"You're a liar!" retorted Wilson. "Is it likely that Isaacson would have sacked me, an' put up a chap like Jones, who may lose the race for 'im, if 'e 'adn't thought that I might ride crook? Do yer think I don't see through yer little game?" His narrow eyes sparkled with spite and malice as he stared up into Mostyn's face. "Got me the chuck, yer did, so that Don Quixote might be handicapped and yer own 'orse 'ave a better charnce! Oh, you're a sharp 'un, you are, but, strike me pink! I'll be even with yer for it, Mr. Clithero, sir, if not to-day, then some other time. Ted Wilson ain't the man not to get a bit of 'is own back, you can bet your bottom dollar on that. My friend, Jack Treves"--he accented the words--"'as got 'is knife into yer, too, I see, and between the pair of us I'll lay you come off bad in the end." He had been speaking so volubly that Mostyn had not been able to get a word in. Now, once more, and with all the patience he could muster, he sought to convince the angry jockey that he was quite innocent of the offence with which he was charged. But argument was futile, as he quickly found out. Wilson was convinced that he had Mostyn to thank for what had happened. It was some time before Mostyn could throw off his adversary, and it was only with renewed threats of vengeance, and because he saw no less a person than Mr. Isaacson himself approaching, in the company of Sir Roderick Macphane, that Wilson at last took himself off, and disappeared in the direction of the nearest bar. Mostyn reflected that he had another enemy to contend with, and one who was even more likely than Jack Treves to hit below the belt. Luckily, Asmodeus was quite safe in the charge of Stanhope, and Mostyn could not conceive of any other way by which he could be damaged; this since he was not afraid of personal attack. He did not worry himself, therefore, when, later in the day, he saw Wilson in the company of Jack, and realised that the jockey had spoken the truth when he mentioned Treves as his friend. Mostyn looked up in response to a hearty slap on the back, and found himself confronted by the smiling face of Sir Roderick Macphane. It was a pleasure after the scowls with which he had been met that day to look upon the genial face of the old baronet. Behind Sir Roderick stood a tall man, of Jewish cast of features, whom Mostyn recognised at once, though he had never met the man, as David Isaacson, the owner of Don Quixote. "Mr. Isaacson wished to be introduced to you, Mostyn," Sir Roderick said, "and so, as I caught sight of you ten minutes ago, I brought him up. You are opponents to-day, of course, but that's no reason why two sportsmen shouldn't know each other. I won't wish good luck to the best man," he added heartily, "but to the best horse, and as matters stand, it promises to be a good race."