And thus they flashed under the wire. The crowd now surged around the judges’ stand. A living stream poured out from the amphitheater. Hideous screams and yells rent the very air: “The Ghost!” “Annabel!” “Annabel!” “The Ghost!” “Annabel!” “Cassandra!” “Annabel!” while burning eyes strained, eager to catch the number—No. 7. Cassandra had won.
One long, shrill, deafening shriek now pierced the air, then died away, amidst a rudely descending shower of hats, parasols, and umbrellas. A mad rush for the “bookies,” and the race was ended.
The mistress still stood peering from the balcony as if paralyzed. Her eyes, now fixed, stared from features as pale and immovable as if wrought by the hand of a sculptor. Thomas stood tapping nervously upon the sleeve of her dress, while his ungovernable heels played a tattoo upon the sounding floor. He was unheeded. He ventured a more violent tug, and the shapely figure swung slowly around as though poised on a pivot. “Cassandra’s won, ma’am!”
Her lips moved, but the words were inaudible. Her eyes turned again, bent in the direction of the judges’ stand.
“Have the judges said so, Thomas?”
“Her number’s 7, ma’am,” and pointing to where the number hung, he said: “There’s the number. And here, ma’am,” he continued, gesturing wildly, “are the tickets. I couldn’t find Mr. Grannan, ma’am, and didn’t know what to do, so I lit in and pretty nigh backed Miss Cassie off them boards like I ’lowed Mr. Grannan would have done.”
“We’ll go there at once—to the stables,” said the mistress.
“I’ll fetch the carriage to the side entrance, here, ma’am, if you wish.”
She nodded assent as he hurried away. A familiar voice now caused her to look up into the face of Grannan.
“I must congratulate you,” he said, as he took her hand, “upon the victory of little Cassandra, though I must say I never knew her by that name until now. I was utterly amazed,” he continued, “when I thought I had recognized her. How delighted I am now to know that she won.”