“In that case Mr. Flynn is quite prepared to sell them in smaller lots,” said the salesman. “It was rather for the convenience of a wholesale customer that he was prepared to put them all up together. But if no gentleman wishes to bid--” “Wait a minute,” said a voice. “They are very fine horses, these, and I will give you a bid to start you. I will give you twenty pounds each for the string of seventy.” There was a rustle as the crowd all swayed their heads to catch a glimpse of the speaker. The salesman leaned forward. “May I ask your name, sir?” “Strellenhaus--Mr. Strellenhaus of Liverpool.” “It’s a new firm,” said Dodds’s neighbour. “I thought I knew them all, but I never heard of him before.” The salesman’s head had disappeared, for he was whispering with the breeder. Now he suddenly straightened himself again. “Thank you for giving us a lead, sir,” said he. “Now, gentlemen, you have heard the offer of Mr. Strellenhaus of Liverpool. It will give us a base to start from. Mr. Strellenhaus has offered twenty pounds a head.” “Guineas,” said Holloway. “Bravo, Mr. Holloway! I knew that you would take a hand. You are not the man to let such a string of horses pass away from you. The bid is twenty guineas a head.” “Twenty-five pounds,” said Mr. Strellenhaus. “Twenty-six.” “Thirty.” It was London against Liverpool, and it was the head of the trade against an outsider. Still, the one man had increased his bids by fives and the other only by ones. Those fives meant determination and also wealth. Holloway had ruled the market so long that the crowd was delighted at finding someone who would stand up to him. “The bid now stands at thirty pounds a head,” said the salesman. “The word lies with you, Mr. Holloway.” The London dealer was glancing keenly at his unknown opponent, and he was asking himself whether this was a genuine rival, or whether it was a device of some sort--an agent of Flynn’s perhaps--for running up the price. Little Mr. Strellenhaus, the same apple-faced gentleman whom Dodds had noticed in the coffee-room, stood looking at the horses with the sharp, quick glances of a man who knows what he is looking for. “Thirty-one,” said Holloway, with the air of a man who has gone to his extreme limit. “Thirty-two,” said Strellenhaus, promptly. Holloway grew angry at this persistent opposition. His red face flushed redder still. “Thirty-three!” he shouted. “Thirty-four,” said Strellenhaus.