"Five thousand quid," whispered Mr. Immelbern.
"The seventh winner in succession."
"Eighty thousand quid in four weeks."
The Colonel turned to Simon.
"What a pity you only had a hundred pounds on," he said, momentarily crestfallen. Then the solution struck him, and he brightened. "But how ridiculous! We can easily put that right. On our next coup, you shall be an equal partner. Immelbern, be silent! I have put up with enough interference from you. Templar, my dear boy, if you care to come in with me next time—"
The Saint shook his head.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't mind a small gamble now and again, but for business I only bet on certainties."
"But this is a certainty!" cried the Colonel.
Simon frowned.
"Nothing," he said gravely, "is a certainty until you know the result. A horse may drop dead, or fall down, or be disqualified. The risk may be small, but it exists. I eliminate it." He gazed at them suddenly with a sober intensity which almost held them spellbound. "It sounds silly," he said, "but I happen to be psychic."