and foreign names frequently given to racehorses. His stock
of racing lore was eked out by reference to a local paper; still
Simmonds scratched an uncertain pate.

"Pity, too!" he said at last. "This chap had it from his nevvy, who
married the sister of a housemaid at Beckhampton."

Dale whistled. Here was news, indeed. Beckhampton! the home of "good
things."

"Is _that_ where it comes from?"

"Yes. Something real hot over a mile."

"_Can't_ you think? Let's look again at the entries."

"Wait a bit," cried Simmonds. "I've got it now. Second horse from the
top of the column in to-morrow's entries in yesterday's _Sportsman_."

Dale understood exactly what the other man meant, and, so long as _he_
understood, the fact may suffice for the rest of the world.

"Tell you wot," he suggested eagerly, "when you're ready we'll just
run to the station an' arsk the bookstall people for yesterday's
paper."

The inquiry, the search, the triumphant discovery, the telegraphing
of the "information" and a sovereign to Tomkinson in Cavendish
Square--"five bob each way" for each of the two--all these things took
time, and time was very precious to Dale just then. Unhappily, time is
often mute as to its value, and Bath is really quite close to Bristol.

The choice secret of the Beckhampton stable was safely launched--in
its speculative element, at any rate--and Dale was about to seat
himself beside Simmonds, when an astonished and somewhat irate old
gentleman hooked the handle of an umbrella into his collar and
shouted:

"Confound you, Dale! What are you doing here, and where is your
master?"

Dale's tanned face grew pale, his ears and eyes assumed the semblance
of a scared rabbit's, and the power of speech positively failed him.

"Do you hear me, Dale?" cried the Earl, that instant alighted from a
cab. "I am asking you where Viscount Medenham is. If he has gone to
town, why have _you_ remained in Bristol?"

"But his lordship hasn't gone to London, my lord," stuttered Dale,
finding his voice at last, and far too flustered to collect his wits,
though he realized in a dazed way that it was his duty to act exactly
as Viscount Medenham would wish him to act in such trying
circumstances.

And, indeed, many very clever people might have found themselves
sinking in some such unexpected quicksand and be not one whit less
bemused than the miserable chauffeur. Morally, he had given the only
possible answer that left open a way of