As the slight figure, looking slighter still in a long trailing race coat, passed through the paddock gate to the stand enclosure, Mike Gaynor spoke to the jockey.

“Redpath, me b'y, it's up to ye to put yer best leg for'ard to-day. Ye'r ridin' for the greatest little woman in this big country. In all the stand up there, wit' their flounces and jewels, there isn't a lady like her. Not wan av them judys kin touch her as a rale proper lady. God bless me, she's de sweetest—” then he checked himself; he was going to say the sweetest filly, but even to his rough-hewn mind, tutored only by horse lore, it seemed sacrilege to speak of Miss Porter as anything but a lady.

“You're right, Mike,” concurred the little man; “I'd rather ride the mare for her than White Moth, or The King, or any of the favorites for their owners.”

“An' the ould man lyin' there at home on his back, eh, Redpath? He's as good as gold hisself; that's where the girl gets it; not sayin' a word ag'in Mrs. Porter; she don't understand, that's all. But ye'll put up the ride of your life, me b'y, won't ye?”

“I'll do that, old chap.”

“Mike'll stand by ye,” affirmed Gaynor. “Say, b'y,” and he turned and looked squarely into the eyes of the little man, “I know if they beats ye to-day, 'twon't be yer fault 'cause why?”—and he put his hand on Redpath's shoulder—''cause ye'r like many another man, sweet on the young Missis. Now, now, now stop that!” and he held up his finger warningly, as the other raised his voice in mild protest; “it's to yer credit. It'll do ye no good in wan way, av coorse, for, as ye say, she'll never know it.” Redpath had not made the statement Mike attributed to him, but the latter was giving him a kindly pointer. “But it'll do ye no harm. The likin' av a good woman will sometimes make a man av a scoundrel, but ye'r a long way from bein' that, me b'y; so it'll do ye tons av good. There's the bugle; go an' mount, an' I'll watch how ye get on; an' good luck to ye.”

Regally, one after another, in stately file, the turf kings, decked out with the silken jackets that rested a-top—crimson, and gold, and blue, and white, and magpie, passed through the paddock gate to the newly smoothed course. Very modest and demure number seven, the little brown mare, looked beside the strong-muscled giants, bright bay, golden chestnut, and raven-wing black, that overshadowed her in the procession that caught the forty thousand pairs of eyes. Something of this thought came to Allis, sitting in the stand. What a frail little pair they were, both of them, and to be there battling for this rich prize that was so hardly fought for, by strong men athirst for gold, and great horses a-keen for the gallop!

Ah, there was Diablo, the very number Allis had said carried no dread for her, thirteen. What a strange coincidence! What a cruel twist of fate it would be if he were to win!—he looked equal to it. A man sitting at Allis's elbow suddenly cried in a voice enthused into the joyous treble of a boy's: “Look at that big Black; isn't he a beaut? Number thirteen. That's a hoodoo number, if you like; it's enough to give a backer cold feet.”

“I thought you weren't superstitious, Rex;” this was a woman's voice.

“I'm not, an' I'm going straight down to back that Black, thirteen and all.”

On Allis's other side one of the party was ticking off the horses by their numbers as they passed; “One, two, that's White Moth; they say she'll win; three, Red Rover; four, what's that? that's George L.; five, six, seven; just look at that little runt. What is it? Oh, Lucretia. Might as well run a big calf, I should think.”

“She's just lovely,” declared a lady in the party. “She's as graceful as a deer, and I'm sure she'll run as fast as any of them.”

“Can't live in that mob; they'll smother a little thing like her,” declared the man, emphatically. “Where are we—ten, eleven, The King, that's the winner for a hundred. Look at him. He carries my money. It's all over now; they can't beat him. That's a fine looker, though, thirteen,—Diabo, eh? What's that horse Diablo, George?” turning to one of the men.

“No good—a maiden; I looked them all up in the dope book; how they expect to win the Brooklyn with a maiden gets beyond me.”

Somewhat tortured, Allis listened to the voluble man on her left, who was short and fat, and red of face, as he graded, with egotistical self-sufficiency, the thirteen competitors for the big Handicap. Lucretia he had passed over in disdain. Crude as his judgment seemed, arrogantly insufficient, it affected Allis disagreeably. Now that everything had been done, that the last minute of suspense was on, she was depressed. The exhilaration of preparation had gone from her, and the words of the captious man on her left, “that little runt,” hung with persistent heaviness on her soul. All the vast theater of the stand was a buzz of eager chatter. Verily it was a race; it was the Brooklyn Handicap. Lips that smiled gave a mocking lie to drawn, strained faces, and nervous, shifting eyes, that told of the acceptance of too deep a hazard. The weeks and months of mental speculation embodied in heavy bets would have their fruit ripened and plucked within a brief half hour.

