whirled away in the tempest of his passion. "I saw him to-day, on my
way to the track. He didn't see me. When I knew him his name was
Garrison--Billy Garrison. I discharged him for dishonesty. I suppose he
sneaked home to a confiding uncle when the world had kicked him out. I
suppose they think he's all right, same as you do. But he's a thief. A
common, low-down--"

The girl turned swiftly, and her little gauntlet caught Waterbury full
across the mouth.

"You lie!" she whispered, very softly, her face white and quivering, her
eyes black with passion.

And then Lethe saw her opportunity. Sensed it in the momentary relaxing
of the bridle-rein. She whipped the bit into her fierce, even, white
teeth, and with a snort shot down the pike.

And then Waterbury's better self gained supremacy; contrition,
self-hatred rushing in like a fierce tidal wave and swamping the last
vestige of animalism. He spurred blindly after the fast-disappearing
filly.

*****

Garrison rode one of the best races of his life that night. It was a
trial of stamina and nerve. Lethe was primarily a sprinter, and the
gelding, raised to his greatest effort by the genius of his rider,
outfought her, outstayed her. As he flew down the moon-swept road,
bright as at any noontime, Garrison knew success would be his, providing
Sue kept her seat, her nerve, and the saddle from twisting.