Her breath was coming fast. Inch by inch the favourite drew level and there were others at his shoulder. They must have done three furlongs when the favourite got his head in front. Another furlong and Bonnie Chevalier was half a length behind the first three, and still losing ground. Her face grew hard and stony, but she refused to realise defeat. There was still a hope. But in the next few seconds it was dissipated. Bonnie Chevalier's jockey knew when he was beaten and eased up his mount. The race was over for him. Through her ashen lips Mrs. Gertstein ripped out an unfeminine oath. Someone spoke to her and she snarled fiercely in reply. The man, an inoffensive acquaintance who had been among the party with whom she had lunched, opened his eyes in well-bred surprise, and with an effort she composed herself. "I really beg your pardon," she said. "Not at all," he replied with mechanical politeness. "I hope that you haven't been hard hit." "Oh, it's nothing--nothing at all," she said with an attempt at lightness. "The money doesn't matter, but I hate to feel I've been a fool." She rose to go and refusing an offer of escort, made her way back to her car. There were two more races, but she felt no longer in the mood to tempt fortune. With one of those quick revulsions to which she was prone she had given way to a blackness of spirit, in which she saw herself the stricken plaything of an unjust fate. It was hopeless, she told herself, to hope that her luck would change. Still there was Larry Hughes. She would wire to him to emphasise her letter. And if that failed she would go to see him. CHAPTER XII It was a blow to Labar that Malone's journey to Goodwood in company with the bank cashier should have been wasted. He had fully made up his mind that Mrs. Gertstein was the author of the forgery, and her identification would have been an important link in the evidence. His view was based upon something more solid than the lady's misadventures with the bookmakers. The bogus cheque had been under much examination. A negative enlarged in the big magic lantern at Scotland Yard showed by the marks of the pen that the signature had most certainly been traced. That betrayed the amateur. No expert would have committed an imitation by such a method. The inspector had made diligent search for an original signature that would fit exactly over the forgery, which would have demonstrated the crime beyond all doubt, for no one ever writes his signature twice in precisely the same manner. He had failed in that, but he had managed to procure one or two letters of Mrs. Gertstein's written from "Maid's Retreat," and these, with the cheque, he had submitted to the scrutiny of a distinguished analyst who held a retainer from the Home Office.