For the nonce Rada seemed to have lost all her reckless carelessness; she was quiet and subdued, and she went about her work with all the calm self-possession of a woman of the world. She interviewed her jockey and her trainer--old William Treves himself--who had brought Castor to Epsom, and who was prepared to stake his reputation upon the ultimate success of his stable. He would turn up his nose defiantly at all mention of Pollux, and the state of the betting did not influence him in the least any more than did the unbeaten record of Castor's adversary. As the horses paraded in the paddock, he would even point out to his cronies certain fancied defects about Pollux which were visible only to his imagination. The absence of Mostyn Clithero, the owner of the latter horse, caused some remark, but the story of his accident had got abroad, and sympathy with him was very generally expressed. The reason why "Old Rory" should have disposed of his colt to that remarkably enthusiastic young sportsman was a matter for far greater speculation, and it was estimated that the sum paid by young Clithero must have been enormous. The most astonishing stories had got abroad as to Mostyn's wealth and as to his desire to win a big race. His name was coupled with that of Rada, and there were many who had evolved a romance out of the rivalry of Castor and Pollux. It was some time after lunch, and within an hour of the big race, when Rada, who was strolling in the enclosure with Pierce, suddenly stopped, gave a low laugh, and laid her hand upon her companion's arm, forcing him to stop. "Look there!" she whispered. Pierce, following the direction of the girl's eyes, perceived Jack Treves, conspicuous for his flowery waistcoat, his tight-fitting trousers, the horsiness of his coat, and the peculiar angle at which his hat was tilted. He was leaning against the lower row of stalls in the Grand Stand, talking to a remarkably smart-looking woman, who wore a feather of exaggerated dimensions in her picture hat. One of her hands, ungloved--probably to show the many rings she was wearing--rested in close proximity to the big fingers of Jack Treves. The pair were laughing and talking, quite unconscious of being watched. "Who is it?" whispered Pierce. "It's Daisy Simpson," returned Rada. "Another hated rival," she added, with a return of her natural humour. "She's an old flame of Jack's. She used to live down at Partinborough, and they were great friends before, and after, he did me the honour of wanting to marry me. She went up to town and became an actress, or something of the sort. She calls herself Daisy Montague and she must be getting on remarkably well," Rada continued ingenuously, "to be able to flaunt about in such clothes as that; but I've always heard that people make a lot of money at the music halls."