ner.

Amongst his fellows in the carriage was the Hon. Geoffrey Winlow, who,
though not a racing-man, took a kindly interest in our breed of horses,
which by attendance at the principal meetings he hoped to improve.

"Your horse going to run, George?"

George nodded.

"I shall have a fiver on him for luck. I can't afford to bet. Saw your
mother at the Foxholme garden-party last week. You seen them lately?"

George shook his head and felt an odd squeeze: at his heart.

"You know they had a fire at old Peacock's farm; I hear the Squire and
Barter did wonders. He's as game as a pebble, the Squire."

Again George nodded, and again felt that squeeze at his heart.

"Aren't they coming to town this season?"

"Haven't heard," answered George. "Have a cigar?"

Winlow took the cigar, and cutting it with a small penknife, scrutinised
George's square face with his leisurely eyes. It needed a physiognomist
to penetrate its impassivity. Winlow thought to himself:

'I shouldn't be surprised if what they say about old George is true.'...
"Had a good meeting so far?"

"So-so."

They parted on the racecourse. George went at once to see his trainer
and thence into Tattersalls' ring. He took with him that equation with
X, and sought the society of two gentlemen quietly dressed, one of whom
was making a note in a little book with a gold pencil. They greeted him
respectfully, for it was to them that he owed the bulk of that seventeen
hundred and ninety-five pounds.

"What price will you lay against my horse?"

"Evens, Mr. Pendyce," replied the gentleman with the gold pencil, "to a
monkey."

George booked the bet. It was not his usual way of doing business, but
to-day everything seemed different, and something stronger than custom
was at work.

'I am going for the gloves,' he thought; 'if it doesn't come off', I'm
done anyhow.'

He went to another quietly dressed gentleman with a diamond pin and
a Jewish face. And as he went from one quietly dressed gentleman to
another there preceded him some subtle messenger, who breathed the
words, 'Mr. Pendyce is going for the gloves,' so that at each visit he
found they had greater confidence than ever in his horse. Soon he had
promised to pay two thousand pounds if the Ambler lost, and received the
assurance of eminent gentlemen, quietly dressed, that they would pay him
fifteen hundred if the Ambler won. The odds now stood at two to one
on, and he had found it impossible to back t