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The next morning when I arrived at the track I found Dr. Watson in conversation with a powerful-looking man whom he introduced to me as Mike Falan. We walked slowly up the track to a point about a quarter of a mile from the finish. There was a great crowd of people present, the numbers had gone up for the first race, and most of the horses were already out and “warming up.” Emperor appeared to be in splendid condition. As he galloped easily up and down in front of the Grand Stand his great muscles rolled and swelled under the shiny skin, and he looked and acted like a horse fit to race for his life. He was a prime favorite at the pools and was selling at two to one against the field.

“I have seen Blake,” said Watson, “and he is feeling confident that Emperor will win. He is somewhat nervous, of course, but he tells me the horse is in first-class shape, and that Murphy is all right. No signs of Simms yet and the race will be started in less than ten minutes. It begins to look as though I have been frightened at a shadow.”

At this moment a man touched Watson on the arm and whispered something to him and then moved quickly away through the crowd. Watson started, and turning to me said,

“Come this way. Simms is here, he is down the track, below the gate.”

He hurried away, Mike and I following, and upon getting clear of the crowd we saw a man leaning against the picket fence which separated the track from the carriage drive, watching the horses through a small field-glass. As we came up, Simms, for it was he, glanced suspiciously at us, but as we paid no attention to him and talked earnestly together, apparently arguing as to the relative merits of the horses, he soon ceased to notice us and turned again to the horses.

Hardly had he done so when he hurriedly put the glass in his pocket, and a great shout from the Grand Stand and cries of “They’re off!” told us that the great race had commenced.

We could see the horses far off on the opposite side of the track all running in a bunch, until they neared the half-mile flag, when two were seen to be well in advance of the others. As they swung round the curve we could see the red cap worn by Murphy flashing in the sun, and we knew that Emperor was leading. But another horse, a deep bay, the jockey dressed completely in blue, was very close to him.

On they came, and Watson and Mike edged closer and closer to Simms, whose whole attention was fixed on the race. His face was flushed, and he was actually dancing with excitement. We watched him as a cat watches a mouse, and it was very lucky for Blake that we did so. The horses were now quite near us, and we could see Murphy plainly, and noted how white and drawn his face looked. Suddenly Simms pulled a large white handkerchief from his pocket, but as he did so the doctor snatched it from his hand and at the same instant Mike seized him in his powerful arms, and dragged him from the fence.

Mad with surprise and rage, he struggled and kicked like a wild animal. “Damn you,” he yelled, “let me go; let go, I say! What in hell do you mean?”

“Let him go, Mike,” said the doctor. Mike pushed Simms from him, and he staggered back against the fence. The man was crazy with rage, and I believe for the moment he was really insane. He half crouched as if to spring at us, snarling and showing his teeth like a savage dog, then his hand went to his hip pocket.

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you, Simms,” said Watson quietly. “You will get the worst of it if you do.”

Watson’s right hand was in the pocket of his sack-coat, and his eyes said, “I’ll shoot,” as plainly as if he had told Simms so in so many words.

“See here, you,” cried Mike, “if you pull a gun I’ll smash your jaw!”

Simms looked from one to the other of us, with the expression of a madman. His face was ghastly white, and the scar on his cheek stood out livid, in contrast with the white skin. I thought for a moment he was about to draw his revolver, but suddenly he turned and ran toward the crowd, and in a moment was lost to our view.

The shouting and cheering still kept up, and, as we hurried toward the Grand Stand, Watson asked a man which horse had won.

“Emperor, by a length,–a great race!”

We found Blake in front of the stand. He came to us and shook hands. His face was beaming with the joy of success.

“Do you know,” he said, “I do believe that something is the matter with Murphy. He was as pale as a ghost after the race. He said he could remember nothing about it until he found himself in the home stretch running neck and neck with Nettie B. Then he seemed to wake from a dream, and sat down and rode Emperor for all he was worth. You know the rest. He won out all right, but I tell you it was a confounded sight too close for comfort.”