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