Hugh was furious. He looked Hilyer up and down with cold scorn.
"Are you taking a flyer in blackmail, by any chance?" he asked deliberately.
"Not yet," answered Hilyer cheerfully. "No knowing, though. Matter of fact, at present, I'm protecting some poor natives who fear they are going to be victimized by a gang of foreigners."
"Well, whatever you are doing, I should prefer that you keep away from me in the future," said Hugh. "I can't afford to have the Jockey Club stewards hear that I've been talking to you."
As it happened, the one episode in Hilyer's piebald past that irked his pride and aroused sore memories was his suspension from the privileges of the turf. He was cynically indifferent to every other charge brought against him. But the man was a sincere horseman, his racing ventures had been the breath of life to him, his disgrace and compulsion to enter his thoroughbreds under other men's colors had been a bitter blow. And he showed this feeling now. His face went dead-white; his nostrils pinched in.
"All right, Chesby," he said curtly, "I won't forget that."
And he disappeared into the bar.
"Curse the rotter," muttered Hugh. "I'm glad something will flick him on the raw."
"You were hard on him," said Nikka seriously. "After all, why should you mind anything that he can say?"
"He was hoping that Miss King was within hearing distance," retorted Hugh. "He said what he did deliberately to smear smut on all of us. A dog like that doesn't deserve consideration."