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Chapter Seven.
A Diabolical Business

If the old writers were right, so was Sir Hilton Lisle, as he drew a chair forward and placed it ready for his attractive visitor, who gave the long folds of her riding-habit a graceful sweep, and then dropped with an elastic plump into the seat.

“Oh, Hilt, dear boy! Oh, Hilt!” she cried, bursting into tears.

“My dear Lady Tilborough!” he cried, catching her hands in his, as she dabbed her whip down on the table with a smart blow; “what is the matter?”

“Don’t, don’t, don’t!” she cried passionately.

“Don’t?” said Sir Hilton. “What have I done?”

“Called me Lady Tilborough in that cold, formal way, just as if you were going to refuse before I asked; and us such very, very old friends!”

“Well, Hetty, then. My dear old girl, what is the matter?”

“Ah, that’s better, Hilt,” said the lady, with a sigh of relief. “We are such old friends, aren’t we? – even if you have married that dreadfully severe wife who looks upon me as an awfully wicked woman.”

“Which you are not, Hetty,” said Sir Hilton, warmly.

“Thank ye, Hilt dear. That does me good,” she said, drawing away her hands and beginning to wipe her eyes. “I always felt that I could trust to you if I had a spill. Tilborough always used to say: ‘If you’re in any trouble, go to dear old Hilt, unless it’s money matters; and in them don’t trust him, for he’s a perfect baby.’”

“Did Lord Tilborough say that?” cried Sir Hilton, frowning.

“Yes, old fellow,” sighed the lady; “and it’s quite true. There, don’t look black, Hilty, dear old man. You know you ruined yourself, and so you would anyone else who trusted you with money.”

“Lady Tilborough!” cried Sir Hilton, indignantly.

“Stop that, dear boy. No stilts. Be honest. You know it’s true. Here, sit down and listen. I want your help.”

“Hadn’t you better go to some other friend?” said Sir Hilton, sinking back in a chair at some distance, crossing his legs, and kicking the uppermost one up and down angrily. “Dr Granton, for instance.”

“You leave Jack Granton out of the case, stupid. He wants to marry me, though he has never said so. He’s a thoroughly good fellow; but, of course, I couldn’t go to him, even if he could help me, and he can’t.”

“How can I, Lady Tilborough?”

“Hetty!” said the lady, sternly.

“Well, Hetty, then.”

“That’s better, Hilt, old man. Here, I’ll tell you directly. Look at me.”

She paused to fight down a passion of hysterical laughter.

“My dear little woman!” said Sir Hilton, springing up.

“Keep away! Don’t touch me!” cried his visitor.

“Have a glass of wine – some brandy?”

“No, no; no, no! I shall be better directly. There, did you ever see such a silly woman? That’s got the better of it. If I hadn’t let myself go then I believe I should have had a fit.”

“Ha! You quite frightened me. Now then, Hetty, old lady, what’s the matter?”

“That’s our old friend Hilt talking like himself again,” said the visitor, with a sigh of relief. “There, I’m better now, ready to take every obstacle that comes in my way. Hilt, old man, a horrible disaster.”

“Yes? Yes?” cried Sir Hilton, turning white, as if he already saw the shadow of what was to come.

“Your dear old mare.”

“Not dead?” cried Sir Hilton, wildly.

“No, no, no; but it’s as bad. She was to run for the cup to-day.”

“Yes, yes; I know.”

“Thought you had done thinking of such things.”

“I have – I haven’t – oh, for goodness’ sake, woman, go on! She hasn’t been got at?”

“Not directly, Hilt, but indirectly.”

“But how – how? Go on. I’m in torture.”

“Ha!” cried Lady Tilborough, with a sigh of satisfaction. “I knew you would be, Hilt, for your old friend’s sake.”

“Will you go on, Hetty?”

“Yes, yes. I can’t prove it. I daren’t say it, but Josh Rowle has been a deal at Sam Simpkins’s this last week or two.”

“Yes?”

“And I’m as good as sure that the old scoundrel has been at work on him.”

“No; you’re wrong. Josh is as honest as the day. I always trusted him to ride square, and he always did.”

“And so he has for me, Hilt.”

“Of course. I tell you I always trusted him.”

“But not with a bottle, Hilt.”

“Eh? No; drink was his only weakness.”

“That’s right; and I believe Sam Simpkins – the old villain! – has been at him that way to get him so that he can’t ride.”

“What!”

