LITMIR.BIZ

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disaster. Her white teeth gleamed as she smiled; the man at her side was lost in admiration – it was not difficult to see that.

      The man looking outside raised his clenched fists and said: "Is there no God, no justice anywhere?"

      As he spoke the woman dropped her fork and started, a shiver passed over her. The man at her side hastily got up, brought her a wrap and placed it on her shoulders. The man outside saw the fork fall, he saw the wrap, and he muttered again: "There is a God, there is justice; her conscience imprisons her as surely as – "

      "Move on there! What are you lurking about here for?"

      "All right, goin' 'ome, just met yer brother along there."

      "He's not my brother," said the constable gruffly.

      "Thought yer were all brothers, members of the same cloth, anyhow yer all good sorts. Good-night."

      "Be off home," said the constable, as he went on his way; and a second man lost a chance of promotion that night.

      "I must not run any more risks," thought the man, "but I'm glad I crossed the road and looked in at that window. She suffers, she could not have heard my voice, perhaps an internal justice carried it to her and my words were whispered in her ears – such things have been known. There she sits, feasting, surrounded by every comfort, but she's not happy, she never will be, such women never are. God, to think what I have gone through for her, what I have suffered! I have lived in hell, in purgatory, and I ought to be on my way to heavenly peace. God, give me a chance; I am an innocent man and You know it."

      "Hallo, mate, where goin'? Yer a late bird," said Brack, as he knocked against the man walking in a curiously wild way in the middle of the road.

      "Goin' 'ome," said the man.

      "That'll not get over me; yer puttin' it on. I'm fra Yorkshire, and a bit too cute for that."

      "What d'yer mean?"

      "That I've heard gents speak in my time, and I reckon you're one."

      The man started; at first he was inclined to bolt; then as the light of a lamp shone on Brack's face he saw it was honest, kindly, full of charity, and through it he knew there was a big heart inside the rough body.

      "You are right," he said. "I was a gentleman, I hope I am one still, although I have lived such a life that the wonder is I am not a beast."

      Brack looked hard at him; from his face his gaze wandered over his body, then he looked at his hands; one was bound up, the other had marks on it, deep marks, like the marks of teeth. Brack made up his mind.

      "Don't move," he said, "when I tell you something. I'm a man, not a fiend, and I've an innocent brother over there," and he jerked his hand in the direction of the moor far away. "Maybe you've seen him."

      The man gasped – this old sailor knew! Should he – no, the face was honest, he would trust him.

      "Perhaps I have," he said.

      "Are you the man that throttled that bloodhound?"

      "Why do you ask?"

      "Because if you are I'd like to clasp yer hand and say I think yer brave."

      The man held out his bandaged hand; the old sailor took it in his big, horny palm tenderly, pressing it gently.

      "The other one," he said.

      The man held out his other hand.

      "I'm glad I've held 'em both, the hands that strangled that cursed hound. Come along with me. I'll see yer safe, never fear. There's not a man jack of 'em in Torquay or Princetown, or anywhere, would ever suspect old Brack of harboring a – gentleman."

      Without a word the man went with him. As he walked at the honest Brack's side he thought: "My prayer has been answered."

      CHAPTER V

      PICTON'S WINNING MOUNTS

      IT was Easter Monday, and a holiday crowd gathered on the slopes of Petitor racecourse at St. Mary Church. More than usual interest was shown in the meeting owing to the presence of Picton Woodridge, whose fame as a gentleman rider was well-known. Dick Langford was popular and the success of the pink jacket eagerly anticipated.

      Petitor is not an ideal course; it is on the slope of a hill, and a queer country to get over, but some interesting sport is seen and the local people take a pride in it; as a golf links it is admirable.

      Picton had not seen the course before, at least only from the road, and as he looked at it he smiled.

      "I may lose my way," he said to Rita; "go the wrong course."

      "You will find it easy enough, and you are not likely to make mistakes. Look," and she pointed out the track to him, and the various obstacles.

      There were bookmakers there – where are they not when races are on, no matter how small the fields, or the crowd?

      Picton wore the pink jacket, ready to ride Pitcher in the Maiden Hurdle Race, the opening event. There were only three runners, and yet the books accepted six to four on Dick's horse; there was a strong run on Frisco; and Fraud was nibbled at.

      "Come along," said Dick; "time to mount."

      "Good luck!" said Rita with a smile. "You'll find Pitcher easy to ride. I've been on him several times."

      "He'll find me rather a different burden," said Picton.

      The three runners came out, and Picton received a hearty welcome, which he acknowledged.

      "Sits his horse well," said one.

      "A good rider, anybody can see that."

      "Here, I'll take seven to four and it's picking up money!" shouted a bookmaker; and so thought the backers as they hurried up with their money, and Pitcher quickly became a two to one on chance.

      The distance was two miles. Picton indulged Frisco with the lead until half a mile from home, when he sent Pitcher forward, had a slight tussle with Frisco, then forged ahead and landed the odds by ten lengths amidst great cheering.

      "Win number one," said Dick triumphantly; "when the meeting is over they'll bar you from riding here again."

      Rita was delighted, her face all smiles; she was proud of the good-looking man who had carried her brother's colors to victory.

      Picton, as he walked about with Rita, Dick, Captain Ben and a host of friends, was the cynosure of all eyes; but he was accustomed to being stared at.

      "Now comes the tug-of-war," said Dick. "There's The Rascal. See how he's lashing out, scattering the crowd. I believe he's in a nasty temper, confound him."

      There were five runners in the Steeplechase, and although The Rascal had Picton up, the favorite was Anstey, who had Hordern in the saddle. The Tor, Moorland, and Stream, were the other runners, but wagering was confined to the favorite and The Rascal.

      Picton walked up to his mount; The Rascal switched round, despite Brent's efforts, and refused to be mounted. His rider watched him with an amused smile; Dick and his sister looked anxious, while a crowd gathered round at a respectful distance.

      Picton bided his time, then, when The Rascal had his attention attracted by Brent, slipped up to him, took the reins and swung into the saddle, and before the astonished horse recovered from his surprise he had him well under control. The spectators cheered; it was a clever piece of work, deserving of recognition. Once mounted, The Rascal seemed tractable enough; but Picton knew the horse was not in the best temper, and required humoring.

      "You've not got a very nice mount," said Hordern as they rode together.

      "I'm told he's queer-tempered," said Picton; and as he looked at Anstey he thought: "Your mount will take a bit of beating."

      They were soon on their journey. At first The Rascal made a deliberate attempt to bolt; he discovered he had a rider who refused to put up with his inclinations in this direction. Finding bolting stopped, he tried to swerve at the first fence; this object was also frustrated and he received a few stinging cuts from the whip, wielded by a strong arm. These vagaries allowed Anstey and the others to forge ahead, and The Rascal was in the rear.

      Dick

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