The Other Woman in the Case.
Syd Smithers ran to the door through which Lady Tilborough had passed, went through the hall to the other side of the house, and stopped to listen, just as there was the pattering of a pony’s feet, and he caught a glimpse of a dark-blue riding-habit, which was gone the next moment.
“Scissors!” he exclaimed. “Here, I must be on in this piece.”
He darted back into the hall, to come full butt upon Mark Willows.
“Hallo, Marky! What’s up now?”
“Dunno, sir. Message for the guv’nor, I think. Someun must be ill.”
“Awfully,” said the lad, and he grinned to himself as the man ran through the hall to the back staircase so as to get to his master’s dressing-room.
“I’m not such a fool as I look,” said Syd, as he entered the breakfast-room and stood in the middle picking up his fly-rod and thinking. “Marky’s going to the race. Driving, I bet. Well, I was going to nobble one of the ponies and ride, but I seem to see a seat alongside of the old man on the dogcart if I play my cards right. Oh, scissors!”
He started back for a step or two, and then ran to the window, to gaze out with starting eyes at a handsome-looking youth in a loose, baggy knickerbocker suit, mounted upon a bicycle, which he cleverly manipulated with one hand as he thrust open the swing gate, rode through, and escaped the rebound by pushing onward, riding right up to the window, leaping down with agility, leaning the bicycle against the wall, and, as if in imitation of Syd, vaulting lightly into the room to fling arms round the lad’s neck.
“Oh, Syd darling!” came from a pair of rosy lips, in company with a sob.