to-day and have it out.”

“Oh, is he? Well, that’s right, but I don’t want him to-day. I’m too busy. Look ye here, though, my gal, I mean to see that you have your rights. You just wait till I get my young gentleman under my thumb. I’ll give him the thumbscrew, and—”

“Here he is!” cried the girl, joyfully; and with a frisk like a lamb in a May-field she danced to the boy, who hurried in breathlessly. “Oh, Syd, Syd, Syd!”

The beauty of the dress was forgotten, as a pair of prettily plump arms were thrown round the young husband’s neck, while, ignoring the big, ugly, scowling parent, the new arrival did his part in a very loving hug and an interchange of very warm, honey-moony kisses.

The recipients were brought to their senses by a growl. “Well, that’s a pretty performance in public, young people.”

“Public!” cried the girl. “Pooh! Only you, daddy, and you don’t count.”

“Public-house,” said Syd. “How d’ye do, Mr Simpkins?”

“Never you mind how I do, nor how I don’t, young gentleman. You and me’s got to have a few words of a sort.”

“All right, Mr Simpkins,” cried Syd, cheerfully, as he drew back to the full extent of his and his young wife’s joined hands to inspect her in front, and, with the girl’s aid, behind. “Lovely!” he whispered, and the girl flushed with delight, as she kept on tripping, posturing, and dancing, as if trying to draw her husband on into a pas de deux, or a pas de fascination in a ballet, he being apparently quite willing to join in and finish off with another embrace.

“Drop it, Molly,” cried the old man. “Now, sir, what have you got to say for yourself?”

“Nothing!” cried Syd, without turning his head; but he did the next moment. “I say, Sam, don’t she look lovely?”

“Sam, eh? Well, you’re a cool ’un, ’pon my soul!”

“Oh, daddy, don’t!” cried the girl, pettishly.

“But I shall. Here, he marries you without coming to me first with ‘by your leave’ or ‘with your leave.’”

“But hasn’t he come now, daddy? You always used to say you wished you’d got a boy, and now you’ve got one—a beauty. Ain’t you, Syd?”

“Stunner.”

“Will you hold your tongue, Molly! You’ve got a worse clack than your mother had.”

“Then do come and do the proper. You kneel down, Syd, and I’ll lean on your shoulder. I ain’t going to spoil my dress for nobody, not even a cross old dad. That’s right. Down on your knees, Syd.”

“Shan’t. I want to put my arm round you.”

“Very well; that’ll do. Now then, come on, daddy, and say: ‘Bless you, my children!’ Curtain.”

“What? What d’yer mean by ‘curtain?’ You hold your tongue, miss. Now, Mr Sydney Smithers. Smithers! There’s a name for a respectable girl to want to take!”

“Well, hang it!” cried the boy, “it’s better than Simpkins.”

“Not it,” growled the owner of the latter; but he scratched his head, as if in doubt. “Be quiet, Molly. Now, Mr Smithers, I mean my gal to have her rights.”

“Yes, Mr Simpkins.”

“Get it over, Syd.”

“Yes, sir; I quite agree with you.”

“That’s right, then, so far; but what I say is that you ought to have come straight to me, as her father, and ‘Mr Simpkins,’ says you, ‘I’ve took a great fancy to your filly’—daughter, I mean—‘and I’m going to make proposals for her ’and,’ you says.”

“Yes, Mr Simpkins; I’m very much attached to your daughter and I’ve married her.”

“No, you didn’t, young gentleman,” cried the old man, irascibly. “That’s just what you ought to have done.”

“Yes, exactly, Mr Simpkins; but, I say, what are you doing to-day about the big race?”

“Never you mind about no big race, young fellow. I want to know what you’re going to do about the human race. You’ve married my gal candlestine, as they call it, and I want to know about settlements. You don’t expect I’m going to keep you and your wife and family?”

“Well, he won’t let me,” said Syd, in response to a whisper.

“Of course he won’t,” said the trainer. “Not likely. You’re a gentleman, I suppose. You won’t want to do nothing for your living.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Syd.

“Well, that means you will. That sounds better. But you won’t want to come and live here and help serve behind my bar?”

