he would not have been dismissed so cavalierly. He would at least
have been allowed to develop his proposals, and then who knows
what might have happened?

But the races had interfered with his plans. M. Wilkie had been
compelled to attend to Pompier de Nanterre, that famous
steeplechaser, of which he owned one-third part, and he had,
moreover, to give orders to the jockey, whose lord and master he
was to an equal extent. These were sacred duties, since Wilkie's
share in a race-horse constituted his only claim to a footing in
fashionable society. But it was a strong claim--a claim that
justified the display of whips and spurs that decorated his
apartments in the Rue du Helder, and allowed him to aspire to the
character of a sporting man. Wilkie really imagined that folks
were waiting for him at Vincennes; and that the fete would not be
complete without his presence.

Still, when he presented himself inside the enclosure, a cigar in
his mouth, and his racing card dangling from his button-hole, he
was obliged to confess that his entrance did not create much of a
sensation. An astonishing bit of news had imparted unusual
excitement to the ring. People were eagerly discussing the
Marquis de Valorsay's sudden determination to pay forfeit and
withdraw his horses from the contest; and the best informed
declared that in the betting-rooms the evening before he had
openly announced his intention of selling his racing stable. If
the marquis had hoped that by adopting this course he would
silence the suspicions which had been aroused, he was doomed to
grievous disappointment. The rumor that he had secretly bet
against his own horse, Domingo, on the previous Sunday, and that