Isaacson seated himself once more by Mostyn's side, leaning forward and tapping him familiarly upon the knee. "Folks say I'm a hard man," he went on, "and perhaps I shouldn't be here if I hadn't refused to listen sometimes to the appeals that are made to me; but when it comes from you, Clithero, there's no thinking twice. You're straight as they make them, and I should be very sore if I felt I'd hurt you. I happen to know," he went on, lowering his voice, "that that infernal little jockey of mine, that rascal Wilson, tried to make a bit off you by promising to pull Don Quixote. That came to my ears through the same individual who gave Wilson away--also that you refused, and kicked the little scoundrel out. Well, though I never thought you would have been a party to such a trick, I liked you all the better for it, for, after all, you'd have run no danger, and you must be jolly keen on winning a big race, judging by the number of horses you've run in the course of a year. There, my boy, now you know all about it, and why it's a pleasure to me to hand you over the bill." It was news to Mostyn to learn that Isaacson knew all about Wilson's proposal to him, and he flushed a little to think that, even for a moment, the Jew might have thought it possible for him to yield; but at the same time he remembered how he had been tempted, and the thought of this heightened the colour in his cheeks. Wilson, he knew, had lost his licence as a consequence of Isaacson's complaint against him. The case had been clearly proved, and evidently there had been no necessity to bring Mostyn's name into the matter. Of Wilson himself, he had seen nothing more since the day of the Two Thousand Guineas, nor, indeed, had he had word with Jack Treves. The latter had studiously avoided him, even when the two men had met, as they were bound to meet, upon the day of the One Thousand Guineas, when Mostyn's filly had proved, as he expected, quite unequal to the task of even running into a place. If Wilson and Treves still thought of avenging themselves against Mostyn, they had, so far, made no move. A quarter of an hour later, refusing the hearty invitation to return and dine, the incriminating document safely in his possession, Mostyn took his departure. He was anxious to proceed straight to his father's house, and to set the mind of John Clithero at rest. It would be strange to meet his father again, and he wondered how he would be received. He stood on the doorstep while one of the gorgeously liveried men servants whistled sharply for a hansom. The house stood at the corner of the square, and presently Mostyn could hear the sound of rapidly approaching wheels, though he could not see the vehicle itself. It sounded to him, however, as if two hansoms were racing each other in answer to the summons.