d her head and looked for the
harsh-voiced woman who had been verily steeped in the aggressive odor
the day of Lauzanne's triumph. Two burly men sat behind her. They,
surely, did not affect perfumery. Higher up the stand her eye
searched--four rows back sat the woman Alan had said was Langdon's
sister. There was no forgetting the flamboyant brilliancy of her
apparel. But the almost fancied zephyr of stephanotis was mingling
with the rustle at her elbow; she turned her head inquiringly in that
direction, and Crane's eyes peeped at her over the stone wall of their
narrow lids. He was standing in the passage just beyond her father, now
looking wistfully at the vacant seat on her left.

"Good afternoon, Miss Porter--how are you, Porter? May I sit here with
you and see Lucretia win?"

"Come in, come in!" answered Porter, frankly.

"I was sitting with some friends higher up in the stand, when I saw you
here, and thought I'd like to make one of the victorious party."

Allis knew who the friends were; the clinging touch of stephanotis had
come with him. The discrepancy in Crane's sentiments jarred on Allis.
That other day this woman had been his trainer's sister, recognized for
politic purposes; to-day he had been sitting with "friends."

Topping the rail in the distance, just where the course kinked a little
to the left, Allis could see the blur of many colored silks in the
sunlight. Then it seemed to flatten down almost level with the rail, as
the horses broadened out to the earth in racing spread and the riders
clung low to the galloping colts, for they had started.

"There they come," said Crane. "What's in the lead, Porter?" Porter
did not answer. A man could have counted thirty before he said, "The
Dutchman's out in front--a length, and they're coming down the hill like
mad."

Allis felt her heart sink. Was it to be the same old story--was there
always to be something in front of Lucretia?

"Where is your mare?" Crane asked.

His own glass lay idly in his lap. Though he spoke of the race, it was
curious that his eyes were watching the play of Allis's features, as
hope and Despair fought their old human-torturing fight over again in
her heart.

"Now she's coming!" Porter's voice made Crane jump; he had almost
forgotten the race. To the close-calculating mind it had been settled
days before. The Dutchman would not win, and Lucretia was the best of
the others--why worry?

They were standing now--everybody was.