"Let's hope he'll break his neck," said Reggie piously. "Here are the others." One after another the fifteen runners cantered down the course, being greeted with successive cheers that swelled or sunk according to their position in the betting. The loudest welcome of all was reserved for the last, a beautiful, shapely black, carrying the famous Rothschild colours. Tony moistened his lips. "There she goes," he said quietly. "Pretty mare, isn't she?" No one answered; only Musette was looking at him. The others were gazing down the course after the horses. From the stands the start was plainly visible. One could see the tall posts of the gate, and the various runners fidgeting about like small black dots. For about five minutes the movement continued, while a silent tension gradually spread throughout the thousands of watching figures. The sharp ting of a bell, a sudden gasping cry, "They're off!" and everyone was leaning forward, staring eagerly towards the broken line that rolled unsteadily up the course. On they came, while louder and ever louder the vast volume of voices swelled into a frenzied roar of excitement. "The Dryad wins!" "Colchester! Colchester!" "Little Eva for a hundred!" "The Dryad! The Dryad!" Neck and neck in the centre of the course three horses were sweeping along, clear by a couple of lengths from the parti-coloured medley behind. A hundred yards from home and they were still level, the gap behind them widening at every stride. Suddenly one of them faltered. A sudden shout, "The Dryad's beat!" burst from a thousand throats, and the next moment, locked in an apparently inseparable stride, Colchester and Little Eva came thundering past the post. The wild cheering died down into a brief spell of almost intolerable silence. Every eye was glued to the tall frame, waiting the fateful decision. With a perfectly steady hand Tony lit a cigarette. "Colchester's won," he said quietly. "A short head, I should think." The words had hardly left his lips when a hoarse roar proclaimed the hoisting of the numbers. 12 6 9 Tony laughed lightly. "I thought so," he said. "Reggie, you've lost your fiver. Let us hope it will teach you not to gamble." But for once in a way Reggie had no answer. He was staring down the course, biting jerkingly at an unlit cigarette. It was Gwendoline who broke the silence. "Poor Reggie," she said. "I can't let you starve. You must come and dine with us." Tony thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulled out Reggie's five-pound note. "Musette," he observed, "there is still corn in Egypt. What about the Savoy?" Musette, who had been looking at him with rather troubled eyes, shook her head and smiled. "No, Tony," she said; "I should be haunted by Mr. Seton's ghost. You must dine with me at Curzon Street." "Perhaps it would be more decent," said Tony. "After all, Reggie was a friend of mine before he went under. I'll send the fiver to the Anti-Socialist fund."