The boy's face was burning, the blood coursing quickly through his veins, his heart beating quickly. A few moments ago, when he had first realised what was being proposed to him, his inclination had been to get up, to take the jockey by the scruff of his neck, and throw him out without more ado; then, suddenly, and as if someone had whispered in his ear, a temptation, such as he had never known before in his life, had come upon him. There was so much at stake for him--so vast a sum of money, which seemed about to slip through his fingers. And there was Rada, too. If Asmodeus should win this race, why, all might still be well. He would not be a beggar in another month's time, and then, what was there to prevent him going to Rada and saying: "You love me--you don't love Jack Treves--I want you, Rada, and mean to have you!" He was sure--at that moment--that she would fall into his arms, and that he had only to speak. All this--success, wealth, love--might be his, if Asmodeus won. At that moment, sharper than ever, he felt the bitter sting of defeat. "There is no other way," whispered the insinuating voice in his ear. "You'd much better accept a good offer when it's made to you." "It's a fair deal I'm proposin' to you, Mr. Clithero, sir," muttered the jockey, his voice seeming to harmonise and blend with that of the imaginary tempter. "I can do it easy as easy, and who wants a beastly Jew to win? You can back Asmodeus for all you like--put your shirt on 'im--for if we get to understand each other he's bound to win, there ain't another horse in the race. It'll be worth your while, I tell you that straight." Perhaps, all unconsciously, the jockey had made a mistake when he spoke of making money upon the horse's victory, which was the last thing that Mostyn, who never made a bet, cared about doing. In some insidious fashion, this new suggestion touched a cord in the boy's nature and made him realise the peril in which he stood. He, who had never in his life done an act which he could call dishonourable, what was he thinking of now? How could he have allowed himself, even for a moment, to listen to so vile a suggestion? His cheeks flushed with shame. With a mighty effort he thrust the temptation aside. He smote the table violently with his fist, and broke out with an oath--an oath that came strangely to his lips. "D---- you, you dirty hound!" He pushed his chair bark, and stood trembling with wrath, towering huge over the wretched little man. "How dare you come to me with such a proposal? How dare you? how dare you? Get out of the room, and out of the house, and be sharp about it, or before God----" He raised his fist threateningly. The little jockey slipped from his chair, nearly sliding on to the floor in his dismay, and held up his puny fists as if to ward off a blow. "Look 'ere, Mr. Clithero, sir," he whined, "what are you a-gettin' at? I came 'ere as a friend--for your good."