It was a perfect day, airy yet cloudless. Rain had fallen in the night and, stopping at cock-crow, left everything refreshed. Distance was clean-cut. For such as had eyes, the sheep grazing in the valleys made sharp white dots upon the green, the Isle of Wight rode like a ship at anchor between earth and heaven. Background, indeed, had much to answer for, lending the meeting the air of the old prize-ring, rigged like lightning, deep in some unsuspecting dingle of the suspected countryside. The artifice of gardens and playgrounds, jealously kept against the builder’s hand, had here no place. Time had stepped back into an England where men passed out of doors on to the open road and, lifting up their eyes, beheld more meads than bricks and woods than mortar, where parishes were worlds and London Town was half a fairy-tale. After a last look at Grey Ruby, Beaulieu strolled out of the Paddock and back to the Lawn. There he encountered Miss Bohun almost at once. “Where’s George?” he said, taking her hand. “In bed with a touch of the sun. It’s nothing serious. I want to go to the Paddock. Will you come with me?” The man hesitated before complying. Patricia knew him so well that, unless he could smother his feelings as never before, she would be certain to see that something unusual was afoot. Then she would question him: and Beaulieu did not want to be questioned—till after the Cup had been won. He need have felt no concern. As they passed to the back of the Paddock— “Simon, I’m up against it.” The man braced himself. The time was not yet. “Hush, my lady. Let’s talk about something else.” “Listen. You don’t understand. It’s—it’s not what you think, Simon.” The man looked at her sharply. “I’m in the most awful trouble. I’m—I’m being blackmailed.” “Blackmailed?” The girl slid a letter into his hand. “Read that,” she said. “Sit down here and read it. And then come and find me again. I’ll be in front of the weighing-room.” Simon lifted his hat and turned away. Mechanically he took a few steps: then he sat down on a seat and tilted his hat over his eyes. _12, Clock Lane,_ _Crutched Friars._ _July 29th._ _DEAR MISS BOHUN_, _The object of my visit to Castle Breathless two evenings ago was, as our valuable Press has rightly surmised, to obtain possession of your pearls. That I failed was not my fault. My arrangements were perfect, but the car bringing three of my men broke down on the way, so that two had to try to perform the duties of five. It seems I might still have succeeded if I had used my eyes. Indeed, that the rope was awaiting collection would be a disturbing thought, but for my foresight in taking with me the letter which lay in the drawer which I had time to force. You remember. The one addressed to Mr. Beaulieu._