we are going to do to-morrow."

Both men rose, and each drew from one pocket a programme of the next
day's events, and from the other a little paper-covered volume called
"Form at a Glance." Armed with their paraphernalia, they retired to a
table in a window.

"Come and live the higher life with us, Joan," cried Harold Jupp. "What
are you reading?"

"Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society," Joan returned icily.
But pride burned through the ice, and was audible.

"He sounds just like a Plater," replied Harold Jupp.

Meanwhile Dennis Brown was immersed in his programme.

"The first race is too easy," he announced.

"Yes," said Jupp. "It's sticking out a foot. Peppercorn."

Dennis Brown stared at his friend.

"Don't be silly! Simon Jackson will romp home."

Harold Jupp consulted his little brown book.

"Peppercorn ran second to Petronella at Newbury, giving her nine pounds.
Petronella met Simon Jackson at even weights at Newcastle, and Simon
Jackson was left in the country. Peppercorn must win."

"Let us hear the names of the others," interrupted Miranda, running up
to the table.

Harold Jupp read out the names.

"Smoky Boy, Paper Crown, House on Fire, Jemima Puddleduck----" and
Miranda clapped her hands.

"Jemima Puddleduck's going to win."

Both the young men stared at her, then both plunged their noses into
their books.

"Jemima Puddleduck," Dennis Brown read, "out of Side Springs, by the
Quack."

"Oh, what a pedigree!" cried Miranda. "She must win."

Jupp wrinkled his forehead.

"But she's done nothing. Why must she win?" asked Dennis.

Miranda shrugged her shoulders at the ineffable stupidity of the young
man with whom she was linked.

"Listen to her name! Jemima Puddleduck! She can't lose!"

Both the young men dropped their books and gazed at one another
hopelessly. Here was the whole scientific business of spotting winners,
through research into pedigrees, weights, records, the favourite
distances and race courses of this or that runner, so completely
disregarded that racing might really be a matter of chance.

"I'll tell you, Miranda," said Harold Jupp. "Jemima Puddleduck's a
Plater."

The awful condemnation had no sooner been pronounced than the butler,
with his attendant footman, appeared to remove the tea.

"We have just heard over the telephone, sir," he said to Sir Chichester,
"the winner of the last race."

"Oh!" cried Miranda breathlessly. "Which was it?"

"Che