In the crowded paddock the horses engaged in the first race were walking round, led by diminutive stable-lads, the number of each horse strapped to the boy’s arm.
“A rough lot of beggars,” said Gresham, looking them over. Most of them still had their winter coats; most of them were grossly fat and unfitted for racing. He was ticking the horses off on his card; some he immediately dismissed as of no account. He found Lady Mary wandering around the paddock by herself. She greeted him as a shipwrecked mariner greets a sail.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said. “I know nothing whatever about racing.” She looked round the paddock. “Won’t you tell me something. Are all these horses really fit?”
“You evidently know something about horses,” he smiled. “No, they’re not.”
“But surely they can’t win if they’re not fit,” she said in astonishment.
“They can’t all win,” replied the young man, laughing. “They’re not all intended to win, either. You see, a trainer may not be satisfied his horse is top-hole. He sends him out to have a feeler, so to speak, at the opposition. The fittest horse will probably win this race. The trainer who is running against him with no hope of success will discover how near to fitness his own beast is!”
“I want to find Timbolino,” she said, looking at her card. “That’s Sir Isaac’s, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “I was looking for him myself,” he said. “Come along, and let’s see if we can find him.”
In a corner of the paddock they discovered the horse—a tall, upstanding animal, well muscled, so far as Horace could judge, for the horse was still in his cloths.
“A nice type of horse for the Lincoln,” he said thoughtfully. “I saw him at Ascot last year. I think this is the fellow we’ve got to beat.”
“Does Sir Isaac own many horses?” she asked.
“A few,” he said. “He is a remarkable man.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, one knows …”
Then he realized that it wasn’t playing cricket to speak disparagingly of a possible rival, and she rightly interpreted his silence.
“Where does Sir Isaac make his money?” she asked abruptly.
He looked at her.
“I don’t know,” he said. “He’s got some property somewhere, hasn’t he?”
She shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I am not asking,” she went on quickly, “because I have any possible interest in his wealth or his prospects. All my interest is centred—elsewhere.”
She favoured him with a dazzling little smile.
Although the paddock was crowded and the eyes of many people were upon him, the owner of the favourite had all his work to restrain himself from taking her hand.
She changed the subject abruptly.
“So now let’s come and see your great horse,” she said gaily.
He led her over to one of the boxes where Nemesis was receiving the attention of an earnest groom.
There was not much of her. She was of small build, clean of limb, with a beautiful head and a fine neck not usually seen in so small a thoroughbred. She had run a good fourth in the Cambridgeshire of the previous year, and had made steady improvement from her three-year-old to her four-year-old days.
Horace looked her over critically. His practised eye could see no fault in her condition. She looked very cool, ideally fit for the task of the afternoon. He knew that her task was a difficult one; he knew, too, that he had in his heart really very little fear that she could fail to negotiate the easy mile of the Carholme. There were many horses in the race who were also sprinters, and they would make the pace a terrifically fast one. If stamina was a weak point, it would betray her.
The previous day, on the opening of the racing season, his stable had run a horse in a selling plate, and it was encouraging that this animal, though carrying top weight, beat his field easily. It was this fact that had brought Nemesis to the position of short-priced favourite.
Gresham himself had very little money upon her; he did not bet very heavily, though he was credited with making and losing fabulous sums each year. He gained nothing by contradicting these rumours. He was sufficiently indifferent to the opinions of his fellows not to suffer any inconvenience from their repetition.
But the shortening of price on Nemesis was a serious matter for the connection of Timbolino. They could not cover their investments by “saving” on Nemesis without a considerable outlay.
Horace was at lunch when the second race was run. He had found Lord Verlond wonderfully gracious; to the young man’s surprise his lordship had accepted his invitation with such matter-of-fact heartiness as to suggest he had expected it.
“I suppose,” he said, with a little twinkle in his eye, “you haven’t invited Ikey?”
Gresham shook his head smilingly.
“No, I do not think Sir Isaac quite approves of me.”
“I do not think he does,” agreed the other. “Anyway, he’s got a guest of his own, Colonel Black. I assure you it is through no act of mine. Ikey introduced him to me, somewhat unnecessarily, but Ikey is always doing unnecessary things.”
“A very amiable person,” continued the earl, busy with his knife and fork; “he ‘lordshipped’ me and ‘my lorded’ me as though he were the newest kind of barrister and I was the oldest and wiliest of assize judges. He treated me with that
