“Mr. D’Estrange,” she says hurriedly, moving a few paces aside, “may I speak to you for one moment?”
He follows her with a grave, inquiring look.
“I know you never bet,” she continues quickly, “but do you know what they are laying against Black Queen?”
“A hundred to one,” he answers carelessly.
“Then will you do me a great favour?” she says in a sad, pleading voice. “Though you never bet, and I hate it, will you lay me out a £1,000 in the ring, so that if Black Queen wins I shall win £100,000? I wouldn’t ask this of you, only you seem so confident in your mare, and, and——”
“I understand,” he answers quietly; “I’ll do it for you, Lady Flora. The race lies between Corrie Glen and my mare, and I quite understand why you want to back the latter. I couldn’t help hearing what Sir Reginald said over there. It’s on his account, is it not?”
“It is,” she answers bitterly. “As you heard him, you will quite understand.”
“Leave it to me,” he continues in a kind voice. “I’ll just give Bernie his last instructions, and then I’ll hurry across and do your commission. Will you come over to the stand with Ravensdale?”
“I will,” she answers, with a grateful look in her eyes.
And now Bernie has got his last orders, and the beautiful mare, with its handsome jockey, is moving slowly across the paddock to the course. The tinselled-gold on the boy’s jacket gleams and sparkles in the sun, and many an admiring eye rests on the two as they pass out.