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.

"Now, my beauty, they'll have to gallop," Porter was saying. They were
close up, and Crane could see that Lucretia had got to the bay colt's
head, and he was dying away. He smiled cynically as he watched Westley
go to the whip on The Dutchman, with Lucretia half a length in the lead.
Most certainly Langdon was an excellent trainer; The Dutchman was just
good enough to last into second place, and Lucretia had won handily.
What a win Crane had had!

A little smothered gasp distracted his momentary thought of success,