“Ring, and when the coachman comes tell him to bring the carriage round as quickly as he can.”
“But, oh, my lady,” sobbed Jane, and she caught and kissed her mistress’s hands one after the other, “don’t, pray don’t! You are going to run away and leave him, and my mother said a lady ought never to do that unless he’s been very, very bad.”
“I am not going away from my home, Jane,” said Lady Lisle, growing firmer 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.