permitted him, Garrison, to see Sis alone!

Yes, the signals were set dead against him. His opinion of Crimmins
had undergone a complete revolution; first engendered by the trainer
offering him a dishonorable opportunity of fleecing the New York
pool-rooms; now culminated by his indirect charge.

Garrison considered the issue paramount. He was furious, though so
seemingly indifferent. Every ounce of resentment in his nature had been
focused to the burning-point. Now he would not leave New York. Come what
might, he would stand his ground. He would not run away. He would fight
the charge; fight Waterbury, Crimmins--the world, if necessary. And
mingled with the warp and woof of this resolve was another; one that he
determined would comprise the color-scheme of his future existence; he
would ferret out the slayer of Sis; not merely for his own vindication,
but for hers. He regarded her slayer as a murderer, for to him Sis had
been more than human.

Garrison came to himself by hearing his name mentioned. Behind him two
young men were seated at a table, evidently unaware of his identity, for
they were exchanging their separate views on the running of the Carter
Handicap and the subsequent poisoning of the favorite.

"And I say," concluded the one whose nasal twang bespoke the New
Englander; "I say that it was a dirty race all through."

"One paper hints that the stable was in on it; wanted to hit the bookies
hard," put in his companion diffidently.

"No," argued the wise one, some alcohol and venom in his syllables,