“Got a lot on our mare, eh, Mr Simpkins?”
“No!” growled the trainer. “I heered she was not going to run.”
“Knowing ones ain’t always right, sir.”
At that moment the chambermaid appeared.
“Room for Sir Hilton Lisle,” cried the trainer, hoarsely. “Put him in number one. Well, this is a facer!” he muttered, as he turned away. “I must have a drop for this,” and he hurried into the bar.
“Hullo, my dear,” cried Mark. “My word, what a cap! I say, what’s the matter with the boss?”
“He’s got a sore head,” said the chambermaid, sharply. “I never see such a bear.”
“He’s been backing the wrong horse, I know,” said Mark.
“Then you don’t know nothing about it, Mr Clever. Here, I’ve got one for you.”
The speaker led the way up the stairs into the open gallery, to pause at the top by the door of the room her master had named, Mark following with the bag and overcoat.