now. "Tell Thomas I want him to drive me over to Tilborough at
once."

"To the races, my lady?"

"No," was the reply, firmly given; and then, as the girl glided out of
the door, rubbing her eyes the while, the stricken woman repeated the
word aloud: "No," and added thoughtfully: "I have been deceived about
Lady Tilborough. Now to trace out my husband and that other wretch!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

BUSY TIMES AT TILBOROUGH.

The Tilborough Arms had, from its position in the famous old racing
town, always been a house to be desired by licenced victuallers, who
mostly gain their living by supplying a very small amount of victuals,
and drink out of all proportion, to guests; but in the hands of Sam--
probably christened Samuel, but the complete name had long died out--Sam
Simpkins, the inn had become an hotel of goodly proportions, where
visitors could be provided with comfortable bedrooms off the gallery and
snug breakfasts and dinners in suitable places, always supposing that
they were on "the Turf." For Sam Simpkins had prospered, not only with
the old inn, but in other ways. He did a bit of farming, bred horses in
the meadows where the thick, succulent waterside grasses grew, and
always had a decent bit of blood on hand for sale, or to run in some one
or another of the small races.

Sam was known, too, as a clever trainer, who had for a long time been in
the service of that well-known sportsman, Sir Hilton Lisle. He had
transferred his services when Sir Hilton went from the horses to the
dogs, and did a good deal of training business for Lady Tilborough, till
there was a bit of a tiff--something about money matters, it was said--
when her ladyship and he parted company, but remained good friends.
Then, to use his own expression, he went on his own hook, where he
wriggled a great deal between the crooked and the square. But still he
prospered, and grew what his friends called a thoroughly warm party.

The fact was that Sam was a regular gatherer-up of unconsidered trifles,
not above taking a great deal of pains to make a pound, and he made it,
too, wherever there was no chance of making a hundred or more.

He never lost a chance, though he lost his wife when his daughter was at
a dangerous age. And when a well-known sporting member of the Orphoean
Music-Hall--I beg its pardon, Temple of Music and the Arts--was staying
at Tilborough so as to be present at the races, something was settled
one evening over pi