Sir Hilton nodded shortly and ran actively up the stairs.
“Bravo!” said the doctor. “Hilt looks his old self. Cool as a—you know.”
“Don’t say another word to me, Granton, till the race is over,” said the lady, pleadingly.
“I understand,” he said, and they went off straight for the paddock, while as soon as the chamber door in the gallery had been shut sharply upon his master by Mark Willows, Simpkins slipped out of the bar entry, looking flushed and strange.
“Too late to do anything now,” he groaned to himself. “My head seems to be going—all of a buzz. Hedge heavily or chance it. Which? Which? Oh, what in the name of thunder shall I do?”
Chapter Fifteen.
Mephistopheles at Work.
What the trainer did was to return to the bar and swallow a glass of gin and bitters hastily, before returning to his favourite seat in the hall, when he pulled out betting-book and pencil, threw one swollen leg over the other, and began to chew the lead and try to master the figures which would not stand still to be reckoned up.