"Perfectly, oh, perfectly!"
"Then, you must guess again," she said. "I have not ridden in the Row for a year. I spent all of last Autumn in the North."
"But I saw you somewhere, sometime," he insisted.
"What matters it?" she asked; "since you see me now.—There, the second heat is starting!"
This time there were but three—Britannia, Merry Andrew and Terror had been distanced—and, again, the three ran close together until they reached the stretch, for the last time. Then Trial came away, and, under a tremendous drive, won by length from Figaro, with Chester third.
"The favorite seems outclassed," said Parkington. "The weight is just a trifle too much, I fancy."
"You do not know Figaro," said Mr. Paca. "I will wager you five pistoles, that he gets the next heat."
"Taken. The weight will tell more upon him the next time."
"Again, you do not know Figaro!" laughed Paca. "It will tell less—or, rather, it will tell on the others more. Figaro has lost two heats, before, but he never lost the third."