With a quick "Thankee, sir," the lad ran on. Barton stepped back to the wall and opened the paper. In the blank space reserved for stop-press news was the single word "_Kildonen_." It was in blue ink, stamped in by a local agent. Barton stared at it for a moment, and then laughed. So he had lost. He felt no particular emotion--just a vague disappointment. Remorse and fear left him untouched. He had played with fate and been beaten; all that now remained was to pay the price. He crossed the road to a public-house opposite, and, going into the saloon bar, ordered a glass of brandy. A man who was sitting in the corner saw the newspaper in his hand. "What's won the Cup, guv'nor?" he asked. "'Kildonen,'" answered Barton. "You can have the paper if you like. I have done with it." He found himself speaking in a perfectly level, disinterested voice. Mixing a little water with the brandy, he drank it off, and walked back to the office. As he again crossed the road, a man raced past him on a motor-bicycle with a huge pile of newspapers strapped behind him. The Fleet Street edition was evidently down now; he could hear the boy's shouting higher and higher up the road. He hesitated a moment; it would be rather interesting to see if "Mountain Lady" had been in the first three. Then he shrugged his shoulders, and walked on. After all, what did it matter? There were no customers in the office. He passed through the side door into the small anteroom where the staff kept their coats and hats. From here a staircase led down into the strong-room. He knew that, if he shut the iron door below, the sound of the shot could scarcely reach the bank. It was more pleasant to die without being interrupted. He walked downstairs quickly, and turned on the electric light that illuminated the big safe. Taking out his revolver, he tested the trigger before putting in a couple of cartridges. Now everything was ready. There was no time to lose, for Furze would probably be sending down for him in a minute. He felt sorry for the clerk who would come to fetch him. He caught hold of the big, brass handle, and was just swinging the heavy metal slab into its place, when he heard the door open and someone running down the stairs. For an instant he faltered, and then, slipping the revolver into his pocket, pushed back the door. "Barton! Barton!" It was Steele's voice. He rushed into the safe with a paper in his hand. "Isn't it too rotten?" he exclaimed, flinging it down on the slab. "I should have thought you would have been pleased," answered Barton wearily. "Oh, I am glad for your sake, of course; but, under the circumstances, it's a bit rough on me, damn it all." "What do you mean?" Barton cried hoarsely. "Haven't you heard?" shouted Steele. "Kildonen's' disqualified--look!" He thrust the paper into Barton's hands.