"A bit back," muttered the trainer, with the ghost of a grin on his stubbly face, as soon as he was alone. "But like nothing--like nothing," he grumbled. "One drop in a pint pot. But let's see; let's see." He had not been immersed in his calculations again five minutes when there was a hurried step, and Lady Lisle's agent came in, looking ghastly. "Oh, there you are, Sam," he said, hurriedly. "I've been on the common and I've changed my mind." "Eh? What?" said the trainer, looking up fiercely. "That fifty I put on Jim Crow. I'll put on La Sylphide instead." "Too late, sir. Bet booked. I never alter my entries. What's the matter?" "I thought Jim Crow was such a perfectly safe horse, but I hear--" A gasp stopped the man's utterance. "Well, what have you heered?" "That--that Lady Tilborough's horse is going to run after all." "Lady Tilborough's mare's scratched, they say, Mr Trimmer." "No, no. I have it on the best authority. She's going to run." "Oh, they say anything in the ring. Don't you take no notice. You've put your money on a good horse, and you've got to chance it, of course. I've a big pot on there." "So I hear, Mr Simpkins," said the agent; "but I'm a poor man. I only bet on sure things, and I must withdraw this bet." "Too late, sir; can't be done now." "But it must; it must I will have it back," cried the agent, fiercely. "Here, none of that," said the trainer, with a savage growl. "You come to me, sir--made your bet, and I've booked it." "But I stand to lose five hundred pounds, man," cried the agent, frantically. "Give me my money back." "Not a cent, sir. Chance it." "I heard that Josh Rowle was too bad to ride." "That's true enough, sir." "I--I don't understand," cried Trimmer; "but I will not stir from here without those notes. Give me my fifty pounds." He caught the trainer with both hands by the coat. "Steady, my lad," growled Simpkins. "Don't be a fool. This is 'sault and battery, and, if I liked, I could lay you down with an ugly rap between the eyes. Steady!" he continued, with a grim smile overspreading his coarse and brutal face. "I begin to see now how it is. My, how queer! Your guv'nor must be going to ride." "What! Nonsense! Something to turn me off the scent. I will have my money back." "You won't, Master Trimmer--not a cent; and look here, if you make that row you'll have Sir Hilton out here to know what's the matter." "Sir Hilton?" cried the man, staring wildly. "Yes; he's up there in number one, dressing for the race." "A lie! An excuse! Give me my money!" and he clutched at the trainer so fiercely that the bar and chamber maids came to the bar door to see. "Ony a gent a bit upset about a bit o' coin, my dears. Here, Mary, tell Mr Trimmer, here, who's dressing in number one." "Sir Hilton Lisle, sir," replied the maid, and Trimmer's hands dropped from the trainer's coat. "Anyone with him, my gal?" "Yes, sir. Mark Willows, Sir Hilton's groom."