A NEWMARKET STORY. 



grip, as the deep chest-voice of the gentleman below resounded 

 through the passage. Joe answers, 



' Never you fear, sir, that Satanas won't do the thing. May 

 I never put leg across pigskin agen if he don't win in a canter.' 



The gloomy face of the young giant behind the door does 

 not clear as he says emphatically, 



* There's more than money on this race, Joe.' 



The girl listening so intently above falls silently back against 

 the wall, the bronzed hue of her face fading to an ashy gray. 



' If he takes me to hell after, he shall win the race, Mr. Ellis. 

 Damn the brute ! didn't I ride him yesterday, and didn't he go 

 like blazes ? Look at my hands. More than money on the race, 

 sir ! Lord love yer. Lord Castleton sha'n't have your gal !' 



The girl, leaning against the wall with closed eyelids, pants 

 like some hunted thing. Her hands have fallen nerveless beside 

 her, and the little bag has slipped from her grasp. Presently the 

 front door bangs with a concussion which shakes the landing 

 where she stands. Joe and his employer have gone off together 

 to the stables, where the favourite is watched and guarded with 

 the same care as a royal treasure. Jess opens her eyes and sees 

 the sun streaming warm October rays through the window of the 

 sitting-room behind her. The numbness of the pain passes 

 away, and she is alive once more with throbbing pulses and 

 acute perceptions of her own anguish. With the sudden revival 

 of strength, with passionate haste she wrenches open her travel- 

 ling-bag, and carries it into their little parlour. Jess can write a 

 fairly-decent letter, from having been from earliest days Joe's 

 amanuensis and frequent prompter. On a sheet of paper drawn 

 from her writing-case she scrawls hurriedly half-a-dozen lines. 

 Her loose wide handwriting fills up two sides of her note. She 

 seals it in its envelope before addressing the deed to the Hon. 

 Rupert Ellis. With hard dry eyes she gazes at the superscrip- 

 tion when it is finished. A despairing inability to cope with 

 some crushing calamity seems to harden every feature into the 

 stoniest despair. With the letter in her pocket, at last she gets 

 up and walks out of the house and down the street. 



Two hours later Jess is lolling in the armchair of the same 

 sitting-room, with her feet on the hob, the Sporting Times in her 

 hand, and a cigarette in her mouth. 



Enter Joe. 



' Well, old lady, what have you been a-doin' of since I saw 

 you ? I've been along o' Rupert to see Satanas. Rupert's in a 



