“What a bitch that girl was,” he said to himself. “Waddy missed it when he was such a Puritan with her. She was a bad one to have for enemy. She thought getting up the letters a glorious joke. How we roared over some passages. I think I should have let the thing drop after proposing it, if she hadn’t been so mad for it. It was a devilish risky thing to do. The fellow would kill me in a minute if he knew it, but Sally won’t peach before she dies, I think. The other woman is safe, damn her! She and Waddy are the only two people that ever baffled me. But I’ve had what I call a neat revenge--I should think so. She might much better have smiled upon me for her own good. As to Waddy, he don’t seem over-civil now. I shouldn’t mind closing the whole thing up by shooting him. Miss Diana seems to have a liking for fighting men. I’m getting on fast with her. She’s a little of a bolter, but I can soon tame her, once in hand. Well, I thought I would burn these letters, but they’re a little too rich. When I’m engaged to her, I’ll burn ’em and reform. Some people would call it forgery--writing those documents--bah! what’s forgery!” He began scribbling names in various hands: his own, Ira Waddy, Diana, Betty Bud, Bet Budlong, Sally Bishop, Tootler, Janeway, Sullivan, Perkins, and others, just as recollection seemed to associate those whom he had known in former life or now. While he was scribbling, there came a knock at the door. “Who’s there?” called Belden, tossing the papers into their case. “Hit’s me, sir,” answered a cockney voice. Belden unlocked the door and admitted a very bandy-legged groom, neatly enough dressed, but topped by a most knavish head and face. “Well, Figgins,” said his master, “what do you want?” “Will ye ’ave Knockknees, sir, hin the mornink harely? Ye can go hon the beach hat sevenk.” “Bring him up at seven, then; the race must come off now in a few days. I’m ringing in these precious greenhorns. They’ll all run their damned cows, but they haven’t got enough to bleed much. I want to get that fellow in with his black horse. He’ll bleed gold. Can I beat him on the square, do you think?” “Hi dunno, sir,” said Figgins, “’e’s a stepper, his that black. Hi never see such a ’oss for clean goin’. You mout beat, hand you moutn’t. But p’r’aps ’e’ll be summat sick,--a little sick, ’nough to take the edge hoff ’im hat the race.” “Perhaps he will,” agreed Belden, instantly accepting the hint. “You might look at him once or twice and let me know whether it’s likely. You know where his stable is--can you get in?” “There’s keys to be ’ad, I s’pose. Do you want ’im to show hat all?” “Oh, yes, I hope he’ll be well enough to make good play. He might win a heat--then I can get more out of ’em. You understand? It will pay you devilish well if I win a jolly pile.” “Hi see, sir,” said Figgins, and with a furtive look at the tin case, he went out.