“How old is Lord Bernie?” queries Mrs. Trevor in an interested voice. “Oh, I do wish the darling would win!” “That’s impossible,” says Lord Charles loftily, “nothing can beat Corrie Glen.” They are cantering down to the post now, the favourite with great raking strides covering his ground comfortably, and playing kindly with his snaffle, as his jockey leans forward and eases him a bit. Bernie has not started the Black Queen yet; he is leaning down talking to his brother. All eyes are upon him, however, as they see him squeeze the duke’s hand, which is laid on the boy’s knee. Suddenly, however, he dresses himself upright. “I must go now, Evie dear,” he says, and there is a tremor in his voice. “Oh, pray that I may win!” Then he sets the mare into a canter, and follows in the wake of the others. “My word! that mare moves well,” exclaimed Sir Horsey de Freyne nervously; “don’t half like the look of her. Think I must have something on her for luck. Belongs to that deuced lucky fellow D’Estrange, too. Shouldn’t be surprised to see the gold jacket flashing in first.” “Bosh!” answers Sir Reginald Desmond, who is standing next to him. “My dear old fellow, it’s only throwing your money away. Corrie Glen can’t be beat.” But Sir Horsey de Freyne is not convinced, and goes off to see what he can get laid him against the mare. “S’pose you’ve backed the favourite, old chap?” inquires another shining light at Sir Reggie’s elbow. “Yes,” answers this latter shortly. “Had a plunge, eh?” persists the golden youth, who doesn’t know a horse from a cow. “Have got £100,000 on him,” is Sir Reggie’s curt reply. He is looking through his glasses, and his face is rather white. “Oh! I say,” blurts out the youth, as he edges off to tell all those who will listen to him; “I say, you know, Desmond’s laid out £100,000 on the favourite.”