In the first round he caught four of the leaders, though one, a hobbled pacer under saddle, ridden by a small boy, with a start of fifty yards, was apparently keeping it. Going round the back stretch the second time, Carlton Mackrell set his horse going, and began to go after the leader. Approaching the straight, shouts of "Billy Q." and "Sam Sly" rent the air, while the two horses were home-locked together. Those who knew Carlton Mackrell's style of driving, however, and how he liked to come with a rush on the post, slipped down off the stand and backed him. Twenty yards from the post--too late, it appeared to Gay, who was exhorting him under her breath to "go on"--he made his effort. It was all over in a few strides, and Billy Q. had won. Gay walked to the gate of the enclosure, followed by Chris, and waited while Carlton Mackrell got down. In a few minutes the flag was hung out of the judge's box and the "all right" shouted to the ring. Emerging from the stable, he handed his rugged-up winner to an attendant, and slipping on his overcoat, he walked along the track, his eyes on the ground, thinking, not of his recent triumph, but of Gay Lawless. By nature a most undemonstrative man, he rarely showed visibly any emotion, either on the course or in private, but his colour rose as he thought what a good sort Gay was, what a pal she'd make to the right man. But who was the right man? Had he arrived yet, and if so, was he personified in Chris Hannen, or had he, Carlton Mackrell, any chance? He started, as close at hand Gay's soft, clear voice exclaimed: "Well done again, Mr. Mackrell! You drew it rather fine, though, didn't you? I thought you wouldn't quite get there, and I was so excited." Carlton stopped, his features breaking into one of those rare smiles that transformed his dark, handsome face. "I always like to make a race of it, you know," he replied. "You see, I know my horses so well; nobody drives them but me, even in their work, and my wrist-watch"--he held his arm up--"tells me exactly how fast I am going, and if my horse keeps to his home time for the quarter and half miles, I know I shall be thereabouts at the finish." Gay's eyes sparkled. "I _have_ enjoyed to-day so much," she said, "and I'm regularly bitten with trotting. It's _much_ prettier to watch than racing--even over fences"--she glanced saucily at Chris--"and, Mr. Mackrell, I'll let you into a secret--I mean to buy some horses, and go in for the game! Will you help me choose them, or let me know when anything good comes into the market?" Mackrell looked earnestly at the girl's eager face, then he glanced quickly at Chris. That gentleman's face expressed no opinion, presenting the stoic indifference that characterised equally his riding of a winner, or another disappointment.