“The miserable wretch is down with D.T. – in an awful state, and the local demon can’t allay the spirit. To make matters worse, Jack Granton, who might have helped me, can’t be found.”

“Jack was here just now. Gone on to the course.”

“What! Oh, joy! No, no; it’s no use. Too late. Nobody could make poor Josh fit to ride to-day.”

“But this is diabolical.”

“Oh, it’s ten times worse than that, Hilty, old man. I had such trust in the mare that I’m on her for nearly every shilling I possess. If she doesn’t win I’m a ruined woman.”

“Oh!” cried Sir Hilton, getting up and stamping about the room, tearing at his hair, already getting thin on the crown.

“Thank you, Hilt dear, thank you. I always knew you for a sympathetic soul. Can you imagine anything worse?”

“Yes – yes!” cried Sir Hilton; “ten times worse.”

“What?”

“I’m on her too!”

“You?”

“Yes, to the tune of four thousand pounds.”

“You, Hilt!” cried the lady, with her eyes brightening, and instead of sympathy something like ecstasy in her tones. “I thought you had ‘schworred off.’”

“Yes, of course – I had – but the mare – short of money – such faith in her – I put on – lot of my wife’s money. Hetty, how could you have managed so badly with Josh Rowle? What have you done? Oh, woman, woman! You always were the ruin of our sex! Why did you come with such horrible news as this? I’m a ruined man.”

“Yes, Hilt, and I’m a ruined woman.”

“Do you know what it means for me, Hetty?”

“Yes, Hilt, old man – four thou’.”

“Of my wife’s money? No, it means locking my dressing-room door, and then – ”

“Yes? What then?”

“Revolver. No, haven’t got one – a razor.”

“Tchah!”

“While you, Hetty – ”

“Not such a fool,” cried the lady. “Life’s worth more than four million millions, squared and cubed. Pull yourself together, you dear old gander.”

“Pull myself together!” groaned Sir Hilton. “Oh, why did you come with this horrible news?”

“Because I knew you could help me, stupid!”

“I – I – help you?”

“Hold up, Hilt, or you’ll break your knees. It’s an emergency – no time to lose. La Sylphide must come up to the scratch.”

“Oh!” groaned Sir Hilton. “Impossible. Try to put another jock on her, and she’ll murder him. You know what she is. There, pray leave me. I must do a bit of writing before I go.”

“Hilt!” cried Lady Tilborough, flushing with energy, as she sprang up and snatched her whip from the table, to swish it about and make it whistle through the air. “You make me feel as if I could lash you till you howled. Be a man. Suicide! Bah! You’ll have to die quite soon enough. Now then, listen. This is the only chance. In the terrible emergency I’ve come to you. Now, quick, there isn’t a minute to spare. You must help me.”

“I? How?”

“Can’t you see?”

“I’m stunned.”

“Oh, what a man! You must ride the mare yourself.”

“And win.”

“Impossible!”

“Nonsense. She will be like a lamb with you.”

“But my wife; she wouldn’t – ”

“Oh!” cried Lady Tilborough, stamping, and lashing the air with her whip. “Divorce your wife.”

“She’d divorce me.”

“And a good job too! You must come and ride the mare.”

“I can’t – I can’t.”

“You must, Hilt.”

“Out of training. Too heavy.”

“Not a bit of it. You’re as fine as can be, and will want weight. You look as thin as if you’d been fretting.”

“I have been, woman; I have.”

“All the better. Come on at once.”

“I tell you I daren’t. I can’t, Hetty. It is madness.”

“Yes, to refuse. Do you hear? It is to save your four thousand pounds.”

“Oh!” groaned Sir Hilton.

“Your wife’s money.”

“With which she has trusted me for Parliamentary expenses.”

“Ha! Then you must ride and save it.”

“No, no, no! My spirit’s broken. I should funk everything.”

“Nonsense! Come, you will ride?”

“No, no, not even for that money, and to save the shame. I can’t – I can’t, Hetty.”

“Then for your old, old friend. Hilt, dear boy, we were nearly making a match of it once, only you were a fool. I’d have had you.”

“Would you?”

“Yes, if you hadn’t been so wild. Now then, for the sake of the old days and our old love. Hilt, for my sake. Do you want me to go down upon my knees?”

“No, no, the other way on, if you like. But the race – impossible. I can’t – I can’t. I don’t know, though. She’d never hear of it. But the newspaper. She never reads it, though; calls it a disgustingly low journal. But, no – no, I couldn’t – I couldn’t. Hetty, old girl, pray, pray don’t tempt me.”

