Holloway became thoughtful, and entered a few figures in his note-book. There were seventy horses. He knew that Flynn’s stock was always of the highest quality. With the hunting season coming on he might rely upon selling them at an average of from forty-five to fifty. Some of them might carry a heavy weight, and would run to three figures. On the other hand, there was the feed and keep of them for three months, the danger of the voyage, the chance of influenza or some of those other complaints which run through an entire stable as measles go through a nursery. Deducting all this, it was a question whether at the present price any profit would be left upon the transaction. Every pound that he bid meant seventy out of his pocket. And yet he could not submit to be beaten by this stranger without a struggle. As a business matter it was important to him to be recognised as the head of his profession. He would make one more effort, if he sacrificed his profit by doing so. “At the end of your rope, Mr. Holloway?” asked the salesman, with the suspicion of a sneer. “Thirty-five,” cried Holloway gruffly. “Thirty-six,” said Strellenhaus. “Then I wish you joy of your bargain,” said Holloway. “I don’t buy at that price, but I should be glad to sell you some.” Mr. Strellenhaus took no notice of the irony. He was still looking critically at the horses. The salesman glanced round him in a perfunctory way. “Thirty-six pounds bid,” said he. “Mr. Jack Flynn’s lot is going to Mr. Strellenhaus of Liverpool, at thirty-six pounds a head. Going--going--” “Forty!” cried a high, thin, clear voice. A buzz rose from the crowd, and they were all on tiptoe again, trying to catch a glimpse of this reckless buyer. Being a tall man, Dodds could see over the others, and there, at the side of Holloway, he saw the masterful nose and aristocratic beard of the second stranger in the coffee-room. A sudden personal interest added itself to the scene. He felt that he was on the verge of something--something dimly seen-- which he could himself turn to account. The two men with strange names, the telegrams, the horses--what was underlying it all? The salesman was all animation again, and Mr. Jack Flynn was sitting up with his white whiskers bristling and his eyes twinkling. It was the best deal which he had ever made in his fifty years of experience. “What name, sir?” asked the salesman. “Mr. Mancune.” “Address?” “Mr. Mancune of Glasgow.” “Thank you for your bid, sir. Forty pounds a head has been bid by Mr. Mancune of Glasgow. Any advance upon forty?” “Forty-one,” said Strellenhaus. “Forty-five,” said Mancune. The tactics had changed, and it was the turn of Strellenhaus now to advance by ones, while his rival sprang up by fives. But the former was as dogged as ever. “Forty-six,” said he. “Fifty!” cried Mancune. It was unheard of. The most that the horses could possibly average at a retail price was as much as these men were willing to pay wholesale.