The two men shook hands gravely and turned to find Simon Templar drifting towards them with a thin cigar in his mouth.
"Too bad about Hill Billy, Mr. Templar," remarked Mackintyre succulently. "Rickaway only did it by a neck, though I won't say he mightn't have done better if he'd started his sprint a bit sooner."
Simon Templar removed his cigar.
"Oh, I don't know," he said. "As a matter of fact, I rather changed my mind about Hill Billy's chance just before the 'off.' I was over at the telegraph office, and I didn't think I'd be able to reach you in time, so I wired another bet to your London office. Only a small one — six hundred pounds, if you want to know. I hope Vincent's winnings will stand it." He beamed seraphically at Mr. Lesbon, whose face had suddenly gone a sickly grey. "Of course you recognised Miss Holm — she isn't easy to forget, and I saw you noticing her at the Savoy the other night."
There was an awful silence.
"By the way," said the Saint, patting Mr. Lesbon affably on the shoulder, "she tells me you've got hot slimy hands. Apart from that, your technique makes Clark Gable look like something the cat brought in. Just a friendly tip, old dear."
He waved to the two stupefied men and wandered away; they stood gaping dumbly at his back.
It was Mr. Lesbon who spoke first, after a long and pregnant interval.
"Of course you won't settle, Joe," he said half-heartedly.
"Won't I?" snarled Mr. Mackintyre. "And let him have me up before Tattersall's Committee for welshing? I've got to settle, you fool!"