“No, I’m blest if I do!”

“Oh, dad, drop it,” cried the girl.

“No, nor I shan’t drop it, miss, till I’ve seen about your rights. Suppose you mean him to come to London and begin figgering on the stage along with you?”

“I don’t, dad.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve got so much sense in your head, my gal, for, you mark my words, he’s the wrong sort. Too short and fat.”

“Dad!”

“Well, so he is, my gal. I dunno what you sees in him.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the girl, and she turned her back, snatched Syd’s tie undone, and began to retie it, as she whispered; “Oh, do finish it all, Syd. I want to get good places on the stand.”

“Perhaps,” continued the trainer, “I might make you of some use among the ’osses after a bit. But you’d have to train, and get rid of a stone of that fat.”

“Fat!” cried Syd, indignantly.

“Oh, dad, what a shame!” cried the young wife, with tears in her eyes. “Never mind what he says, Syd. You’re not fat.”

“Yes, he is, miss; too fat for a light-weight. But I don’t want him to be always quarrelling with. Put it the other way, then. What’s your people going to do for you?”

“Don’t know,” said the boy, taking out his cigarette-case.

“No, o’ course you don’t; that’s what I’m a-saying. You don’t. But I do. That’s where it is. There, don’t get smoking them nasty, rubbishing things in my ’all and making it not fit for a gent as knows what’s what to come in. Smoke one of them.”

The trainer drew a handful of big dark cigars with gold bands from his breast-pocket, and held them out for the lad to take one, which he did readily.

“Thank ye. Partagas, sir?”

“Oh, you do know something, then?” growled the trainer, biting off the end and proceeding to strike a match, which he held ready, so that he and his son-in-law could join ends, and draw in a friendly way, much to the satisfaction of the young lady, who smiled to herself and said—

“They’re coming round.”

“Suppose we shake hands now, Mr Simpkins, and say done,” cried Syd, blowing a big cloud in his father-in-law’s face.

“Don’t you be in a hurry, young fellow. As I was a-saying, about your people. Do you think my lady, your aunt, will find you in money to keep house for a trainer’s daughter?”

“N-n-no,” said Syd, sadly.

“No, it is, young man. If you’d wanted to be secketary to a society for the propergation o’ something or another, she’d be all there with a big subscription; but she won’t give yer tuppence now.”

“No, but uncle will,” cried Syd, eagerly. “He’s the right sort.”

“Him? Tchah! Why, my lady won’t let him have enough to pay his own tailor’s bills. I know all about that. What about the old man?”

“Grandfather?”

“Yes. S’pose you took Molly down promiscus like, and showed him her paces; he might take a fancy to her, eh?”

“Yes,” cried Molly. “Capital, father! Syd will take me down to see his grandfather. Won’t you, Syd?”

“Take you anywhere, darling; only not to-day.”

“Who said to-day, little stupid? There, now, it’s all right, ain’t it, dad?”

“Don’t you be in such a flurry, my gal; ’tain’t whipping and spurring like mad as gets you first past the post. Steady does it. Now, young gentleman, look here.”

“Oh, dear me, dad, how you do like to talk!” cried the girl, pettishly.

“Do you hear me, sir? Leave the girl alone. You don’t want everyone to know you’re just married—hugging her that how.”

“Yes, I do, all the world and everybody,” cried Syd. “We’re married, but we’re awfully in love with each other still—aren’t we, darling?”

“Awfully, Syd,” cried Molly, hanging to him.

“Well, I s’pose that’s all right,” grumbled the trainer, “and of course what’s done, as I said afore, can’t be undone. But, look here; I mean my gal to have her rights.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And I understand you mean to do the proper thing by her?”

“Yes, dad. To be sure he does, and you’re going to be ever so proud of Syd—proud as I am.”

“Well, I don’t quite know that, but I’ve got something else to think about now, and so, after what you’ve said square and ’andsome, young gen’leman, here’s my ’art and here’s my ’and.”

The trainer illustrated his last words by putting his left hand upon his chest, too low down to satisfy an anatomist, and holding out his right.

