“So you’re going to win the Derby, Bernie, are you?” he inquires jokingly, as he raises his hat to Flora Desmond, and holds out his hand to her. “Nice youngster that,” he continues, addressing her. “Gave me no peace till I gave him leave to ride, which I never should have done, had it not been at Hector’s request; and now I do believe that he thinks he is going to win!” “I shall have a good try, Evie,” the boy replies in a mettled voice. “I can’t do more than ride my very best, can I, Mr. D’Estrange?” “No indeed, my boy, that you cannot,” answers this latter kindly. “Do your best; no one can ask for more.” There is a light in Bernie’s eye, a flush on his cheek. Flora notes them both. Full well she knows what they mean. “Mr. D’Estrange,” she says hurriedly, moving a few paces aside, “may I speak to you for one moment?” He follows her with a grave, inquiring look. “I know you never bet,” she continues quickly, “but do you know what they are laying against Black Queen?” “A hundred to one,” he answers carelessly. “Then will you do me a great favour?” she says in a sad, pleading voice. “Though you never bet, and I hate it, will you lay me out a £1,000 in the ring, so that if Black Queen wins I shall win £100,000? I wouldn’t ask this of you, only you seem so confident in your mare, and, and——” “I understand,” he answers quietly; “I’ll do it for you, Lady Flora. The race lies between Corrie Glen and my mare, and I quite understand why you want to back the latter. I couldn’t help hearing what Sir Reginald said over there. It’s on his account, is it not?” “It is,” she answers bitterly. “As you heard him, you will quite understand.” “Leave it to me,” he continues in a kind voice. “I’ll just give Bernie his last instructions, and then I’ll hurry across and do your commission. Will you come over to the stand with Ravensdale?” “I will,” she answers, with a grateful look in her eyes. And now Bernie has got his last orders, and the beautiful mare, with its handsome jockey, is moving slowly across the paddock to the course. The tinselled-gold on the boy’s jacket gleams and sparkles in the sun, and many an admiring eye rests on the two as they pass out. He has come out last, and is at the tail end of the long file of horses parading past the stand. Every one is so keen on singling out the favourite, that Black Queen at first is not much noticed. Yet the sparkling gold on the jacket is bound to attract the eye, and the fact that Lord Bernard Fontenoy, brother of the Duke of Ravensdale, is riding the coal-black mare, awakens interest in the dark steed. “Why, it’s little Lord Bernie riding, I do declare!” giggles Mrs. de Lacy Trevor to Lord Charles Dartrey, who is leaning over her chair pointing out the horses and jockeys on the card in her lap. “What a duck he looks! Oh, I wish Dodo was here!” “Can’t think what D’Estrange means by putting the boy up. He can’t win; and it will only break his heart,” ejaculates Lord Charles superciliously.