“No, sir, nothing,” returned the trainer. “For Heaven's sake, speak low. I never saw him looking better in my life. We will see him now, if you like.”
“Where's Blanquette?” continued Ralph, a little reassured by this, as they moved away towards the Paddock.
“Mr Blanquette is not here, Mr Derrick.”
“Not here? Why, he was to join you the day before yesterday, otherwise I would have come myself.”
“He has been here, sir, but he's gone away again?”
“What! Is he not coming back to-day?”
“I hope so, sir; I most sincerity hope so; but the fact is—now take 'it quietly, for it's none of my fault—he's gone after Jack Withers.”
In an instant, while Walter ejaculated a smothered cry of agony and wrath, Derrick had seized the trainer by the throat. “You know me, sir,” cried he. “As I swore to treat that tout on the Downs at Mirk, so will I treat you, if that jockey”——
But two blue-coated men had thrust themselves between the strong man and his victim; a gentleman in a tight-buttoned frock-coat was coming up, too, in plain clothes, with that swift determined stride peculiar to members of “the force,” and the crowd grew very thick about them, and a thousand eyes were being concentrated upon Ralph's furious face, he knew. If his temper was lost now, he felt that all was lost. With an effort that almost cost him a fit of apoplexy—“I am sorry,” said he, “that I laid my hand upon you, Mr Chifney.”
“That will do,” returned the trainer quietly, arranging his neckcloth. “Mr Inspector, you know me, and there is no occasion for your services.”