Three o'clock! Another twenty minutes. They were in the paddock now. Relf would be examining his saddle. He could picture the scene; the crush round the favourite. No doubt "Mountain Lady"---- Some customers came in, and he got up to attend to them mechanically, adding up the amounts, or paying out what was required, without the least hesitation or inaccuracy. He was scarcely conscious of what he was doing; it was like a strange dream. He felt as if he was looking on at the tragedy of his own life. How long had it been? Twenty-two hours! He laughed to himself. What fool invented the clock? Last night alone had been a lifetime. There had been no time to-day. It had drifted past in a dull trance. After hours of torture he had waked to a state of mental exhaustion, in which thought at last was numbed and powerless. Five minutes more! A tradesman was talking to him about the weather, as he examined the endorsements on the cheques, and counted silver and gold into little separate piles. "Yes, it was beautiful: a regular summer day. It made one want to be outside, instead of being stuffed up in an office. However, business was business, of course." A quarter past. God--how the moments dragged! They were lining up, perhaps. They might even have started. In a quarter of an hour he might be dead. How those chattering fools would start if they knew! There was a sudden lull in the work. Four or five customers went out almost together, and for a little while the office was empty. A strange apathy settled down like a mist over Barton's mind. It was all over now. The paper would be out in a few minutes. He went on writing, slowly, correctly. He felt as though he were being stifled. Suddenly, in the distance, he heard the shrill cry of a paper boy: "Winner, paiper; Cup winner!" Something seemed to snap in his brain. A deadly calm succeeded the formless emotions that had been racking him. He laid down his pen, and getting up from his seat, walked to the cashier's desk. "I'm going out for a moment, Mr. Furze," he said. The cashier nodded. "Don't be longer than you can help. We shall be busy again in a minute." "I shall be back almost immediately," answered Barton. By the time he reached the street, the boy was quite close, a ragged little urchin, darting from one side of the road to the other in pursuit of customers. Barton held up his hand, and the boy rushed across to him. "Paiper, sir; winner, sir!" He held one out and Barton took it, giving him a shilling. "You can keep the change," he said.