Allis's gaze dropped to the grass lawn in front of the stand for a minute, her eyes seeking repose from the strain of watching the horses as they went down to the starting post. How fretfully erratic were the men who dotted its green sward with gray and solemn black! The deeper interest Allis had over there on the course where was the little mare, seemed to lift her to a great height above them. How like ants they were, crossing and recrossing each other's paths, twisting and turning without semblance of an objective point, creatures of an impulse almost lower than instinct, devoid of this well-directed governing motive. Yes, they were like an army of ants that had been suddenly thrown into confusion. She saw one of them come hurriedly out of the paddock, talking impetuously with bended head—for he was tall—to a short man in gray tweed, beyond doubt a trainer. Suddenly the tall man broke away, hurried to the rail which separated the lawn from the course, leaned far over its top to take a last look at the horses, and then with a queer shuffling trot he hurried to the mob that was surging and pushing about the bookmakers. Allis noted with minute observance each little act in this pantomime of the last-minute plunge. Just beneath where she sat two men were having a most energetic duel of words. A slim, darkskinned youth, across whose fox-like face was written in large letters the word “Tout,” was hammering into his obdurate companion the impossibility of some certain horse being defeated. Presently the other man's hand went into his pocket, and when it came forth again five ten-dollar bills were counted with nervous reluctance and hesitatingly made over to the Tout. Tight clutching his prize this pilot of the race course slipped from Allis's sight and became lost in the animated mass that heaved and swayed like full-topped grain in a harvest breeze.

Within all that enclosure there seemed no one possessed of any calm. To the quiet girl it was a strange revelation; no one could have as much at stake as she had, and yet over her spirit there was nothing beyond the lethargy of depression. No; no one is calm, she thought. Ah, the assertion was too sweeping. Coming up the steps, just at her right, was a man who might have been walking in a quiet meadow, or a full-leafed forest, for all there was of agitation in his presence. A sudden new thought came to Allis; she had never seen that face distraught but once. The collected man was Philip Crane. A tinge of almost admiration tingled the girl's mind. To be possessed of calm where all was nervous strain was something.

Suddenly the unimpassioned face lighted up; the narrow-lidded eyes gleamed with brightened interest. As eagerly as a boy their owner, Crane, came forward and saluted Allis. At that instant the man of many words on her left rose from his seat to chase through the interminable crowd on the lawn a new victim.

Allis had sought to be alone in this short time of trial; she was hardly sure of herself. If Lucretia failed she might break down; for what would come to her father should the message home be one of disaster? Even if the little mare won her joy might lead her to commit strange pranks; she felt that her heart would burst out of sheer joy, if she did not shout in exultation, or caper madly, as she had seen others do in the hour of victory. She was sorry that Crane had come.

“I was looking for you,” he said; “I want to see you win this race; that is, if—I mean, like every other man here, I have harked back to my natural instinct of covetous acquisition and had a bet on.”

“Not Lucretia?”

“No—I've bet on Diablo. Langdon thinks he'll win. Do you remember the agreement about his purchase?”

“What was that? I've half forgotten it.”

“Just a little bet on your account, you know.”

“Oh, I remember; but that was only in fun, wasn't it?”

“It was part of the bargain, and it's on. You'll take it, won't you, if he wins—”

“They're off!” Some one had shouted the magic words from the head of the steps. In a second every voice of the thousands was stilled, and there was only the noise of shuffling feet, as eager watchers stood up to see the horses.

“It's a false start,” said Crane, quietly, turning toward the girl. “It would have been well for you, Miss Allis, had the starter let them go. Lucretia was well out in the lead; it was Diablo's fault, too, that they had to go back—he was left standing.”

Crane's voice was Fate's voice. Would there never be anything but Lucretia and Diablo, seven and thirteen, thirteen and seven?

“Diablo's a bad horse at the post, sure,” ejaculated Crane, letting his field glass rest for an instant on his knee; “he just backs up and shakes his head viciously; evidently he doesn't like the idea of so much company.”

“How is Lucretia acting, Mr. Crane?”

“Perfectly. You must have instilled some of your own patience into her.”

The girl hardly heard the implied compliment.

Would the patience be rewarded? Or would thirteen, that was symbolical of evil, and its bearer, Diablo, who was an agent of evil, together snatch from her this prize that meant so much? It was strange that she should not think of the other horses at all. It was as though there were but two in the race—Lucretia and Diablo—and yet they were both outsiders.

