“Then I wish you joy of your bargain,” said Holloway. “I don’t buy at that price, but I should be glad to sell you some.”
Mr. Strellenhaus took no notice of the irony. He was still looking critically at the horses. The salesman glanced round him in a perfunctory way.
“Thirty-six pounds bid,” said he. “Mr. Jack Flynn’s lot is going to Mr. Strellenhaus of Liverpool, at thirty-six pounds a head. Going—going—”
“Forty!” cried a high, thin, clear voice.
A buzz rose from the crowd, and they were all on tiptoe again, trying to catch a glimpse of this reckless buyer. Being a tall man, Dodds could see over the others, and there, at the side of Holloway, he saw the masterful nose and aristocratic beard of the second stranger in the coffee-room. A sudden personal interest added itself to the scene. He felt that he was on the verge of something—something dimly seen— which he could himself turn to account. The two men with strange names, the telegrams, the horses—what was underlying it all? The salesman was all animation again, and Mr. Jack Flynn was sitting up with his white whiskers bristling and his eyes twinkling. It was the best deal which he had ever made in his fifty years of experience.
“What name, sir?” asked the salesman.
“Mr. Mancune.”
“Address?”
“Mr. Mancune of Glasgow.”
“Thank you for your bid, sir. Forty pounds a head has been bid by Mr. Mancune of Glasgow. Any advance upon forty?”