The Jew extended his hand to Mostyn and smiled, showing a straight row of white teeth. He was not ill-looking, and there was very little to suggest the hardness with which he had been accredited as a money-lender. It was a little surprising to find him on such good terms with Sir Roderick, but then "Old Rory" was "hail fellow well met" with all the world. "It's even money on the horses," Isaacson remarked; "I don't suppose one stands a better chance than the other." He turned to Mostyn, scrutinising him rather closely. His voice was not unpleasant, though it possessed the Jewish rasp. "You know, of course," he continued, "that I had to dismiss my jockey, Wilson, at a moment's notice this morning, and that I've put up Jones in his place. Jones is a smart man, but, of course, the handicap is a pretty severe one. You see, Mr. Clithero, I have reasons to believe that Wilson wished to pull my horse so that yours might win. I got my knowledge in rather a roundabout way. It appears that someone has backed Asmodeus pretty heavily, and when this person found that Don Quixote was the favourite he approached Wilson and offered to pay him to pull the horse. I understand that Wilson had consented to do so; so, as you may imagine, I fired him this morning, and I shall probably place the whole matter before the stewards. It was the intermediary who acted between the backer and Wilson who gave the story away to one of my own men, and that's how it came out. It's bad luck on me," he added, "but I shan't grudge you the race, Mr. Clithero, if luck comes your way." Mostyn saw how it was. "The little skunk!" he muttered to himself as he thought of Wilson. "He was going to pull the horse whatever happened, but thought he might make a bit more out of me at the same time. But he over-reached himself, and has been given away by one of his pals. And he'll never believe that I didn't betray him; he'll loathe me none the less if the truth comes out." Sir Roderick had a luncheon party that day, holding, as usual, open house to all the friends he might happen to meet. Here, among smiling, happy faces, Mostyn forgot some of his troubles of the morning; moreover, he was keenly excited about the race, for it seemed, indeed, that Asmodeus stood an excellent chance of winning. Don Quixote had naturally gone down in the betting. Sir Roderick was keenly interested, and discussed the whole matter with the young man. "By Jove! Mostyn," he opined, "you've got to win this time, or I don't know how you'll pocket your cash. Cipher's not going to win the Derby for you, you know"--he shook his head prophetically--"Cipher can't get away from Castor, to say nothing of my Pollux." To this Mostyn agreed. He knew that it was true. Castor and Pollux were the two colts who gave real promise for the coming Derby. They had never met, and yet they were both unbeaten, each holding a record of some half-dozen victories in the course of the year.