“There,” he continued, after the business of shaking hands had been gone through, “all this talking has made me husky, so we’ll have a glass of fizz, son-in-law, in honour of the occasion, just to wash it down.”

“No, no, no, no!” cried the girl. “Syd and I want to get out on the common to see all the races.”

“Bah! You two won’t be thinking about the races, I know. Look here, though, son-in-law. Some day, I’ll give you the right tip;” and then, in a whisper from behind his hand, “Jim Crow—the dark horse.”

“What for?”

“What for?” cried the trainer, contemptuously. “Why, the cup.”

“Nonsense?”

“That’s right, boy.”

“No, no,” cried Syd, giving his young wife’s arm a hug. “La Sylphide.”

“Out of it. Jock in a straight weskit.”

“Out of it be hanged, sir! She runs to win, with Uncle Hilton up.”

“Come along, Syd,” cried Molly, and the pair ran out like a couple of schoolchildren, nearly cannoning against Mark Willows, who was coming up with Sir Hilton’s bag and overcoat, and making him turn to look after them, while Sam Simpkins stood gasping like a great, red-faced carp which had leaped out of the edge of a pond and landed in an element not suited to its nature.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Trainer’s Tips.

“Nonsense!” gasped the trainer, as soon as he could get his breath after the staggerer he had received. “The boy’s in love—mad—don’t know what he’s a-saying of.”

“Well, I’m blest!” said Mark, turning round with a grin on his face. “He’s begun to crow early. Day, Mr Simpkins. I say—”

Mark did not say anything, but winked and jerked his thumb over his right shoulder in the direction the young couple had taken.

“What do you want?” growled the trainer, surlily.

“Room for the guv’nor—Sir Hilton Lisle, Bart—to dress for the race.”

“Then it is true,” said the trainer to himself, as to hide his face from the groom he turned his back, walked to a bell-handle, and pulled it violently before returning.

“Got a lot on our mare, eh, Mr Simpkins?”

“No!” growled the trainer. “I heered she was not going to run.”

“Knowing ones ain’t always right, sir.”

At that moment the chambermaid appeared.

“Room for Sir Hilton Lisle,” cried the trainer, hoarsely. “Put him in number one. Well, this is a facer!” he muttered, as he turned away. “I must have a drop for this,” and he hurried into the bar.

“Hullo, my dear,” cried Mark. “My word, what a cap! I say, what’s the matter with the boss?”

“He’s got a sore head,” said the chambermaid, sharply. “I never see such a bear.”

“He’s been backing the wrong horse, I know,” said Mark.

“Then you don’t know nothing about it, Mr Clever. Here, I’ve got one for you.”

The speaker led the way up the stairs into the open gallery, to pause at the top by the door of the room her master had named, Mark following with the bag and overcoat.

“Well, let’s have it,” said Mark.

“Why, I should ha’ thought you must ha’ known.”

“Known what—as my guv’nor’s going on the Turf again?”

“Bother the Turf! I’m sick of the name. No; master’s found out about Miss Molly.”

“Eh? What about her?”

“Married! How do you like that?”

“Never tried yet, my dear. But who to?”

“Who to, indeed! A chit of a boy.”

“Wha-a-at!” cried Mark, and a light broke upon him as he recalled what he had just seen. “Not our Master Syd?”

“Right first time.”

“Oh, here’s a game,” began Mark. “Quick, here’s master, and I haven’t put out his duds.”

The groom dashed through the door the girl threw open just as Sir Hilton, who had been to the paddock, came up to the porch ready to meet the trainer, who was coming from the bar wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

“It’s all up!” he groaned to himself.

“Ah, Sam Simpkins, how are you? Surprised to see me here again, eh?”

“Sur-prised ain’t the word for it, Sir Hilton,” cried the trainer, making an effort to look landlordly, and speaking in boisterous tones. “Staggered, Sir Hilton. That’s nearer the mark; but come in, Sir Hilton. Puts me in mind o’ the good old days. My word! Who’d ha’ thought it? I jest heered of it. And you’re going to ride, Sir Hilton?”

“I am, Sam.”

“Your old mare, Sir Hilton?”