“It is to save yourself from shame, and me, a weak, helpless woman, from absolute ruin. Don’t live to see me sold up, stock, lock, and barrel. Why, Hilt, old man, I shall be as badly off as you. All my poor gee-gees, including the mare, knocked down, and poor me marrying some tyrant who will now and then write me a paltry cheque.”

“Ha, yes!” cried Sir Hilton, drawing himself up as rigidly as if he had been struck by a cataleptic seizure, while Lady Tilborough stared at him in horror, and, unseen by either, Sydney, armed with mounted fly-rod and creel, appeared at the window, stopped short, and looked in in astonishment.

“Ha!” ejaculated the baronet, again, drawing a deep breath, as he changed into the little, wiry, alert man, with a regular horsey look coming over his face, and tightening lips. “All right, Hetty,” he cried. “I’m on.”

“Hurrah!” cried Lady Tilborough, waving her whip about her head, and then stroking it down softly on first one and then on the other side of her old friend, before making believe to hold a pair of reins and work them about, jockey fashion. “Sir Hilton up – he’s giving her her head – look at her – away she goes – a neck – half a length – a length – two lengths! Sylphide wins! Sylphide wins – a bad second, and the field nowhere.”

“Ha!” breathed Sir Hilton, with his eyes flashing.

“What about your silk and cap?”

“All right.”

“Get ’em; come on, then, Hilt. I’ll gallop back to the paddock like the wind. There’ll be some scene-shifting there by now, and the bookies working the oracle, for the news was flying when I came away that my mare was to be scratched.”

“Ha,” cried Sir Hilton. “We’ll scratch ’em, old girl. She must – she shall win.”

“Three cheers for the gentleman-rider!”

“But my wife – my election?”

“What! Win the race, and you’ll win the seat, old man. Can’t you see?”

“Only the saving of the money we have on.”

“What! Not that the popular sporting rider who won the cup will win no end of votes to-day?”

“Ah, to be sure. Yes, of course,” cried Sir Hilton, excitedly. “Be off. I’ll join you at the hotel. My word! I seem to be coming to life again, Hetty. I can hear the buzzing of the crowd, the beating of the hoofs, the whistling of the wind, and see the swarming mob, and yelling of the thousand voices as the horse sweeps on with her long, elastic stride.”

“First past the post, Hilt.”

“Yes, first past the post.”

“Now, get all you want and drive over at once. I’ll go round to the stables, shout for Mark, and tell him the news. Then I’ll gallop back at once.”

The “at once” came faintly, for Lady Tilborough was already passing through the door.

“Phew!” whistled Sir Hilton. “By George! it sends a thrill through a man again. La Sylphide. My first old love.”

He stood motionless, staring after his visitor for a few moments, and then dashed through the opposite door.

The next moment a fishing-rod was thrust in at the window, dropped against the table, and Syd, with a creel hanging from its strap, vaulted lightly through into the room, to give vent to what sounded like the tardy echo of his uncle’s whistle.

“Phe-ew!” And then he said softly, with a grin of delight upon his features: “Auntie seems to be very much out. The ball’s begun to roll, gentlemen, so make your little game.”

Chapter Eight.
The Other Woman in the Case

Syd Smithers ran to the door through which Lady Tilborough had passed, went through the hall to the other side of the house, and stopped to listen, just as there was the pattering of a pony’s feet, and he caught a glimpse of a dark-blue riding-habit, which was gone the next moment.

“Scissors!” he exclaimed. “Here, I must be on in this piece.”

He darted back into the hall, to come full butt upon Mark Willows.

“Hallo, Marky! What’s up now?”

“Dunno, sir. Message for the guv’nor, I think. Someun must be ill.”

“Awfully,” said the lad, and he grinned to himself as the man ran through the hall to the back staircase so as to get to his master’s dressing-room.

“I’m not such a fool as I look,” said Syd, as he entered the breakfast-room and stood in the middle picking up his fly-rod and thinking. “Marky’s going to the race. Driving, I bet. Well, I was going to nobble one of the ponies and ride, but I seem to see a seat alongside of the old man on the dogcart if I play my cards right. Oh, scissors!”

He started back for a step or two, and then ran to the window, to gaze out with starting eyes at a handsome-looking youth in a loose, baggy knickerbocker suit, mounted upon a bicycle, which he cleverly manipulated with one hand as he thrust open the swing gate, rode through, and escaped the rebound by pushing onward, riding right up to the window, leaping down with agility, leaning the bicycle against the wall, and, as if in imitation of Syd, vaulting lightly into the room to fling arms round the lad’s neck.

