“What do you make of it?” asks Rand. “The man’s infatuated!” replies Reed. “And yet, you also believe in systems,” remarks Rand. It is the next afternoon. The Brighton course is rampant with the usual jostling, pushing, striving, guessing, knowing, wagering, winning, losing, ignorant, exulting, deploring, profane crowd. The conservative Rand has so far obeyed the behest of James of the Beads that he has fifteen thousand dollars on Roysterer straight. “To lose fifteen thousand won’t hurt him,” says Rand, and so consoles himself for a mad speculation whereof he has no joy. Reed and Rand, as taking life easily, are in a box; the race over which their interest clings and clambers is called. The horses are at the post. Roysterer does not act encouragingly; he is too sleepy--too lethargic! Starlight, the favorite, steps about, alert and springy as a cat; it should be an easy race for her if looks go for aught. They get the word; they are “off!” The field sweeps ’round the curve. A tall man in a nearby box follows the race with a glass. “At the quarter,” sings the tall man. “Starlight first, Blenheim second, Roysterer third!” There is a pause. Then the tall man: “At the half! Starlight first, Blenheim second, Roysterer third!” Rand turns to Reed. “He must better that,” says Rand, “or he’ll explode the superstition of our friend.” There is a wait of twenty-five seconds. Again the tall, binoculared man: “Three-quarter post! Starlight first, Blenheim second, Roysterer third--and whipping!” “It’s as good as over,” observes Rand. “I wonder what James of the Beads will say to his witch-chain when he hears the finish.” “It’s surprising,” remarks Reed peevishly, “that a man of his force and clear intelligence should own to such a weakness! All his life he’s followed this marvelous ‘Three’ about; and having had vast success he attributes it to the ‘Three,’ when he might as well and as wisely ascribe it to Captain Kidd or Trinity church. To-day’s results may cure him; and that’s one comfort.” There is a sharp click as the tall man in the nearby box shuts up his glasses. “Roysterer wins!” says the tall man. “Got down fifteen thousand. Won one hundred and five thousand,” reads James of the Beads from Rand’s telegram sent from the track. James of the Beads is in his offices; he has just finished a victorious day, at once heavy and tumultuous with the buying and the selling of full three hundred thousand shares of stocks. “They should have wagered the full one hundred thousand and let the odds look after themselves,” he says. Then James of the Beads begins to caress the gypsy chain. “You knew,” he murmurs; “of course, you knew!” There is a note of devotion in the tones. The bead-worship goes on for a silent moment. “Only one hundred and five thousand!” ruminates James of the Beads. “I suppose Rand was afraid!”