“No,” said Sir Hilton, frowning. “My old friend Lady Tilborough’s mare, in consequence of—”

“Yes, I heered, Sir Hilton; her jockey, Josh Rowle’s been on the drink again. Dear, dear! I keep a house, but what I say to people who come to my bar or to the tap is—”

“Yes—yes, I know. My man here?”

“Yes, Sir Hilton. Up in your old room, number one. But, ahem! Beg pardon, Sir Hilton, you can trust me,” said the trainer, dropping his voice. “Do you, eh—understand me, Sir Hilton—man who’s seen a deal o’ business for you—you—you don’t ride to win?”

“Why, you—”

“Ah, Hilt, dear boy!” cried Lady Tilborough, hurrying in. “I saw you come up to the porch, but couldn’t overtake you. Man of your word.”

“I hope so,” said Sir Hilton, turning to give the old trainer a withering look.

“Oh, murder!” muttered the man, wiping his brow, now all covered with a heavy dew. “What shall I do? It’s a smasher.”

“Seen our beauty?” said Lady Tilborough.

“Yes; I’ve been to look. She’s in splendid form.”

“Thank you, old man; that does me good.”

“A bit too fine, though,” continued Sir Hilton, who had been watching the trainer narrowly, and seeing his state and guessing the cause, felt a little compassionate. “What do you say, Sam?”

“Well, Sir Hilton, if you ask me, I say I haven’t had her training lately, but I’ll give you, an old patron, my honest opinion—not a bit, sir—and if you’ll take my advice you’ll play a quiet game with the mare. That’s the winning card.”

“Nonsense!” cried Sir Hilton, contemptuously.

“Just listen to him, my lady. Here has he been out of the game all this time, while I’ve been watching La Sylphide’s work at every race. I asks you, my lady, Is there anyone as knows the mare’s action, temper and staying powers better than me?”

“He’s right there, Hilt,” said Lady Tilborough.

“To some extent, yes,” said the gentleman addressed.

“Thank ye, Sir Hilton. Then look here; nobody would like to see you come first past the post more than your old trainer.”

“Would you, Sam?” said Sir Hilton, with a queer look at the speaker.

“All right, Sir Hilton. I understand yer alloosion. I may’ve got a bit on Jim Crow, consequent upon the misfortune to Josh Rowle; but,” he continued, closing one eye meaningly, “I can put that right easy. You win the race, Sir Hilton, and I’ll make a pot of money by it. I know the ropes.”

“You do, Sam,” said the baronet, laughing.

“And I’m glad of the charnsh to do a good turn to a couple o’ noble patrons who have put many a hundred into my pocket. Look here, Sir Hilton, there’s plenty of time yet. I am at your service. Just you take me to the mare, and let me have a few minutes with her.”

“The mare is not my property, Sam,” said Sir Hilton, laughing.

“Of course not, Sir Hilton. I forgot. What do you say, my lady? That there Jim Crow’s a good horse, and La Sylphide hasn’t the wind she had.”

“Indeed!” said Lady Tilborough.

“It’s a fact, my lady. What she wants is holding in and a waiting game, and just something as—you know, Sir Hilton—for the roosh at the last, as’ll take her in a couple o’ lengths ahead.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Sir Hilton, drily.

“You hear, my lady? I want you to win.”

“Thank you, Simpkins,” said Lady Tilborough, gravely. “I am greatly obliged.”

“And I’m to just take the mare in hand for you,” said the man, who, in his excitement, could not restrain his eagerness.

“Well, no, thank you, Simpkins,” said the lady, quietly. “You were always a very good trainer, and I made a good deal of money in the past, but I have a very trustworthy man now, and he might object to your interference at the eleventh hour.”

“Oh, I could soon make it right with him, my lady,” said the trainer, quickly.

“No doubt, Sam Simpkins,” said the lady, meaningly, “but I should be sorry to have my man’s morals assailed.”

“I don’t understand you, my lady.”

“Then I’ll speak more plainly, Simpkins. I am not disposed to lay my man open to temptation.”

“What! Does your ladyship mean to insinuate that I’d do anything that warn’t quite square?”

“I insinuate nothing, Sam Simpkins. I only go so far as to say that you are not my servant now, and that I would not trust you in the least.”

