He could see no brighter picture by staring into the dying fire, and presently he rose with a sigh and a yawn, preparatory to making his way upstairs to bed. It was at that moment that he heard the front door bell ring, and a minute or so later the sedate Frazer put in an appearance and announced that there was a man, who had not given his name but who looked like a stable-man, who wished to see Mostyn upon urgent business. "It's not Stanhope, Frazer?" asked Mostyn anxiously. "No, sir," Frazer shook his head decidedly; he knew Stanhope by sight quite well. "I've not seen the fellow before," he added. "He's never been to the house, I'm quite sure of that." "Show him in here, Frazer," Mostyn commanded. "I'll see him, whoever he is." Accordingly, after a brief interval, the stranger was admitted. He stood in the doorway fidgetting from one foot to the other, his cap in his hand, his tightly-fitting coat buttoned close over his chest. The buttons were big and flashy; the man's general appearance--his expression as well as his attire--was unprepossessing. Mostyn recognised him at once, and wondered what on earth he had come for. He waited, however, till Frazer had withdrawn, till the door was closed upon them both. "You are Wilson," he said then, "Ted Wilson, the jockey. Why do you want to see me, and at this hour of the night?" "I couldn't come afore, sir," Wilson shifted from one foot to the other in an undecided sort of manner. He had little twinkling eyes, and sandy hair brushed over his forehead in a carefully oiled curl. He had yellow teeth, which protruded like a rabbit's, and a weak, receding chin; he was a clever jockey, which is about as much as could be said in his favour. "I couldn't come afore becos the guv'nor wouldn't let me out of his sight. He's a jolly sharp 'un, is David Isaacson, I give you my word." "Well, what's your object in coming to see me?" repeated Mostyn rather sharply. He neither liked the man himself, nor did he care for this intercourse with one of the servants of his rival. Wilson took a few steps forward into the room and seated himself, without being invited to do so, upon the very edge of the most unpretentious-looking chair that he could pick out. "I want a word with you, private like," he said in a hoarse, throaty voice. His eyes rested nervously upon the spirit tantalus in its place on the sideboard. He had, perhaps wittingly, seated himself in close proximity to it. "I've walked across from the Crathorn Stables," he said pleadingly, "an' I can tell you it's dry work." The Crathorn Stables were those at which Don Quixote had been lodged, and they were distant, as Mostyn knew, a good half-dozen miles in the direction of Newmarket. "You can help yourself. You'll find a tumbler close beside you, and there's whisky in the stand." The jockey did not await a second invitation, but helped himself largely to the spirit, adding to it a very small quantity of water.