“Oh, Syd darling!” came from a pair of rosy lips, in company with a sob.

“Oh, Molly!” cried the boy, excitedly, beginning to repel his visitor, but ending by hugging her tightly in his arms.

“Got you again at last, dear,” cried the very boyishly-costumed young lady.

“Yes, but – oh, here’s a jolly shine!”

“Yes, dear, awful. But now I am come, don’t send me away from you. I feel as if we must part no more.”

“What are you talking about, pet?” cried the boy. “You must be off at once.”

“Oh, no, I shan’t. I’ve come, never to leave you any more.”

“You’re mad, Molly. A March hare isn’t in it with you. Auntie’ll be here directly.”

“Gammon! I met her ever so long ago, in the carriage and pair. She looked at me, and turned up her nose and sniffed.”

“Did she know you?”

“Not she. I should have been here before, only Lady Tilborough galloped by me on her pony, and I followed and saw her come in, and I’ve been hiding in the copse till she came away, for I knew she wouldn’t stop, as your aunt was out. As soon as she galloped off I came on. If it hadn’t been for that I should have been here before. So no fudge; everybody’s out, and we can talk. Oh, ain’t you jolly ready to get shut of me?”

“But everybody isn’t out, pussy. Uncle’s at home.”

“Is he? Come out, then. Let’s get into the woods.”

“But I can’t, dear.”

“Oh, why don’t you tell them? You must now.”

“I can’t, dear. It’s impossible yet. Oh, why did you come?”

“Because I wanted to see you pertickler.”

“But I was coming over to the races, and you’d have seen me then.”

“You got my telegram, then?”

“Telegram? No. What telegram?”

“The one I sent, saying I must see you. Yesterday.”

“No telegram came.”

“Then it’s got stuck, because there’s so many racing messages going. I sent one.”

“Then you must have been a little fool.”

“That I ain’t,” said the girl, petulantly.

“I told you not to write or send.”

“But I was obliged to, I tell you; and as you didn’t come to me in my trouble, I jumped on my bike and I’ve come to you.”

“But what for – what trouble?” cried the boy, stamping impatiently.

“Father’s got hold of your letters and found out everything, dear. You ought to have told ’em by now.”

“But – but – but,” stammered Syd, “where – what – what – oh! why did you come?”

“That’s what I keep telling you, dear. Dad’s half mad, and he’s coming over to see your aunt and uncle.”

“Coming here?”

“Yes, Syd love. He’d have come before if it hadn’t been for the race.”

“You must go back at once and stop him from coming here.”

“Stop him? Oh, Syd dear, you don’t know father.”

“Don’t know him? Oh, don’t I? Why, if he came here – oh, dear, dear, what a horrid mess! Well, I don’t know what to do.”

“Hadn’t I better stop here?”

“Hadn’t I better go and jump in the river? I wish you’d stopped at the Orphoean.”

“But I couldn’t, Syd; they’re rebuilding it.”

“Coming down here to this quiet place and making eyes at me in church till I didn’t know what I was about.”

“For shame, sir! It was you made eyes at me. I couldn’t help it.”

“Yes, you could. You’d got a church at Tilborough, and might have gone there.”

“Oh, what a shame, Syd! You know I did, and you went on writing letters to me, saying your aunt kept you at home, and that you couldn’t eat or sleep for longing to see my pretty face.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did, sir!” cried the girl, stamping her foot.

“I swear I didn’t.”

“Oh, you wicked wretch! Why, I’ve got six letters with it in.”

“What! You’ve kept my letters? I told you to burn ’em all.”

“Well, I haven’t. I’ve got ’em all tied up with red ribbon, the colour of my heart’s blood, all but those father found.”

“Yes, that’s it. If you’d done as I told you the old man would never have known.”

“Oh, wouldn’t he, Syd? Now say, if you dare, that you didn’t write to me to come over so that you might see my darling sweet face again.”

“Oh, I’m a gentleman, I am. I’m not going to tell any lies. If I said so, I must have been half cracked.”

“So you were – with love. I’ve got four letters that say so when you wanted me to go to London and get married.”

“Yes, I must have been mad, Molly. It’s been like a nightmare to me ever since. I wish I’d never seen you.”

“Oh, oh, oh!” began the pretty little bicyclist, beginning to sob. “Has it come to this so soon?”

