“My husband—Sir Hilton Lisle. He is here?” said the lady, sternly.
The trainer’s jaw dropped, and, like lightning, a thought flashed through his brain.
The wife, to stop the gentleman from mounting the mare! It was salvation.
But the next moment the hope died out. In such an emergency the wife’s appeal would be as so much breath. It would be like grasping at a shadow and letting the substance go.
“Do you not understand, my man?” said Lady Lisle, impatiently. “My husband—he is here?”
“Sir Hilton Lisle, Bart.?” said the trainer, who determined to stick to the substance and let the shadow glide. “Oh, no, my lady, he ain’t here.”
“Where is he, then?”
“I dunno, my lady,” replied the man, coolly. “At the races, I should suppose.”
“How could I find him in all that crowd?” murmured the unhappy woman. Then, setting her teeth hard to suppress the feeling of passion that was growing fast, she turned to the man again, and her voice was perfectly firm and cold, as she said authoritatively: “You have a daughter, man?”
“That’s right, my lady,” said the trainer, and he smiled faintly. “Oh,” he continued, “I suppose I know what brings your ladyship here.”