“Suppose he is beaten,” she says quietly?
“Then I shall be a beggar,” he answers, with a laugh; “but I’m not afraid. By God! I’ll stand my chance.”
He turns as he speaks, and tries to get through the crowd. What can she do? She has little or no influence with him, and if she had, this is no place in which to reason and argue with him. She feels downcast and sad; for although she, like every one else, has little doubt in her mind that Corrie Glen will win, there is just the chance, ever so slight, that he might not. And if he does not, “well, what then?”
“Ruin!” she soliloquises half aloud, as she puts the question to herself, and answers it in that one word. There is a bitter smile on Flora Desmond’s face, for she knows what ruin would mean.
“Are you looking Corrie Glen over, Lady Flora?” inquires a voice at her elbow. She has no need to turn round to discover the speaker, for she knows the voice full well. It is that of Hector D’Estrange.
He has heard the conversation between Sir Reginald Desmond and his wife, and as the former elbows his way through the crowd, he has pushed forward and sidled into his place by her side.
“Yes, Mr. D’Estrange, I am,” she answers just a shade wearily. “Like every one else, I am looking at the crack. I suppose he can’t be beat? By-the-bye,” she adds hastily, “you’ve a horse in this race, haven’t you?”
“I have a mare,” he replies significantly; “and whom do you think is going to ride her, qualified for a jockey’s license, and everything on purpose?”
“Who?” she inquires absently.
“Why, Bernie Fontenoy. The boy’s a splendid rider, and mark my words, Lady Flora, if he doesn’t win, it will be a near thing between my Black Queen and Corrie Glen.”