“Hark at that now!” cried the trainer, turning up his eyes to the sporting trophies on the walls, and unconsciously letting them rest on the grinning mask of an old fox. Then “Ain’t you got a word to say for me, Sir Hilton? I has my faults, I know, but no man living would say I couldn’t be trusted. You allus found me right, Sir Hilton.”

“Always, Sam, when it suited your book.”

“Well, I am!” exclaimed the trainer.

“Yes, Sam, an awful old scamp,” said Lady Tilborough, laughing. “Thank you, my man. You’ve got your favourite, I’ve got mine, and the man to ride her straight and square as an English gentleman should ride an English horse.”

“All right, Sir Hilton. All right, my lady. Sorry I tried to give advice gratis for nothing; only mind this, both of you, if La Sylphide breaks down or Sir Hilton here loses his nerve through being out of training, don’t you blame me.”

“Don’t be alarmed, Simpkins,” said Lady Tilborough, in a tone which made the trainer draw back a step or two. “Here, Hilton.”

“Yes.”

“A horrible thought. What about your weight?” she whispered.

“Went straight to the scales and tried,” he replied, in the same lowered tone. “Right to an ounce.”

“Ha!” ejaculated Lady Tilborough, with a sigh of relief and a glance back to see if the trainer was out of hearing. “Now then, off to your room and get into your silk. Mind, you must keep cool and you must win.”

“I’m trying my best. But I can’t help thinking. My wife!”

“Oh! Kiss your wife, man—when you get back. Never mind her now.”

“But if by any chance she hears?”

“Let her hear when the race is run. She must hear afterwards, of course. Wives and husbands are out of court now. Remember your four thou’.”

“I do,” said Sir Hilton, with a groan.

“Ah! would you!” cried Lady Tilborough. “You’ve got to face the thing anyhow, and listen, here’s your position: It’s meeting the poor, severe darling with the race lost, or meeting her with it won. Which will you do?”

“Of course,” cried Sir Hilton, eagerly. “I see.”

“You’re yourself again. Now, one more word—that man has backed Jim Crow heavily. You understand?”

“Of course.”

“And Jim Crow’s rather a dangerous horse; but if you keep cool, and in your old form, the race is ours.”

“Yes; I feel it now.”

“Then you know. Keep her clear, and let her have her own old way.”

“Then I’m off yonder. You’ll meet me there. I’ve a hankering to be at her side, for fear of the possibility of anyone getting at her even now.”

“No fear of that. Off with you!”

Lady Tilborough held out her hand, and Granton entered quickly.

“Silk ho!” he cried.

Sir Hilton nodded shortly and ran actively up the stairs.

“Bravo!” said the doctor. “Hilt looks his old self. Cool as a—you know.”

“Don’t say another word to me, Granton, till the race is over,” said the lady, pleadingly.

“I understand,” he said, and they went off straight for the paddock, while as soon as the chamber door in the gallery had been shut sharply upon his master by Mark Willows, Simpkins slipped out of the bar entry, looking flushed and strange.

“Too late to do anything now,” he groaned to himself. “My head seems to be going—all of a buzz. Hedge heavily or chance it. Which? Which? Oh, what in the name of thunder shall I do?”

Chapter Fifteen.

Mephistopheles at Work.

What the trainer did was to return to the bar and swallow a glass of gin and bitters hastily, before returning to his favourite seat in the hall, when he pulled out betting-book and pencil, threw one swollen leg over the other, and began to chew the lead and try to master the figures which would not stand still to be reckoned up.

“Nice day for the races,” said a voice, as the door was darkened. “How are you, Simpkins?”

The trainer looked up angrily, saw that it was an old client and friend, and replied surlily: “Morn’n. They’ll attend to you in the bar. Oh, dear!” he muttered, “I can’t hedge now.”

The visitor glanced quickly round to see that they were alone, and then pressed up close to the trainer. “Pst! Look here, Sam Simpkins.”

“Didn’t I tell you they’d see to you in the bar?” growled the trainer.

“Yes; but I want another fifty on Jim Crow, if you can do it.”

