But the crooked little rubber was more interested in Ida Bellethorne’s history than he was in his own misfortune, which was an old story.

“I was working in the Bellethorne stables when this mare was foaled.  I was always let work about her.  She’s a wonnerful pedigree, Miss—­aw, yes, wonnerful!  And she was named for an ’igh and mighty lydy, sure enough.”

“Named for a lady?” cried Betty.  “Don’t you mean for a girl?”

“Aw, not much!  Such a lydy, Miss!  Fine, an’ tall, and wonnerful to look at.  They said she could sing like a hangel, that she could.  Miss Ida Bellethorne, she was.  She ought’ve been a lord’s daughter, she ought.”

“What became of her?” asked the puzzled Betty.

“I don’t know, Miss.  I don’t rightly know what became of all the family.  I kept close to the mare ’ere; the family didn’t so much bother me.  But there was trouble and ruin and separation and death; and, after all,” added the rubber in a lower tone, “for all I know, there was cheating and swindling of the fatherless and orphan, too.  But me, I kept close to this lydy ’ere,” and he fondled the mare’s muzzle again.

“It’s quite wonderful,” admitted Betty.  But what seemed wonderful to her, the stableman did not know anything about.  “I suppose the pretty mare is worth a lot of money?”

“Hi don’t know wot Mr. Bolter would sell ’er for, if at all.  But ’e paid four thousand pun, laid down at the stables where she was kep’ after the smash of the Bellethorne family.  She’s got a pedigree longer than some lord’s families, and ’er track record was what brought Mr. Lewis Bolter to Hengland when she was quietly put on the market.

“Maybe they couldn’t ’ave sold ’er to Henglish turfman,” he added, whispering softly in Betty’s ear, “for maybe the title to ’er would be clouded hand if she won another race somebody might go into court about it.”

Betty did not understand this; and just then the mare began to cough again and she was troubled by Ida Bellethorne’s condition.

“Is that the black mare, Slattery?” demanded a voice behind them.

“Yes, sir,” said the crooked little man respectfully, touching his cap.

Betty turned to see a gentleman in riding boots and a short coat with a dog-whip in his gloved hand, whom she believed at once to be Mr. Bolter.  Nor was she mistaken.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she, my dear?” the horseman said kindly.  “But I do not like that cough.  I’ve made up my mind, Slattery.  She goes to-morrow to Cliffdale, and of course you go with her.  Pack your bag to-night.  I have already telephoned for a stable-car to be on the siding in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.  Wot she needs is dry hair, an’ the ’igher the better,” said the crooked man, nodding.

“They will put her on her feet again,” agreed Mr. Bolter.  “The balsam air around Cliffdale is the right lung-healer for man or beast.”

He went out and Betty heard the girls calling to her.  She thanked Hunchie Slattery, patted Ida Bellethorne’s nose, and ran out of the stable.