Tearaway passed Bronze and drew level with Ripon. Rupert Hansom was quiet now, watching the struggle on which so much depended. His hopes of winning were of short duration. Tearaway wrested the lead from him, passed him, forged ahead, Erickson sitting perfectly still, and won by a couple of lengths, with the greatest ease. The way the flying filly left the favorite was wonderful. Ripon might have been standing still. Banks, his rider, when he realized the situation was amazed. Ripon was a good horse; what, then, must this filly be? No matter what wins the St. Leger, there are rousing cheers for the victor. It was so in this case. They were given with more heartiness because she was a Yorkshire-bred mare, owned by a popular Yorkshire squire; there was a real county flavor about it, and the men of the wolds rejoiced exceedingly. Some of them lost money on Ripon, but that was a small matter compared with the defeat of the Newmarket champion by a home-bred 'un; patriotism first is always the case with a Doncaster crowd. "Picton, my boy, I congratulate you," said Sir Robert, wringing his hand. "By gad, I wish the Admiral could have seen this!" Hector heard the words and turned round quickly; they cut deep into a not-yet-healed wound. Picton looked hastily at his brother and guessed what that sudden movement meant. "Thank you, Sir Robert," he said. "It is a great victory. I also wish my father could have seen it," he added in a low voice. Rita's congratulations came next. "I am so glad," she said, "so very glad; you own the best mare in England." "Go down and lead her in, don't waste time here," said Sir Robert; and Picton went. Hector followed him, glad to get out of the box. "I wish the Admiral could have seen it." Sir Robert's words rang in his ears. He caught sight of Mrs. Elroy in a box and vowed he would make her pay to the uttermost for the misery she had caused. There was no mercy in him at that moment; the recalling of his father's death steeled his heart, deadened his conscience, made him cruel, hard, almost murderous. She smiled at him and her glance fanned the flame within him. "To-morrow we journey to London, to-morrow," he thought. Picton Woodridge was recognized as he came with his trainer to lead Tearaway in. Cheer after cheer was given as he walked beside her through the living lane. "How are you, Fred?" he asked. The jockey did not speak, he gazed straight before him with dull eyes, like a man in a dream. "Brant, he's very ill," said Picton. The trainer looked at the jockey and was alarmed at the expression on, and color of, his face. There was no spark of life in it and his complexion was a leaden color. "Keep up, Fred, keep up! You've done splendidly!" said Brant. Many people in the crowd noticed the jockey's condition and wondered at it. "He's ill, poor chap." "The race has been too much for him." "I heard he was bad before they went out." "He's a good plucked 'un anyhow."