The effect was magical.
The ladies shrieked, the sleeper awakened, and sat up, frightened and wondering, rubbing her eyes, and, as the two gentlemen rushed into the conservatory, the two doors of the drawing-room were thrown open, for Mark and Jane to enter by one, Syd and Sam Simpkins by the other.
“Oh, Syd!” sobbed Molly, holding out her arms.
“Oh, dear!” sighed the boy, after a glance at the great skin upon the floor; “the cat’s out of the bag now.”
“Yes, reg’lar,” growled the trainer. “There, don’t you squeal, my gal. There’s enough to do the high strikes without you, and I’m going to see as you have your rights.”
“Syd, my darling, come here,” cried Lady Lisle. “What does all this mean?”
The boy was saved from answering by the action of Mark, who had darted into the conservatory, dog-like, on hearing a scuffle going on, and more breaking of glass, so as to be in the fight, and he now backed in, dragging at the dilapidated legs of the race-tout, helped by Sir Hilton and Granton, each of whom had hold of an arm, as they deposited their capture on the carpet. “Gently, Marky Willows,” said the prisoner, coolly; “one of them legs is broke.”
“Broken! Which?” cried the doctor, the natural instinct of his craft rising above the feeling of triumph over the capture. In an instant he was upon one knee, feeling for the fracture, “Why, they’re both right enough.”
“Air they?” said the tout, coolly. “A blooming good job too! I thought one was gone. Here, Marky, would you mind getting me my boots?”
“Your boots?” cried the groom, looking with disgust, in the broadening daylight, at a pair of very dirty, stockingless feet.