13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

hundred pounds on Greenfly.'

He heard his bet repeated, pressed down the hook, and dialed again.

'We have to spread it around to try and keep the starting price from shortening,' explained the Colonel.

Simon Templar nodded, and leaned back with his eyes half-closed, listening to the click and tinkle of the dial and Immel­bern's afflicted voice. Five times the process was repeated, and during the giving of the fifth order Uppingdon interrupted again.

'Make it two-fifty this time, Sidney,' he said.

Mr. Immelbern said:  'Just a moment, will you hold on?' to the transmitter, covered it with his hand, and turned ag­grievedly.

'I thought you said a thousand. That makes a thousand and fifty.'

'Well, I thought Mr. Templar might like to have fifty on.' Simon hesitated.

'That's about all I've got on me,' he said.

'Don't let that bother you, my dear boy,' boomed Colonel Uppingdon.  'Your credit's good with me, and I feel that I owe you something to compensate for what you've put up with. Make it a hundred if you like.'

'But Sir George!' wailed Mr. Immelbern.

'Dammit, will you stop whining 'But Sir George!'?' ex­ploded the Colonel. 'That settles it. Make it three hundred—-that will be a hundred on for Mr. Templar. And if the horse doesn't win, I'll stand the loss myself.'

A somewhat strained silence prevailed after the last bet had been made. Mr. Immelbern sat down again and chewed the unlighted end of a cigar in morbid meditations. The Colonel twiddled his thumbs as if the embarrassment of these recur­rent disputes was hard to shake off. Simon Templar lighted a cigarette and smoked calmly.

'Have you been doing this long?' he inquired. 'For about two years,' said the Colonel. 'By Gad, though, we've made money at it. Only about one horse in ten that we back doesn't romp home, and most of 'em are at good prices. Sometimes our money does get back to the course and spoil the price, but I'd rather have a winner at evens than a loser at ten to one any day. Why, I remember one race meeting we had at Delhi. That was the year when old Stubby Featherstone dropped his cap in the Ganges—he was the fella who got killed at Cambrai. . . .'

He launched off on another wandering reminiscence, and Simon listened to him with polite attention. He had some thinking to do, and he was grateful for the gallant Colonel's willingness to take all the strain of conversation away from him. Mr. Immelbern chewed his cigar in chronic pessimism until half an hour had passed; and then he glanced at his watch again, started up, and broke into the middle of one of his host's rambling sentences.

'The result ought to be through by now,' he said abruptly. 'Shall we go out and get a paper?'

Simon stood up unhurriedly. He had done his thinking.

'Let me go,' he suggested.

'That's awfully good of you, my dear boy. Mr. Immelbern would have gone. Never mind, by Gad. Go out and see how much you've won. I'll open another bottle. Damme, we must have a drink on this, by Gad!'

Simon grinned and sauntered out; and as the door dosed behind him the eyes of the two partners met.

'Next time you say 'damme' or 'by Gad,' George,' said Mr. Immelbern, 'I will knock your block off, so help me. Why don't you get some new ideas?'

But by