"Of course it is," agreed the Colonel. "What Immelbern is so frightened of is that somebody will discover what we're doing — I mean that it might come to the knowledge of some of our friends who are owners or trainers or jockeys, and then our sources of information would be cut off. But, by Gad, I insist on the privilege of being allowed to know when I can trust my own friends."
"Well, I won't give you away," Simon told him obligingly.
The Colonel turned to Immelbern triumphantly.
"There you are! So there's no need whatever for our little party to break up yet, unless Mr. Templar has an engagement. Our business will be done in a few minutes. By Gad, damme, I think you owe Mr. Templar an apology!"
Mr. Immelbern sighed, stared at his finger-nails for a while in grumpy silence, and consulted his watch again.
"It's nearly five to two," he said. "How much can we get on?"
"About a thousand, I think," said the Colonel judiciously.
Mr. Immelbern got up and went to the telephone, where he dialed a number.
"This is Immelbern," he said, in the voice of a martyr responding to the roll-call for the all-in lion-wrestling event. "I want two hundred pounds on Greenfly."
He heard his bet repeated, pressed down the hook, and dialed again.