For days succeeding Drake’s statement to her that Garrison was not married she waited for some word from him.  Drake had explained how Garrison had thought he was married.  He had explained all that.  She could never forget the joy that had swamped her on hearing it; even as she could never forget the succeeding days of waiting misery; waiting, waiting, waiting for some word.  He had been proven honest, proven Major Calvert’s nephew, proven free.  What more could he ask?  Then why had he not come, written?

She could not believe he no longer cared.  She could not believe that; rather, she would not.  She gaged his heart by her own.  Hers was the woman’s portion—­inaction.  She must still wait, wait, wait.  Still she must eat her heart out.  Hers was the woman’s portion.  And if he did not come, if he did not write—­even in imagination she could never complete the alternative.  She must live in hope; live in hope, in faith, in trust, or not at all.

Colonel Desha’s enforced absence overcame the one difficulty Major Calvert and Jimmie Drake had acknowledged might prematurely explode their hidden identity mine.  The colonel, exercising his owner’s prerogative, would have fussed about The Rogue until the last minute.  Of course he would have interviewed Garrison, giving him riding instructions, etc.  Now Drake assumed the right by proxy, and Sue, after one eager-whispered word to The Rogue, had assumed her position in the grand stand.

Garrison was up-stairs in the jockey’s quarters of the new paddock structure, the lower part of which is reserved for the clerical force, and so she had not seen him.  But presently the word that Garrison was to ride flew everywhere, and Sue heard it.  She turned slowly to Drake, standing at her elbow, his eyes on the paddock.

“Is it true that a jockey called Garrison is to ride to-day?” she asked, a strange light in her eyes.  What that name meant to her!

“Why, yes, I believe so, Miss Desha,” replied Drake, delightfully innocent.  “Why?”

“Oh,” she said slowly.  “How—­how queer!  I mean—­isn’t it queer that two people should have the same name?  I suppose this one copied it; imitation being the sincerest form of flattery.  I hope he does the name justice.  Do you know him?  He is a good rider?  What horse is he up on?”

Drake, wisely enough, chose the last question.  “A ten-to-one shot,” he replied illuminatingly.  “Perhaps you’ll bet on him, Miss Desha, eh?  It’s what we call a hunch—­coincidence or anything like that.  Shall I place a bet for you?”

The girl’s eyes kindled strangely.  Then she hesitated.

“But—­but I can’t bet against The Rogue.  It would not be loyal.”

Mrs. Calvert laughed softly.

“There are exceptions, dear.”  In a low aside she added:  “Haven’t you that much faith in the name of Garrison?  There, I know you have.  I would be ashamed to tell you how much the major and I have up on that name.  And you know I never bet, as a rule.  It is very wrong.”