"I don't think so," said the Saint. "But there's a fast one coming to you in the next race. Look out!"
As he wandered away, he heard Mr. Mackintyre chortling over the unparalleled humour of the situation in the ear of his next-door neighbour.
Simon watched the finish of the three-thirty, and went to find Farrell.
"I've got a first-class jockey to ride Hill Billy," the trainer told him. "He came to my place this morning and tried him out, and he thinks we've a good chance. Lesbon is putting Penterham up — he's a funny rider. Does a lot of Lesbon's work, so it doesn't tell us anything."
"We'll soon see what happens," said the Saint calmly.
He stayed to see Hill Billy saddled, and then went back to where the opening odds were being shouted. With his hands in his pockets, he sauntered leisurely up and down the line of bawling bookmakers, listening to the fluctuation of the prices. Hill Billy opened favourite at two to one, with Rickaway a close second at threes — in spite of its owner's dubious reputation. Another horse named Tilbury, which had originally been quoted at eight to one, suddenly came in demand at nine to two. Simon overheard snatches of the gossip that was flashing along the line, and smiled to himself. The Mackintyre-Lesbon combination was expert at drawing that particular brand of red herring across the trail, and the Saint could guess at the source of the rumour. Hill Billy weakened to five to two, while Tilbury pressed close behind it from fours to threes. Rickaway faded out to five to one.
"There are always mugs who'll go for a horse just because other people are backing it," Mr. Mackintyre muttered to his clerk; and then he saw the Saint coming up. "Well, Mr. Templar, what's this fast one you promised me?"
"Hill Billy's the name," said the Saint, "and I guess it's good for a hundred."
"Two hundred and fifty pounds to one hundred for Mr. Templar," said Mackintyre lusciously, and watched his clerk entering up the bet.
When he looked up the Saint had gone.