“The jockey who is to ride Denver Bay was seen talking to one of the strangers, but you can’t get a word out of him.[{52}]”
“That’s strange.”
“It’s more than strange—it’s suspicious. But, after all, we have our own scheme to work, and I have every confidence in that.”
“You have the medicine?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’d better give it to me now. There is no knowing when we will be together again.”
Martin took a small box from his pocket, opened it, and exhibited a white, sugar-coated pill about the size of a marble.
“You can’t be too careful with this,” he said. “I had work enough getting it.”
“Is it poisonous?”
“No. It’s a compound known only to one or two people, and they charge mighty high for it. That little pill cost me a hundred round dollars.”