"The coachman's children, the gardener's children, the lodge-keeper's children--"
But Miss Damer was not listening.
"Poor Lively!" she said suddenly. "He gave me that tip, and yet he could n't afford to back the horse himself."
"Tipsters do not as a rule follow their own selections," I said. "I don't suppose, either, that Periander's was the only name contained in those pink envelopes of his. You really ought not--"
"Why, there he is!" exclaimed Miss Damer, upon whom, I fear, my little homily had been entirely thrown away.
We had made a detour to avoid the crowd on our way back to the carriage, and were now crossing an unfrequented part of the course. My companion pointed, and following the direction of her hand I beheld, projecting above a green hillock twenty yards away, a battered bowler hat, surmounted by a peacock's feather.
"Come this way," commanded Miss Damer.
I followed her round to the other side of the hillock. There lay the retailer of stable secrets, resting from his labours before the next race. Apparently business was not prospering. His dirty, villainous face looked unutterably pinched and woe-begone. His eyes were closed. Obviously he had not lunched. His broken nose appeared more concave than ever.
At our approach he raised his head listlessly.
"Go on, and wait for me, please," said Miss Damer in a low voice.