“The Starter is having a bad time of it; that makes six false breaks,” said Allis's companion; “it will end by his losing patience with the boys, I fear, and let them go with something off in a long lead. But they say this Fitzpatrick is a cool hand, and gives no man the best of it. He'll probably fine Diablo's rider a hundred dollars; I believe it's customary to do that when a jockey persistently refuses to come up with his horses. Just look at that!—the black fiend has lashed out and nearly crippled something.”

“Not Lucretia, Mr. Crane!” gasped Allis.

“No, it's a chestnut—there they go! Good boy, Westley. I mean Diablo's jockey has done a fiendish clever thing. He came through his horses on the jump, carried them off their feet, they all broke—yes, the flag's down, and he's out with a clean lead.”

Down in front a bell was clanging viciously; people were rushing with frenzied haste from the betting ring, and clambering up the steps of the stand; in the stand itself the whole vast mob had risen to its feet, and even now the rolling beat of eager hoofs was in the aid, hushed of the mob's clamor.

Yes, Crane had spoken truly; a great striding black, along whose neck hung close a tiny figure in yellow and red, was leading the oncoming horses. Allis strained her eyes trying to discover the little mare, but she was swallowed up in the struggling mob that hung at Diablo's heels. As they opened a little, swinging around the first turn, Allis caught sight of the white-starred blue jacket. Its wearer was quite fifth or sixth.

“Lucretia is doing well,” said Crane; “she's holding her own; she's lapped on White Moth.”

It seemed strange to Allis that any other thought should come into her mind at that time other than just concern for Lucretia, but she caught herself wondering at Crane's professional words of description. For the time he was changed; the quick brevity of his utterance tokened an interested excitement. He was not at all like the Crane she knew, the cold, collected banker.

“Lucretia's doing better,” her companion added a few seconds later. “If I were given to sentiment, I should say her gallop was the poetry of motion. She deserves to win. But honestly, Miss Allis, I think she'll never catch the Black; he's running like a good horse.”

Allis could not answer; the strain was too great for words. It would be all over in a minute or so; then she would talk.

“Your mare is creeping up, Miss Allis; she's second to the Black now, and they've still a good three furlongs to go. You may win yet. It takes a good horse to make all his own running for a mile and a quarter and then in. His light weight may land him first past the post. There are only four in it now, the rest are beaten off, sure. Diablo is still in the lead; White Moth and Lucretia are a length back; and The King is next, running strong. It's the same into the stretch. Now the boys are riding; Lucretia is drawing away from White Moth—she's pressing Diablo. You'll win yet!”

His voice was drowned by the clamor that went up from every side. “Diablo! White Moth! Lucretia!” What a babel of yells! “He's beat! Come on!” It was deafening. All the conjecture of months, all the hopes and fears of thousands, compressed into a few brief seconds of struggling endeavor.

Allis had sat down. There was less frenzied excitement thus.

“God of Justice!” it was Crane's voice, close to her ear; his hot breath was on her cheek; he had leaned down, so that she might hear him. “Your jockey has sold you, or else Lucretia quit. I thought I saw him pull her off. I'm sorry, Miss Allis, God knows I am, though I've won—for Diablo is winning easily.” Then he straightened up for an instant, only to bend down again and say, “Yes, Diablo has won, and Lucretia is beaten off. Perhaps it wasn't the boy, after all, for it's a long journey for a three-year-old mare. Can I do anything for you? Let me see you down to the paddock.”

“Thank you,” the girl answered, struggling with her voice. “Yes, I must go, for Dixon will be terribly disappointed. I must go and put a brave face on, I suppose. It's all over, and it can't be helped. But you've won, and I congratulate you.”

“Poor old dad!” she muttered to herself, “to have fairly given away Diablo just when he was ready to win a big race.” With a tinge of bitterness the girl thought how much her mother's opposition was to blame for this narrow missing of a great victory. She was glad to get away from the cataract of voices that smothered her like great falling waters. There was little exultation. If it had been any solace to her, she had much companionship in her dashed hopes; for Diablo, the winner, had not been backed by the general public; the favorite, White Moth, had been beaten.

After the first outburst a sullen anger took possession of the race-goers. They had been wronged, deceived; another coup had been made by that trick manipulator, Langdon. How carefully he had kept the good thing bottled up. If the mob could have put into execution its half-muttered thoughts, every post about the Gravesend track would have been decorated with a fragment of Langdon's anatomy.

Even the bookmakers were less jubilant than usual over this winning of an outsider, for Crane, and Langdon, and Faust, and two or three others who had either received a hint or stumbled upon the good thing, had taken out of the ring a tidy amount of lawful currency.