er of odds, found
that Eyot's price was chalked up at five to one, and backed him for
four pounds. He had to push and elbow his way through a struggling
crowd; immediately after the bet was made, Eyot's quotation was
reduced by two points in response to signals tick-tacked from the
inclosures. This, of course, argued a decided following for Dale's
selection, and these eleventh hour movements in the turf market are
illuminative. Before he got back to the car there was a mighty shout
of "They're off!" and he saw Cynthia Vanrenen stand on the seat to
watch the race through her glasses.

Mrs. Devar stood up, too. Both women were so intent on the troop of
horses now streaming over the crest of the six-furlong course that he
was able to stare his fill without attracting their attention.

"I like Cynthia," he said to himself, "though I shall be in a deuce of
a mess if I meet her anywhere after this piece of masquerading. Not
much chance of that, I expect, seeing that Dad and I go to Scotland
early in July. But what a bore to tumble across Jimmy's mater! I hope
it is not a case of 'like mother like son,' because Jimmy is the
limit."

A strange roar, gathering force and volume each instant, rose from a
hundred thousand throats. Soon the shout became insistent, and Cynthia
Vanrenen yielded to its magnetism.

"Eyot wins!" she cried delightedly. "Yes, none of them can catch him
now. Go on, jockey--don't look round! Oh, if I were your master I'd
give you such a talking to. Ah-h-h! We've won, Mrs. Devar--we've won!
Just think of it!"

"How much, I wonder?" Mrs. Devar, though excited, had the calculating
habit.

"Five pounds each," said Medenham, who had approached unnoticed during
the tumult.

Cynthia's eyes sparkled.

"Five pounds! Why, I heard some betting person over there offering
only three to one."

It was a task beyond his powers to curb an unruly tongue in the
presence of this emancipated schoolgirl. He met her ebullient mood
halfway.

"I have evidently beaten the market--that is, if I get the money.
Horrible thought! I may be welshed!"

He strode back rapidly to the bookmaker's stand.

"What do you think of our chauffeur now?" cried Cynthia radiantly, for
the winning of those few sovereigns was a real joy to her, and the
shadow of the welsher had no terrors, since she did not know what
Medenham meant.

"He improves on acquaintance," admitted Mrs. Devar, thawing a little
under the influence of a successful