"Go!" thundered Mostyn, pointing a trembling forefinger at the door. "I told you to go." "Very well, I'm goin'." The jockey, seeing that he stood in no danger of bodily hurt, pulled himself together and shuffled towards the door. "You ain't treated me fair, Mr. Clithero," he grumbled, as he went. His little eyes shot malice. He muttered something else under his breath--a remark that was evidently not intended for Mostyn's ears; nor did the latter, who had turned to ring the bell for Frazer, notice the clenched fists or the vindictive look. At the door the jockey halted once more. "Look 'ere," he growled, "you're not a-goin' to say anythin' about this? I trust you as a gentleman." "You may cheat your master, for all I care," said Mostyn, "as long as you don't do it for me. That's his own look out, not mine, but remember that I have nothing to do with you or with your dirty tricks. Now go!" Once more he pointed to the door, and the next moment, mouthing an ugly word under his breath, the jockey was gone. As for Mostyn, he stood for a moment, breathing hard, his teeth tightly clenched together; then he threw himself down upon a chair, leaning his elbows upon the table, and pressing his hands to his forehead. "My God!" he muttered to himself, "and there was a moment when I might have yielded!" CHAPTER XVII. MOSTYN IS GIVEN ANOTHER CHANCE. The following morning Pierce Trelawny appeared at breakfast with a pale face and a look of determination about his lips. Mostyn, who was already seated at the table, glanced up, mystified at his friend's unwonted appearance. "What's wrong, old chap?" he asked. "You look worried." Pierce poured himself out a cup of coffee before he responded, Mostyn watching him the while with increasing anxiety. "You haven't got bad news, have you?" he asked. "It's about Cicely," Pierce explained at last. There was a heavy frown upon his brow. "Look here, Mostyn, I can't stand this sort of thing any longer--something has got to be done. Cicely has written to me. Oh, it's the first letter she has written." He laughed hoarsely. "We have kept to our promise right enough up till now, but matters have come to a crisis." "Tell me," said Mostyn, drawing his chair nearer to that of his friend with that display of sympathy which was with him so charming a characteristic. "But I can guess," he added with a melancholy shake of the head. "Cicely finds it impossible to get on at home, even for the month or two that remain." "That's just it," said Pierce, tossing the letter over to his friend. "Read what she says for yourself. It makes one's blood boil, that any girl can be treated in such a fashion, and I tell you I've made up my mind to take matters into my own hands."