ill-conditioned drawl on the "perhaps"; "but he doesn't ride his own
mare, does he?"

John Porter started. Again that distasteful expression fraught with
distrust and insinuation. There was a strong evil odor of stephanotis
wafted to his nostrils as the speaker shook her fan with impatient
decision. The perfume affected him disagreeably; it was like the
exhalation of some noisome drug; quite in keeping with the covert
insinuation of her words that Dick, as she called him--it must be Dick
Langdon, the trainer of Lauzanne, Porter mused--had given her advice
based on a knowledge quite irrespective of the galloping powers of the
two horses.

"Did you hear that, father?" Allis whispered.

He nodded his head.

"What does it all mean?"

"It means, girl," he said, slowly, "that all the trouble and pains I
have taken over Lucretia since she was foaled, two years ago, and her
dam, the old mare, Maid of Rome, died, even to raising the little filly
on a bottle, and watching over her temper that it should not be ruined
by brutal savages of stable-boys, whose one idea of a horse is that he
must be clubbed into submission--that all the care taken in her
training, and the money spent for her keep and entries goes for nothing
in this race, if Jockey McKay is the rascal I fear he is."

"You think some one has got at him, Dad?"