Townsend saw for the first time that a stop-watch was in the hand of his companion, and now, as Connor began to pace off the distance, the hotel proprietor tagged behind, curious. Twenty steps from the starting point the larger man stopped abruptly, shook his head, and then went on. When he came to the start he paused again, and Townsend found him staring with dull eyes at the face of the watch. "What'd they make it in?" asked the little man. The other did not hear. "They ran from this line?" he queried in a husky voice. "Sure. Line between them posts." "Fifty-nine seconds!" he kept repeating. "Fifty-nine seconds! Fifty-nine!" "What about the fifty-nine seconds?" asked Townsend, and receiving no answer he murmured to himself: "The heat has got to his head." Connor asked quietly: "Know anything about these gray horses and where they came from?" "Sure. As much as anybody. Come from yonder in the mountains. A Negro raises 'em. A deaf mute. Ain't ever been heard to say a word." "And he raises horses like that?" "Sure." "And nobody's been up there to try to buy 'em?" "Too far to go, you see? Long ride and a hard trail. Besides, they's plenty of good hoss-flesh right around Lukin, here." "Of course," nodded Connor genially. "Of course there is." "Besides, them grays is too small. Personally, I don't hanker after a runt of a hoss. I look like a fool on one of em." The voice of Connor was full of hearty agreement. "So do I. Yes, they're small, if they're all like that one. Too small. Much too small." He looked narrowly at Townsend from the corner of his eyes to make sure that the hotel proprietor suspected nothing. "This deaf-mute sells some, now and then?" "Yep. He comes down once in a while and sells a hoss to the first gent he meets--and then walks back to the garden. Always geldings that he sells, I understand. Stand up under work pretty well, those little hosses. Harry Macklin has got one. Harry lives at Fort Andrew. There's a funny yarn out about how Harry--" "What price does the mute ask?" "Thinking of getting one of 'em?" "Me? Of course not! What do I want with a runt of a horse like that? But I was wondering what they pay around here for little horses." "I dunno." "What's that story you were going to tell me about Harry Macklin?" "You see, it was this way--" And he poured forth the stale anecdote while they strolled back to the hotel. Connor smiled and nodded at appropriate places, but his absent eyes were seeing, once more, the low-running form of the little gray gelding coming away from the rest of the pack. _CHAPTER SIX_ When he arrived at the hotel Ben Connor found the following telegram awaiting him: Lady Fay in with ninety-eight Trickster did mile and furlong in one fifty-four with one hundred twenty Caledonian stale mile in one thirty-nine Billy Jones looks good track fast. HARRY SLOCUM.