"I'll have to—or you'll spend the whole estate on a Shetland pony."
Owen sauntered from the room, laughing. Bareheaded he walked quite across the garden and down into the wood-copse by the path gate.
A gypsy was leaning upon the gate and gazing nervously up and down the road. He turned at the sound of Owen's footsteps, and the eyes of the young chief, Michel Mario, gazed apprehensively into the smiling eyes of the secretary.
"How are you, Balthazar?" greeted Owen.
"Don't use that name to me," pleaded the gypsy. "You have work for me? I have come all the way back from Port Vincent to see you."
"It was kind of you," said Owen with the faintest tinge of sarcasm.
"Yes, I have important work for you. Have you ever doctored a horse,
Balthazar?"
"Many times—but not with my beauty medicine," grinned the chief.
"I mean with a hypodermic needle. I mean a race horse-so that he might possibly fall in a race."
"And injure the rider?"
"Exactly."