"Why, yes," he murmured. "I suppose I can't put the thing in my pocket and take it home. Let's go and have a drink."
They strolled over to the bar. Simon knew Farrell's name as that of one of the straightest trainers on the turf, and he was glad that one of his problems had been solved so easily.
"Think we'll win some more races?" he murmured, as the drinks were set up.
"Hill Billy's a good horse," said the trainer judiciously. "I used to have him in my stable when he was a two-year-old. I think he'll beat most things in his class if the handicaps give him a run. By the way, sir, I don't know your name."
It occurred to the Saint that his baptismal title was perhaps too notorious for him to be able to hide the nucleus of his racing stud under a bushel, and for once he had no desire to
"Hill Billy belongs to the lady," he said. "Miss Patricia Holm. I'm just helping her watch it."
As far as Simon Templar was concerned, Hill Billy's career had only one object, and that was to run a race in which one of the Mackintyre-Lesbon stud was also a competitor. The suitability of the fixture was rather more important and more difficult to be sure of, but his luck was in. Early the next week he learned that Hill Billy was favourably handicapped in the Owners' Plate at Gatwick on the following Saturday, and it so happened that his most serious opponent was a horse named Rickaway, owned by Mr. Vincent Lesbon.
Simon drove down to Epsom early the next morning and saw Hill Billy at exercise. Afterwards he had a talk with Farrell.
"Hill Billy could win the first race at Windsor next week if the going's good," said the trainer. "I'd like to save him for it — it'd be a nice win for you. He's got the beating of most of the other entries."
"Couldn't he win the Owners' Handicap on Saturday?" asked the Saint; and Farrell pursed his lips.