Adrien passed his hand over the satiny coat of the race-horse. The dainty creature pricked up his finely-pointed ears, and turned to his master with a whinny of delight.
"He looks well enough," he admitted. "Has he had his gallop this morning?"
"Yes, sir; but would you like to see him across the paddock?"
"Yes," said Adrien. "By the way, who rides him to-morrow?"
"Peacock, sir."
"Ah, the new jockey."
"Yes, sir; Mr. Vermont's lad," returned the groom.
"A good seat?" asked Adrien.
"Capital, never saw a better, sir, and weighs next to nothing. I'll send for him." He whistled, and half a dozen stable helpers rushing forward, he despatched them to find the jockey. While waiting, the groom had the precious "King" brought into the yard and saddled; and in a few moments the man arrived. Markham had called him a lad; but in reality he was almost middle-aged, with the stunted stature of a child. Adrien looked him over critically.
"So you ride the 'King' to-morrow?" he asked.