"I think I know who will rejoice at your victory to-morrow," I said, "and participate in the fruits thereof." "Who?" "The coachman’s children, the gardener’s children, the lodge-keeper’s children--" But Miss Damer was not listening. "Poor Lively!" she said suddenly. "He gave me that tip, and yet he could n’t afford to back the horse himself." "Tipsters do not as a rule follow their own selections," I said. "I don’t suppose, either, that Periander’s was the only name contained in those pink envelopes of his. You really ought not--" "Why, there he is!" exclaimed Miss Damer, upon whom, I fear, my little homily had been entirely thrown away. We had made a detour to avoid the crowd on our way back to the carriage, and were now crossing an unfrequented part of the course. My companion pointed, and following the direction of her hand I beheld, projecting above a green hillock twenty yards away, a battered bowler hat, surmounted by a peacock’s feather. "Come this way," commanded Miss Damer. I followed her round to the other side of the hillock. There lay the retailer of stable secrets, resting from his labours before the next race. Apparently business was not prospering. His dirty, villainous face looked unutterably pinched and woe-begone. His eyes were closed. Obviously he had not lunched. His broken nose appeared more concave than ever. At our approach he raised his head listlessly. "Go on, and wait for me, please," said Miss Damer in a low voice. I obeyed. One always obeyed when Miss Damer spoke in that tone, and evidently some particularly private business was in hand. Already the child’s impulsive fingers were fumbling with the catch of her chain purse. I took up my stand a considerable distance away. I had no fears of Lively. One does not snatch at the purse of an angel from heaven. My only concern was that the angel’s generosity might outrun her discretion. I could hear her making a breathless little speech, but Lively said never a word. I was not altogether surprised. Probably he was afraid of waking up. Presently she came back to me, smiling farewell at her pensioner over her shoulder. "You’ll give one of them to your wife, won’t you?" was the last thing I heard her say. Then she rejoined me, and we walked on. "How much money," I enquired severely, "will you have left out of your winnings, after providing for me and your other friend and the families of the coachman and the gardener and the lodge-keeper?" Again Miss Damer was not attending. "Poor Lively!" she said softly. There were tears in her eyes. CHAPTER VIII A RELAPSE