“Eh? Yes, of course,” cried the trainer, completely changing his tone and manner; then, turning over a few leaves, he clumsily made an entry in his book.

“Close on the run,” he said apologetically.—“Horrid busy. There you are. Ten fives. All right, Mr Trimmer.”

“Not in my way, as a rule, Mr Simpkins,” said Lady Lisle’s agent, with a weak grin; “but a little flutter, as you call it, is pleasant and exciting—a nice change from the humdrum of business life.”

“And very profitable too, eh, Mr Trimmer?”

“Yes; I’ve not done badly, Sam—thanks to you, old friend.”

“No, you haven’t; but go and get your glass and be off, please,” said the trainer, finishing the deposit of the crisp new banknotes by placing them in a pocket-book, drawing on the tight elastic with a loud snap, buttoning the book up in his breast, and giving the place a slap, which seemed to bring out a sigh of relief.

“I won’t drink this morning, thank you, Sam. I’ll go out on the common at once. How does Jim Crow look?”

“Splendid; but be off, please. I’m busy,” growled the trainer.

“I understand. I shall find you here after the race. Short settlements, eh?”

“Always on spot. Take and give sharp; that’s my motter,” replied the trainer, bending down over his betting-book again without paying further heed to his client, who nodded, smiled at the chamber maid in the gallery, and went out softly.

“A bit back,” muttered the trainer, with the ghost of a grin on his stubbly face, as soon as he was alone. “But like nothing—like nothing,” he grumbled. “One drop in a pint pot. But let’s see; let’s see.”

He had not been immersed in his calculations again five minutes when there was a hurried step, and Lady Lisle’s agent came in, looking ghastly.

“Oh, there you are, Sam,” he said, hurriedly. “I’ve been on the common and I’ve changed my mind.”

“Eh? What?” said the trainer, looking up fiercely.

“That fifty I put on Jim Crow. I’ll put on La Sylphide instead.”

“Too late, sir. Bet booked. I never alter my entries. What’s the matter?”

“I thought Jim Crow was such a perfectly safe horse, but I hear—”

A gasp stopped the man’s utterance. “Well, what have you heered?”

“That—that Lady Tilborough’s horse is going to run after all.”

“Lady Tilborough’s mare’s scratched, they say, Mr Trimmer.”

“No, no. I have it on the best authority. She’s going to run.”

“Oh, they say anything in the ring. Don’t you take no notice. You’ve put your money on a good horse, and you’ve got to chance it, of course. I’ve a big pot on there.”

“So I hear, Mr Simpkins,” said the agent; “but I’m a poor man. I only bet on sure things, and I must withdraw this bet.”

“Too late, sir; can’t be done now.”

“But it must; it must I will have it back,” cried the agent, fiercely.

“Here, none of that,” said the trainer, with a savage growl. “You come to me, sir—made your bet, and I’ve booked it.”

“But I stand to lose five hundred pounds, man,” cried the agent, frantically. “Give me my money back.”

“Not a cent, sir. Chance it.”

“I heard that Josh Rowle was too bad to ride.”

“That’s true enough, sir.”

“I—I don’t understand,” cried Trimmer; “but I will not stir from here without those notes. Give me my fifty pounds.”

He caught the trainer with both hands by the coat. “Steady, my lad,” growled Simpkins. “Don’t be a fool. This is ’sault and battery, and, if I liked, I could lay you down with an ugly rap between the eyes. Steady!” he continued, with a grim smile overspreading his coarse and brutal face. “I begin to see now how it is. My, how queer! Your guv’nor must be going to ride.”

“What! Nonsense! Something to turn me off the scent. I will have my money back.”

“You won’t, Master Trimmer—not a cent; and look here, if you make that row you’ll have Sir Hilton out here to know what’s the matter.”

“Sir Hilton?” cried the man, staring wildly.

“Yes; he’s up there in number one, dressing for the race.”

“A lie! An excuse! Give me my money!” and he clutched at the trainer so fiercely that the bar and chamber maids came to the bar door to see.

“Ony a gent a bit upset about a bit o’ coin, my dears. Here, Mary, tell Mr Trimmer, here, who’s dressing in number one.”

