Already the rumble of hoofbeats was heard, approaching closer each fraction of a second. Now the flying racers had reached a position opposite the grand stand. The leaders were sweeping by the bishop and his companion with their marvelous, frictionless, space-devouring strides. A sharp exclamation came from Halloran, a jubilant expression: “I told ye Nowell would get off well. He’s second now, an’ takin’ it easy.” Even the inexperienced eye of the bishop had picked out instantaneously, well to the fore, the blue and brown of his jockey son. They had swept past the paddock; they were making the first turn to the back stretch. The grand-stand spectators had risen in their excitement, the occupants of the packed lawn were tip-toe with expectation, eyes strained to lose no move of the Derby contenders well advanced in the struggle for the great prize. Halloran gave an inarticulate cry--a burst of dismay and sympathy came from the backers of the favorite. “Bumped into, by----!” was the Irishman’s sharp exclamation, coupled with a fierce oath. One of the flying racers, urged on to terrific pace by its rider, with no thought of saving for the heartbreaking finish, had struck Ixion on the quarter with his shoulder. For a moment the favorite was seen to falter and fall back; the next, under the superb handling of his rider, he had regained his stride and recovered the ground lost to the leaders. The bishop had merely guessed something had happened. He was brought to full realization by Halloran saying, impersonally: “They’re up to their devil’s tricks early in the game. They don’t care for foulin’ in this Derby.” Some man alongside answered, with a sneer: “I guess they’ll fix Blaisdell’s kid-glove jock to-day. I see his finish. The other boys will see to him, all right--his uppishness.” Halloran, letting fall the glasses from his face, grabbed the strap, turned on the speaker like a tiger, and said in a tone of deepest menace: “Ye know me, Cantrell. Another word the like av that, an’ I’ll brain ye right in the presence of his riverence, here. Don’t forget that little jock is a friend av him an’ av me.” The man was silent. “Watch yerself, Nowell,” the big fellow cautioned, as if the jockey was in earshot. “It’s all right in the straight. Watch yourself on the last turn for home; it’s there they’ll try to do the dirty work.” Down the back stretch they raced in a compact bunch, the blue and brown on the rail, the black horse of Satanelli, like an avenging demon, hanging on to Ixion’s quarter, the rest close behind, ready to aid in the devilish work cut out for them by the chief conspirator.