“Don’t – don’t – don’t cry. The servants’ll hear you.”

“I – I – I can’t help it, Syd. Oh, dear, dear! You’ve broke my heart.”

“No, I haven’t, darling. There, there. Kisses’ll mend the place. There – and there – and there.”

“But you’re sorry you met me, and you don’t love me a bit. If I’d known what getting married meant you wouldn’t have caught me running off on the sly.”

“Don’t – don’t cry, I tell you,” cried the boy, passionately. “I didn’t mean it. You know that I love you awfully, only a man can’t help saying things when he’s in such a mess. You don’t know what my aunt is.”

“And you don’t know what my father is.”

“Oh, don’t I? An old ruffian,” added the boy to himself.

“Your aunt’s only a woman, and she got married herself.”

“Oh, yes, that’s true; but she isn’t like other women. She didn’t marry for love.”

“And I don’t wonder at it,” said the girl, dismally. “Love ain’t, as father says, all beer and skittles.”

“Don’t cry, I tell you,” said Syd, angrily, as the girl rubbed her eyes, boy-fashion, with the cuffs of her jacket, after a vain attempt to find her handkerchief.

“Well, ain’t I wiping away the tears, and got no – here, lend us yours, Syd.”

She snatched the boy’s handkerchief out of his breast-pocket, and had a comfortable wipe.

“You used to kiss my eyes dry once, when father had been rowing me, Syd.”

“Yes, and so I will now if you’ll go away, darling.”

“But I’m afraid, Syd. What with the letters, and the races and the people, and the book he’s making on Jim Crow he’s in such a temper that I thought he’d beat me.”

“What!” cried Syd, furiously, “strike my wife?”

“He didn’t, Syd dear; but I thought he would.”

“An old wretch! I’d kill him!”

“No, you wouldn’t, Syd dear,” said the girl, kittening up to him and rubbing her cheek up against his; “but it’s so nice of you to say so, and it makes me feel that you do love your little wifey ever so much.”

“Of course I do, soft, beautiful little owlet.”

“Then had I better stay?”

“What! Here?”

“Yes; I’m sure Lady Lisle’ll like me when she sees me. I’ll stop, and we’ll go down on our knees together, like they do at the Orphoean, and say: ‘Forgive us, mother – I mean, aunt dear – and it’ll be all right.’ ‘Bless you, my children.’ You know, Syd.”

“Look here, don’t put me in a passion again, or I shall be saying nastier things than ever.”

“But why, dear? What for? I am your little wife, you know.”

“Oh, yes, I know, Titty, but it’ll make such a horrid upset. Here, I’m expecting uncle down every moment.”

“Well, then, let’s both go down on our knees to him.”

“But he’s just off to the races.”

“Well, what of that? It wouldn’t take long, and it would be like rehearsing our parts ready to appear before your aunt.”

“No, no, no. Now, look here, I’ve got it. Wife must obey her husband. You swore you would.”

“Yes, dear, I did, but – ”

“But be blowed! You’ve got to do it, Tit. Now, then, you hop on your bike.”

“But, Syd, there you go again.”

“Hold your tongue, or how am I to teach you your part?”

“Very well,” said the girl, stifling a sob.

“You told me just now that your father’s making up a book on Jim Crow.”

The girl used the handkerchief, stuffed it back in her boy-husband’s pocket, and nodded rather sulkily.

“What’s he doing that for?”

“Because the other – La Sylphide’s scratched.”

“That she isn’t. She’s going to run.”

“No. Josh Rowle’s down with D.T.”

“That don’t matter. She’s going to run and win. You’ve got to go back and dress for the race. You can’t go like that. There’d be too much chaff on the course, and I’m not going to have my wife show up like this on the stands.”

“No, dear. I’ve got a new frock – lovely.”

“Well, look sharp and run back, and I’ll come over in the dogcart with uncle, and come straight to your dad and give him a tip that will put him in a good temper.”

“You will, Syd?” cried the girl, joyfully. “And confess all?”

“Every jolly bit. Quick! Kiss! Cut.”

La Sylphide, of the Orphoean, Dudley Square, London, was quick as lightning. She kissed like a wife who loved her juvenile lord, and she “cut”. In other words, devoid of slang, she vaulted out of the window, stagily, as she had been taught by a ballet-master, sprang on to her bicycle, and went off like the wind; but rather too late, for the door opened, and Sir Hilton hurried in, closely followed by Mark Willows, bearing a large brown leather Gladstone bag.