"I suppose he doesn't know who you are?"
"That's where you're wrong. He does know — and the idea simply tickles him to death. It's the funniest thing he has to talk about. He lets me run an account, pays me when I win, and gets a cheque on the nail when I lose. And all the time he's splitting his sides, telling all his friends about it, and watching everything I do with an eagle eye — just waiting to catch me trying to put something across him."
"Who's the thin one?"
"That's Vincent Lesbon. Origin believed to be Levantine. He owns the horses, and the way those horses run is nobody's business. Lesbon wins with 'em when he feels like it, and Mackintyre fields against 'em so generously that the starting price usually goes out to the hundred-to-eight mark. It's an old racket, but they work it well."
Patricia nodded. She was still waiting for the sequel that was bound to come — the reckless light in the Saint's eyes presaged it like a red sky at sunset. But he annihilated his strawberries with innocent deliberation before he leaned back in his chair and grinned at her.
"Let's go racing tomorrow," he said, "I want to buy a horse."
They went down to Kempton Park, and arrived when the runners for the second race were going up. The race was a Selling Plate; with the aid of his faithful pin, Simon selected an outsider that finished third; but the favourite won easily by two lengths. They went to the ring after the numbers were posted, and the Saint had to bid up to four hundred guineas before he became the proud owner of Hill Billy.
As the circle of buyers and bystanders broke up, Simon felt a hand on his arm. He looked around, and saw a small thick-set man in check breeches and a bowler hat who had the unmistakable air of an ex-jockey.
"Excuse me, sir — have you arranged with a trainer to take care of your horse? My name's Mart Farrell. If I could do anything for you —"
Simon gazed thoughtfully at his new acquisition, which was being held by an expectant groom.