“Sir Hilton Lisle, sir,” replied the maid, and Trimmer’s hands dropped from the trainer’s coat. “Anyone with him, my gal?”

“Yes, sir. Mark Willows, Sir Hilton’s groom.”

The agent dropped into a chair, looking as if he were going to have a fit.

“Gent’s a bit poorly. Excitement. That’ll do, my gals. Stop, one of you bring him a nip of my gin and bitters.”

The two maids, well accustomed to such scenes, retired into the bar, one of them returning with a glass upon a tray, and waiting to be paid, as Trimmer seized the liquor and gulped it down.

“All right, my dear; my treat,” said the trainer, and the next minute the two men were alone.

“Then it’s true?” faltered the agent, as he set down the glass.

“Yes, all true. Your guv’nor’s going to ride La Sylphide, and a hundred to one he wins.”

“And you never told me, an old friend,” said Trimmer, reproachfully.

“No friendship in betting, sir. I stand to lose a pile over the job, and I must make a bit back. Did I ask you to put your money on Jim Crow?”

“No—but—”

“No, but!” said the trainer, scornfully. “Take it as I do. You don’t hear me ’owl.”

Trimmer, who was as white as a sheet, sat panting, as he stared hard at the trainer, and then glanced up over his shoulder at the gallery.

“C’rect card, gentlemen—all the runners, sir,” came from the outside to break the silence, backed up by the murmur from the course.

“Sam,” whispered the agent at last, and he leant towards the trainer, “do you really stand to lose five thou’?”

“Every penny of it,” growled the trainer, with a terrible oath, and a look which bespoke his sincerity. “What’s your twopenny bet to that? This is your somethinged guvnor’s doing. Confound him! I’d poison him if I could.”

“Ha!” sighed Trimmer.

“It was a dead certainty, as you know. They would have scratched La Sylphide at the last moment, for no one could ride her but Josh Rowle, and he’s in a strait weskit, with two nurses from the ’sylum. Dead certainty it was, when in comes your guv’nor to spoil as fine a thing as was ever planned.”

“But he mayn’t win, after all.”

“Tchah! I know the mare, don’t I? All he’s got to do is to sit still in the saddle, give her her head, and talk to her as he always knew how, and she’ll romp in past the lot. The game’s up, Mr Trimmer, and you must make the best of it. Here, don’t bear no malice. Have another drink, and take one of these.”

“C’rect card, gents; all the runners!” came again from the outside.

Simpkins’s outer breast-pocket formed his cigar-case, and he took out a couple from where they lay loose, and offered them to the agent. But the latter paid no heed, for he glanced up at the gallery and then at the bar, beyond which the two maids could be seen, busy serving.

“Sam,” whispered Trimmer at last; “quick, before it’s too late. The mare must be got at.”

Crack! went a match, and the trainer bit off the cigar end and lit up quickly.

“Here, ketch hold,” he growled. “Be sharp, or it’ll be out,” and he offered the burning match. “You talk like a fool. How?”

“You know. Such a little thing would do it. What about King Dick?”

“Hold your cursed row,” growled the trainer, threateningly.

“I can’t,” whispered the agent. “I’ve too much at stake. Get to the mare at once. You, a trainer, can manage that.”

“You talk like a fool, I tell you. Close upon the time like this.”

“Can’t you work it with the guv’nor or Lady T.?”

“No. If I could should I be sitting here jawing? Tried it on, and failed.”

“Think of your five thousand pounds.”

“I tell you you can’t get at the mare.”

“C’rect cards, gents,” came again from without, in Dandy Dinny’s raucous voice. But his cry was unheard within, where Trimmer, with a peculiar Mephistophelian smile upon his face, gave another glance upwards at the gallery, before leaning forward till his lips were quite close to the trainer’s great red ear, into which he whispered—

“No, of course not; but you could get at the man.”

The trainer started to his feet, the cigar he had just lit falling from his gaping mouth, just as Dandy Dinny passed the window, leering in, and then hurried out of sight with his hawking cry, for there was the sound of carriage wheels approaching the hotel.

Trimmer rose too, and laid his hand softly upon Simpkinss arm, as he gazed hard in his companion’s rolling eyes, now directed towards the gallery.

