“Yes; he’s up there in number one, dressing for the race.”
“A lie! An excuse! Give me my money!” and he clutched at the trainer so fiercely that the bar and chamber maids came to the bar door to see.
“Ony a gent a bit upset about a bit o’ coin, my dears. Here, Mary, tell Mr Trimmer, here, who’s dressing in number one.”
“Sir Hilton Lisle, sir,” replied the maid, and Trimmer’s hands dropped from the trainer’s coat. “Anyone with him, my gal?”
“Yes, sir. Mark Willows, Sir Hilton’s groom.”
The agent dropped into a chair, looking as if he were going to have a fit.
“Gent’s a bit poorly. Excitement. That’ll do, my gals. Stop, one of you bring him a nip of my gin and bitters.”
The two maids, well accustomed to such scenes, retired into the bar, one of them returning with a glass upon a tray, and waiting to be paid, as Trimmer seized the liquor and gulped it down.
“All right, my dear; my treat,” said the trainer, and the next minute the two men were alone.
“Then it’s true?” faltered the agent, as he set down the glass.