Three o'clock. How slowly the minutes passed! Mostyn lay, propped up by his pillows, his free hand clasped in that of Cicely, and he was trying to talk of all possible subjects except that which was uppermost in his mind. Isaacson sat by the tape machine, and John Clithero kept hovering backwards and forwards, his agitation painfully apparent. In his mind, Mostyn could see all that was happening. The horses had left the paddock by now and had galloped down to the starting-post. How the crowd must have cheered first Castor and then Pollux!--or, perhaps, it was the other way about. He wondered if Rada was watching the race from the coach; he thought she probably would be, for Sir Roderick and Pierce would take care of her, and, if Castor won, she would, of course, wait to lead her horse in. He drew a deep sigh as he thought of Rada. How would she behave when she learnt the truth? If Castor won, would he even have the courage to tell her why he had thrown himself into such direct competition with her? Would he not be afraid to do so because of the trouble which such knowledge must necessarily bring to her? She would be horrified to learn that her success meant his ruin. Mostyn was inclined to think that he must leave her in ignorance, even at the expense of never gaining her forgiveness. The horses must have started by now. As he lay there, he could almost hear the shouting of the crowd, that sound so familiar to him, so musical in his ears. The noises in the square without blended and harmonised with his fancy. A boy was whistling, further away an organ was playing--then there came a sudden hush--yes, the horses must be running! He wondered if they had got away at once; somehow he had a strong impression of a false start. The tape clicked out the information. It kept up a monotonous tick-tick that was jarring to the nerves. "Off 3.15. Delay at start!" Then followed a list of the starters and jockeys--a long list--there were fully a dozen in all. Isaacson held out the tape, and read them off one by one. Then came a pause. It was a clock on the mantel-piece, an elaborate affair of antique French china, that was ticking now. Mostyn had hardly noticed it before, but it was extraordinary that he should not have done so. Why, the sound was so loud and aggressive that it seemed to be beating directly against the drums of his ears. He pressed his left hand upon his ear, but it made no difference. The noise went on just the same--if anything augmented in strength. How fast his heart was beating, too--perhaps that had something to do with it. "Ah, here we are!" A cry from Isaacson, as the machine recommenced its ticking. He almost dragged upon the tape. The Jew was as excited as anyone else in the room--of them all, Mostyn was the calmest. "Now we'll see. Pollux for ever! I don't mind betting----"