“Perfect, my dear. Such a bouquet! I wonder what house it came from,” and she pondered the crest again, but in vain, for heraldry is an exact science, and the greater part of her education had been given by a hard world. She did not fail, therefore, to notice that three persons were catered for by the packer of the basket. An unknown upper housemaid was already suspect, and now she added mentally “some shop-girl friend.” The climax was reached when Medenham staged the strawberries. Cynthia, to whom the good things of the table were commonplaces, ate them and was thankful, but Mrs. Devar made another note: “Ten shillings a basket, at the very least; and three baskets!”
A deep, booming yell from the mob proclaimed that the second race was in progress.
“I can’t see a thing unless I am perched on the seat, and if I stand up I shall upset the crockery,” announced Cynthia. “But I am not interested yet awhile. If Grimalkin wins I shall shout myself hoarse.”
“He hasn’t a ghost of a chance,” said Medenham.
“Oh, but he has. Mr. Deane told my father——”
“But Tomkinson told me,” he interrupted.
“Tomkinson. Is that your butler friend?”
“Yes. He says the King’s horse will win.”
“Surely the owner of Grimalkin must know more about the race than a butler?”
“You would not think so, Miss Vanrenen, if you knew Tomkinson.”