“Two lunatics from Bedlam,” whispered the angry Holloway. “If I was Flynn I would see the colour of their money before I went any further.” The same thought had occurred to the salesman. “As a mere matter of business, gentlemen,” said he, “it is usual in such cases to put down a small deposit as a guarantee of _bona fides_. You will understand how I am placed, and that I have not had the pleasure of doing business with either of you before.” “How much?” asked Strellenhaus, briefly. “Should we say five hundred?” “Here is a note for a thousand pounds.” “And here is another,” said Mancune. “Nothing could be more handsome, gentlemen,” said the salesman. “It’s a treat to see such a spirited competition. The last bid was fifty pounds a head from Mancune. The word lies with you, Mr. Strellenhaus.” Mr. Jack Flynn whispered something to the salesman. “Quite so! Mr. Flynn suggests, gentlemen, that as you are both large buyers, it would, perhaps, be a convenience to you if he was to add the string of Mr. Tom Flynn, which consists of seventy animals of precisely the same quality, making one hundred and forty in all. Have you any objection, Mr. Mancune?” “No, sir.” “And you, Mr. Strellenhaus?” “I should prefer it.” “Very handsome! Very handsome indeed!” murmured the salesman. “Then I understand, Mr. Mancune, that your offer of fifty pounds a head extends to the whole of these horses?” “Yes, sir.” A long breath went up from the crowd. Seven thousand pounds at one deal. It was a record for Dunsloe. “Any advance, Mr. Strellenhaus?” “Fifty-one.” “Fifty-five.” “Fifty-six.” “Sixty.” They could hardly believe their ears. Holloway stood with his mouth open, staring blankly in front of him. The salesman tried hard to look as if such bidding and such prices were nothing unusual. Jack Flynn of Kildare smiled benignly and rubbed his hands together. The crowd listened in dead silence. “Sixty-one,” said Strellenhaus. From the beginning he had stood without a trace of emotion upon his round face, like a little automatic figure which bid by clockwork. His rival was of a more excitable nature. His eyes were shining, and he was for ever twitching at his beard. “Sixty-five,” he cried. “Sixty-six.” “Seventy.” But the clockwork had run down. No answering bid came from Mr. Strellenhaus. “Seventy bid, sir.” Mr. Strellenhaus shrugged his shoulders. “I am buying for another, and I have reached his limit,” said he. “If you will permit me to send for instructions--” “I am afraid, sir, that the sale must proceed.” “Then the horses belong to this gentleman.” For the first time he turned towards his rival, and their glances crossed like sword-blades. “It is possible that I may see the horses again.” “I hope so,” said Mr. Mancune; and his white, waxed moustache gave a feline upward bristle.