"No, no; no, no! I shall be better directly. There, did you ever see such a silly woman? That's got the better of it. If I hadn't let myself go then I believe I should have had a fit." "Ha! You quite frightened me. Now then, Hetty, old lady, what's the matter?" "That's our old friend Hilt talking like himself again," said the visitor, with a sigh of relief. "There, I'm better now, ready to take every obstacle that comes in my way. Hilt, old man, a horrible disaster." "Yes? Yes?" cried Sir Hilton, turning white, as if he already saw the shadow of what was to come. "Your dear old mare." "Not dead?" cried Sir Hilton, wildly. "No, no, no; but it's as bad. She was to run for the cup to-day." "Yes, yes; I know." "Thought you had done thinking of such things." "I have--I haven't--oh, for goodness' sake, woman, go on! She hasn't been got at?" "Not directly, Hilt, but indirectly." "But how--how? Go on. I'm in torture." "Ha!" cried Lady Tilborough, with a sigh of satisfaction. "I knew you would be, Hilt, for your old friend's sake." "Will you go on, Hetty?" "Yes, yes. I can't prove it. I daren't say it, but Josh Rowle has been a deal at Sam Simpkins's this last week or two." "Yes?" "And I'm as good as sure that the old scoundrel has been at work on him." "No; you're wrong. Josh is as honest as the day. I always trusted him to ride square, and he always did." "And so he has for me, Hilt." "Of course. I tell you I always trusted him." "But not with a bottle, Hilt." "Eh? No; drink was his only weakness." "That's right; and I believe Sam Simpkins--the old villain!--has been at him that way to get him so that he can't ride." "What!" "The miserable wretch is down with D.T.--in an awful state, and the local demon can't allay the spirit. To make matters worse, Jack Granton, who might have helped me, can't be found." "Jack was here just now. Gone on to the course." "What! Oh, joy! No, no; it's no use. Too late. Nobody could make poor Josh fit to ride to-day." "But this is diabolical." "Oh, it's ten times worse than that, Hilty, old man. I had such trust in the mare that I'm on her for nearly every shilling I possess. If she doesn't win I'm a ruined woman." "Oh!" cried Sir Hilton, getting up and stamping about the room, tearing at his hair, already getting thin on the crown. "Thank you, Hilt dear, thank you. I always knew you for a sympathetic soul. Can you imagine anything worse?" "Yes--yes!" cried Sir Hilton; "ten times worse." "What?" "I'm on her too!" "You?" "Yes, to the tune of four thousand pounds." "You, Hilt!" cried the lady, with her eyes brightening, and instead of sympathy something like ecstasy in her tones. "I thought you had `schworred off.'"