"Simmonds, you are positively cantankerous. I can spare the time." "The first race is at 1.30, my lord," muttered Dale, greatly daring. Medenham laughed. "You, too?" he cried. "Someone has given you a tip, I suppose?" Dale flushed under this direct analysis of his feelings. He grinned sheepishly. "I am told that Eyot can't lose the first race, my lord," he said. "Ah! And how much do you mean to speculate?" "A sovereign, my lord." "Hand it over. I will lay you starting price." Somewhat taken aback, though nothing said or done by Viscount Medenham could really surprise him, Dale's leather garments creaked and groaned while he produced the coin, which his master duly pocketed. "Now, Simmonds," went on the pleasant, lazy voice, "you see how I have comforted Dale by taking his money; won't you tell me what is the real obstacle that blocks the way? Are you afraid to face this imperious young lady?" "No, my lord. No man can provide against an accident of this sort. But Miss Vanrenen will lose all confidence in me. The arrangement was that to-day's spin should be a short one--to Brighton. I was to take the ladies to Epsom in time for the Derby, and then we were to run quietly to the Metropole. Miss Vanrenen made such a point of seeing the race that she will be horribly disappointed. There is an American horse entered----" "By gad, another gambler!" Simmonds laughed grimly. "I don't think Miss Vanrenen knows much about racing, my lord, but the owner of Grimalkin is a friend of her father's, and he is confident about winning this year." "I am beginning to understand. You are in a fix of sorts, Simmonds." "Yes, my lord." "And what is your plan? I suppose you have one." "I have sent for a boy messenger, my lord. When he arrives I shall write--Oh, here he is." Viscount Medenham descended leisurely and lit a cigarette. Dale, the stoic, folded his arms and looked fixedly at the press of vehicles passing the end of the street. Vivid memories of Lord Medenham's chivalrous courtesy--his lordship's dashed tomfoolery he called it--warned him that life was about to assume new interests. The boy messenger, summoned telephonically by a sympathetic maid-servant in a neighboring house, guessed that the gentleman standing on the pavement owned the "motor-car" to which he had been directed. Here were two cars, but the boy did not hesitate. He saluted. "Messenger, sir," he said. "This way," intervened Simmonds curtly. "No. I want you," said Medenham. "You know Sevastopolo's, the cigarette shop in Bond Street?" "Yes, sir." "Take this card there, and ask him to dispatch the order at once." Meanwhile he was writing: "Kindly send 1,000 Salonikas to 91 Cavendish Square." Simmonds looked anxious. He was not a smooth-spoken fellow, but he did not wish to offend Lord Medenham. "Would your lordship mind if I sent the boy to the Savoy Hotel first?" he asked nervously. "It is rather late, and Miss Vanrenen will be expecting me."