The blow was irreparable, and Mostyn realised it at once. At such short notice it was practically impossible to find an adequate substitute, and the jockey who finally rode Gulliver, a mere boy, proved himself unequal to the task. The horse was bad-tempered, and realised at once that a stranger was on his back. He made a bad start, and, though he picked up afterwards, only succeeded in running into third place.
Mostyn, who had felt that with Gulliver the game was in his hands, was terribly cast down; but there was, luckily perhaps, no time for serious reflection. The Cambridgeshire followed on so quickly, and here again, all his plans having been carefully laid, he stood a very fair chance.
When the weights for the Cambridgeshire had been announced, it was found that Silver Star, the property of a well-known nobleman, had been treated most leniently by the handicappers. The mare at once became a raging-hot favourite, and Mostyn spared no expense in his endeavours to purchase her. The noble owner was by no means inclined to sell, but, finally—and here again Mostyn had to thank Sir Roderick for his good offices—the deal was carried through, though it made a terrible inroad into Mostyn's diminishing capital.
But the day before the race, just when she was about to be transferred from Treves's stables to Newmarket, Silver Star was found to be ailing. There were suspicious circumstances about the case, too, for the horse's illness was so very sudden and unexpected, also it appeared difficult to diagnose the actual cause of the trouble. On the other hand, it was impossible to throw suspicion upon anyone. Had Jack Treves been at home, Mostyn might have felt interested in his movements at that time, but Jack had been sent away by his father to purchase horses in another part of the country, and so, as far as Silver Star was concerned, he seemed beyond suspicion.
It was due to the discretion of old Treves himself that Jack had been sent away. The trainer had learnt of the assault upon Mostyn, and had immediately taken vigorous and characteristic action. He had not spared his son, but had rebuked him in round and unmeasured terms, both for his treatment of Rada—having regard to his philandering with Daisy Simpson—and for his utter folly in risking the making of bad blood between his father and his father's best client.
Old Mr. Treves had every wish to see the engagement between Jack and Rada a settled thing; having made money himself, he was now anxious that his son should raise himself in the social scale. But, from his point of view, Jack was busily engaged in spoiling his best chances.
"Mark my words," he said, "you will lose the girl altogether if ye don't treat her as a real lady—which she is. Daisy Simpson, indeed!"—the old man sniffed indignantly—"carrying on with a drab like that! Why, you are just askin' to get the chuck, that's what you're doin'—askin' for it." Here his indignation almost overpowered him. "It's a good thing you caught it from Mr. Clithero," he went on, "an' wot you got served you right. If you hadn't been punished already, I've a mind to hide you myself—yes, to take the stick to you, as I did when you was a lad—what's more, I could do it, too!"
Old Treves was bulky, broad of shoulder, and in rude health; as father and son stood there together it looked very much as if the elder man could easily have carried his words into effect.
"Anyway, you shan't be hangin' about the place, making a nuisance of yourself, more'n I can help till after next June. Miss Rada shall have the clear run she wants, and I expect the less she sees of you, in the meanwhile, the more she'll be likely to take to you in the end."
It was, as a consequence of this, that Jack, despite his grumbles and the consciousness that he was giving a clear field to his rival, was packed off from Partinborough, and troubled Mostyn and Rada very little more during the months that ensued.