“That’s always the way,” he said. “Would you like me to take it on?” Patricia bit her lip. “Well, _I_ can’t, Simon.” The field appeared. Grey Ruby was on the stand side and showing up well. “No, that’s plain. Besides, it’s a man’s job. I’ll stick to the letter, shall I?” “Yes, if you will. But, Simon, what can you do?” Grey Ruby was coming up. Yes, there was no doubt about it. Half the field was beaten, but the grey was coming up. “Pat,” said Simon, “I don’t know what I shall do. My impulse is to break the gentleman’s back. But I’m inclined to think that he means what he says, and so that wouldn’t help you.” Grey Ruby was lying third now and full of running. A bay on the rails was leading and going uncommonly well. “Nothing can help me,” said Patricia listlessly. She shivered. “It’s like a fearful dream. The impossible’s got to be done, lest a worse thing befall.” Grey Ruby was second now. A chestnut was leading, and the bay was falling back. The chestnut was leading by a neck and holding his own. “Buck up, Pat,” said Simon shakily. “We’re both—both in this. I mean—one second. . . .” A confusion of shouting arose. The whips were out now, and it was either’s race. The chestnut, if anything, was slightly ahead. The shouting swelled into a roar. “My God,” said Patricia quietly. And then again, “My God.” She drew in her breath. “I turn to you in my trouble—my hideous, ghastly mess. Not for help, because you can’t give it. I just call to you out of hell—call for a drop of water to wet my lips. And you—_you_ can’t give it me . . . because you’re rather busy . . . _watching a race_.” She laughed wildly. Simon put down his glasses. “And the letter that’s doing me in—— Never mind. What’s won?” “Grey Ruby,” said Simon shortly, marking his card. “And don’t you worry, lady. You’re out of the wood.” Patricia stared. “Out of the wood?” she repeated. Simon smiled back. “Clean,” he said. “Bless your pretty bright eyes. Going to the Wakefields’ dance on Tuesday night?” “I was.” “Well, go. I give you my word that there and then you shall have your letter back.” He opened the door of the box. “And now let’s find the Club tent and try some tea.” * * * * * At a quarter to twelve on the following Tuesday morning Simon was ushered into a private room. This was an office, smart and well furnished, with ground-glass panes in the windows and three oak doors massively built. A peculiarity of the doors was that they had no handles. A large, bland, smooth-faced gentleman, wearing blue glasses and sitting behind a table, rose to his feet. “Sit down, Mr. Beaulieu.” “I prefer,” said Simon, “to stand.” The other inclined his head and resumed his seat. “As you please. You have your credentials?” “There they are.” The Master’s letter passed. “I have the money also.”