He turns as he speaks, and tries to get through the crowd. What can she do? She has little or no influence with him, and if she had, this is no place in which to reason and argue with him. She feels downcast and sad; for although she, like every one else, has little doubt in her mind that Corrie Glen will win, there is just the chance, ever so slight, that he might not. And if he does not, “well, what then?” “Ruin!” she soliloquises half aloud, as she puts the question to herself, and answers it in that one word. There is a bitter smile on Flora Desmond’s face, for she knows what ruin would mean. “Are you looking Corrie Glen over, Lady Flora?” inquires a voice at her elbow. She has no need to turn round to discover the speaker, for she knows the voice full well. It is that of Hector D’Estrange. He has heard the conversation between Sir Reginald Desmond and his wife, and as the former elbows his way through the crowd, he has pushed forward and sidled into his place by her side. “Yes, Mr. D’Estrange, I am,” she answers just a shade wearily. “Like every one else, I am looking at the crack. I suppose he can’t be beat? By-the-bye,” she adds hastily, “you’ve a horse in this race, haven’t you?” “I have a mare,” he replies significantly; “and whom do you think is going to ride her, qualified for a jockey’s license, and everything on purpose?” “Who?” she inquires absently. “Why, Bernie Fontenoy. The boy’s a splendid rider, and mark my words, Lady Flora, if he doesn’t win, it will be a near thing between my Black Queen and Corrie Glen.” She starts. She has never known Hector D’Estrange to err yet, and her husband’s rash act recurs more forcibly to her mind. “May I see Black Queen?” she inquires hastily. “Certainly,” he answers; “come with me.” They push through the crowd, still surging round the chestnut horse, and make their way across the paddock to a quiet spot, where very few people are observable. A coal-black mare has just been stripped, and her jockey is standing close beside her. His colours are tinselled-gold. “That is Black Queen,” observes Hector D’Estrange quietly. “You are a good judge of a horse, Lady Flora; what do you think of her?” She does not reply, but walks up to within a few paces of the mare, and looks her over keenly. She sees before her an animal which, to her eyes, used though she is to good-looking horses, is a perfect picture. The mare is coal-black; there is not a white hair on her; she is faultlessly shaped all over. “I think that I never saw a greater beauty in all my life!” exclaims Flora Desmond, and there is a true ring of admiration in her tone. As she speaks the Duke of Ravensdale comes up.