"Right you are, Sir Rilton. You always was a gent as I respected. Look here, my lady, don't you be so hard on a gent as likes to go in for a bit of the real true old English sport. I know, my lady--yes, I've jest done, and then I'll put on my boots. Pricked my foot, I did, with that there spiky plahnt. Here, don't you think anything o' that drop o' fizz he had. Sir Rilton didn't have enough to make him tight." "No--on my soul I didn't, Laura," cried Sir Hilton. "The man's right." "Right I am, Sir Rilton," cried the tout. "No, you don't, my white-chokered herb!" he shouted, making a dash at Trimmer, who was quietly making for the door. "Got him! You, Mark Willows, you collar old Sam Simpkins. He's t'other customer in that little game." "Here, what do you mean, sir?" said Sir Hilton, sternly. "Mean, Sir Rilton--mean, Lady Lisle, and my Lady Tilborough--and Heaven bless my lady and the noble man of your chice--why, I mean this, as I see with these here eyes, going about and in and out selling my c'rect cards, all the starters, anceterer--No, you don't; down you goes on your marrow-bones and makes confession to the lot." The tout had tightly hold of Trimmer's collar as he spoke, and now, by a clever kick, he sent his legs from under him and pressed him down upon his knees, shivering, helpless, and whiter than ever. "Now, my lady--now, all of you, here's the real true tip: Sir Rilton here warn't tight. He was hocussed with a dose o' powder, so as he shouldn't be able to ride La Sylphidey, and them's the two as done it. That's my tip." "A lie! You scoundrel! A lie!" "I don't understand him," panted Lady Lisle. "Hocussed him instead of the horse, my lady," said the trainer, coolly. "You see, I couldn't get at the mare to save myself from a heavy pull. Yes, my lady; yes, doctor, I mixed the dose, and I can assure you, Sir Hilton, that cham was real good." "But oh, daddy," cried poor Molly, bursting into tears, "don't say you did a thing like that!" "'Bliged to, my gal; but I should never ha' thought on it if it had not been for that smooth-tongued Trimmer. There, Sir Hilton. I'm very sorry, but I throw up the sponge." "Now, Laura," cried Sir Hilton; "can't you forgive me now?" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ L'ENVOI. The troubles never even got into the gossip column of the _Tilborough County Despatch_, in connection with the busy candidature of the popular sporting baronet for the vacant seat, and the retirement of Watcombe, the brewer, who was reported to have been beaten by his opponent "hands down." For it was considered to be easier to let bygones be bygones, especially as Trimmer, the trustworthy agent of the Lisle estate, was reported to have resigned--the notice might have said disappeared--and in course of time, under the careful guidance of Lady Lisle, Mrs Sydney Smithers did not make such a very unpresentable little lady after all.