Sir George was vastly indignant. He wanted to know if Mallow realized whom he was talking to. But Mallow was in no mood for politeness and told his employer a few home truths. He sketched graphically what the better-class sportsmen would say when they realized what had happened. It was useless to be angry, all the more so because he knew that every word Mallow spoke was true. On the spur of the moment he had intended to give Mallow instructions to have the horse struck out of all his three-year engagements, but looking his irate servant in the face he lacked the pluck to do so. So he proceeded to compromise. "At the worst," he said with some dignity, "it was only an error in judgment. If you can get the colt fit again before the Derby the public will have no grievance against me. They will win their money and that's all they care about." Mallow appeared to be somewhat mollified. "Then things are to go on as they are, Sir George?" he asked. "There has been a lot of mischief done, but it is not yet too late. But it is no use crying over spilt milk." This was going rather too far and too fast. Sir George's fears were aroused again. "Your instructions are not quite indefinite," he corrected. "We will let the matter stand over for a week. At the end of that time we will see the colt's condition. If there is no material change for the better, then I must scratch him." With this perforce Mallow had to remain content and went out muttering to himself. He wanted to know what Sir George was driving at and what this new policy meant. The trainer had a shrewd idea, though he hardly dared to whisper it even to himself. Still, a week was a week, and much might be done in that time. Besides, if necessary, he knew Raffle had a great card to play. For some reason or other Sir George wanted the colt scratched and Mallow had no difficulty in laying this somewhat shady diplomacy on the shoulders of Raymond Copley. Meanwhile, the week drifted on and things remained in much the same position at Haredale Park. Sir George had said nothing more to his daughter, neither had she alluded to the detestable topic. But she was ready to take a step which would have considerably alarmed her father had he known of it. Copley was away on business. He came back on Saturday and made his way across to Haredale Park after dinner. In the drawing-room he was coldly informed that Sir George was in the library. He appeared to take this curt dismissal in good part and went off in search of Sir George whom he found sitting moodily over the fire. "Where have you been lately?" the Baronet asked. "Oh, my dear sir," Copley explained, "you forget that I have my business to look after. I have been exceedingly busy. When things take a turn for the better that is the time to follow your fortune closely. During the last few days I have been making money with both hands."