like a
man mounting a scaffold he was, an innocent man condemned to be hanged
for another's crime.

The investigation had been brought about by a note one of the Stewards
had received. The sender of the missive stated in it that he had backed
Lucretia heavily, but had strong reasons for believing there was a
job on. The backer was a reliable man and asked for a fair run for his
money. The note had come too late--just as the horses were starting--to
be of avail, except as a corroboration of the suspicious features of
the race. Starter Carson's evidence as to McKay's handling of the mare
coincided with the contents of the note. Then there was the fact of
Porter's having bought Lauzanne. The Stewards did not know the actual
circumstances of the sale, but had been told that Lucretia's owner had
acquired the Chestnut before the race. Where all was suspicion, every
trivial happening was laid hold of; and Alan's trifling bet on Lauzanne
had been magnified into a heavy plunge--no doubt the father's money had
been put up by the boy. A race course is like a household, everything is
known, absolutely everything.

Porter was aghast. Were all the Furies in league against him? He was
more or less a believer in lucky and unlucky days, but he had never
experienced anything quite so bad as this. He, the one innocent man in
the transaction, having lost almost his last dollar, and having been
saddled with a bad horse, was now accused of being the perpetrator
of the villainy; and the insinuation was backed up by such a mass of
circumstantial evidence. No wonder he flushed and stood silent, lost for
words to express his indignation.

"Speak up, Mr. Porter," said the Steward, kindly. "Those that lost on
Lucretia are swearing the mare was pulled."

"And they're right," blurted out Porter. "I know what the mare can do;
she can make hacks of that bunch. She was stopped, and interfered with,
and given all the worst of it from start to finish; but my money was
burnt up with the public's. I never pulled a horse in my life, and I'm
too old to begin now."

"I believe that," declared the Steward, emphatically. "I've known you,
John Porter, for forty years, man and boy, and there never was anything
crooked. But we've got to clear this up. Racing isn't what it used to
be--it's on the square now, and we want the public to understand that."

"What does the boy say," asked Porter; "you've had him up?"

"He says the mare was 'helped;' that she ran