“Eh?” said the trainer at last, as his eyes dropped to gaze in those that were searching his, and he began to pass his big hand over his mouth again and again.

Then he lowered it, still gazing hard at the agent, and lifted it once more to his lips, but now closed as if it were holding a drinking vessel, which he made believe to hold to his lips and drink therefrom.

The look had now become questioning.

A slowly given nod from Trimmer’s head was the answer.

The big door-bell was pulled sharply, and gave forth a peal which made the trainer start. “Someone coming,” he said, rushing to the window and thrusting out his head, to draw it back sharply.

“The missus!” he whispered.

“Lady Lisle!” gasped Trimmer, excitedly. “She mustn’t see me here.”

“Come in my office. Quick!”

Simpkins half-thrust his companion quickly through the door in the corner, just as the boots passed through the porch and the barmaid came to her door, and the next minute Lady Lisle was ushered by the boots into the hall.

“I’ll tell master, my lady,” said the man, and he went to the office, while the barmaid drew back into her highly-glazed shell.

Chapter Sixteen.

Rather Equivocal.

Lady Lisle gave an angry, shuddering look of disgust as she glanced round the sanctuary of the high priest of sport, noting the pictures and hunting trophies, and then holding her highly-scented handkerchief to her delicate nostrils, which were sharply assailed by spirituous exhalations and the fumes of the noxious weed.

“Oh,” she mused, “that it should come to this—a publican’s daughter, a low-bred wench. Oh, Hilton, Hilton! But—ah! I am determined. I will see it to the end.”

She was kept waiting quite five minutes, which she passed standing like a statue in the middle of the hall, till there was a husky cough, and Simpkins came hurrying out, trying with fat, clumsy fingers to thrust a little white, folded paper, very suggestive of “the powder at night” into his waistcoat pocket, where it refused at first to go.

“Beg pardon, my lady,” he said, after a quick glance up at the gallery. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Very busy to-day.”

“Mr Simpkins?” said the lady, haughtily.

“That’s me, my lady; but if you want accommodation I’m afraid we’re full.”

“My husband—Sir Hilton Lisle. He is here?” said the lady, sternly.

The trainer’s jaw dropped, and, like lightning, a thought flashed through his brain.

The wife, to stop the gentleman from mounting the mare! It was salvation.

But the next moment the hope died out. In such an emergency the wife’s appeal would be as so much breath. It would be like grasping at a shadow and letting the substance go.

“Do you not understand, my man?” said Lady Lisle, impatiently. “My husband—he is here?”

“Sir Hilton Lisle, Bart.?” said the trainer, who determined to stick to the substance and let the shadow glide. “Oh, no, my lady, he ain’t here.”

“Where is he, then?”

“I dunno, my lady,” replied the man, coolly. “At the races, I should suppose.”

“How could I find him in all that crowd?” murmured the unhappy woman. Then, setting her teeth hard to suppress the feeling of passion that was growing fast, she turned to the man again, and her voice was perfectly firm and cold, as she said authoritatively: “You have a daughter, man?”

“That’s right, my lady,” said the trainer, and he smiled faintly. “Oh,” he continued, “I suppose I know what brings your ladyship here.”

And once more a thought crossed his mind as to the possibility of stopping Sir Hilton’s jockeyship by setting his wife upon his track. But he dismissed it directly, to respond to his visitor’s command.

“I suppose you do, sir,” she said haughtily. “Send the woman here.”

“Woman, eh? Why, she’s a mere gal, my lady.”

“Don’t speak to me like that, man,” cried Lady Lisle. “Where is your daughter?”

“On the grand stand, I s’pose, along o’ him.”

“This is monstrous!” cried Lady Lisle, passionately. “Oh, man, can you stand there with that base effrontery and speak to me like this?”

“Can I, my lady? Yes. Why not? I’m not your paid servant, and I dessay if we totted up together and compared notes, I, Sam Simpkins, trainer, could show as good a hincome as your ladyship. At least, I could yesterday,” he muttered.

“Yes, yes, no doubt; but have you no sense of the moral wrong? Are you shameless, or ignorant of your responsibility to your child?”