"Spreadeagle!" shouted some one. Then there were more shouts of "Spreadeagle!"
"Milk-O!"—"Spreadeagle!"—the yells were deafening—then suddenly changed into a mixture of cheers and groans, as the favourite dashed by the post.
"And—where's Midsummer Moon?" gasped poor Tony, as the field clattered in.
"Never started, lady," said a stout policeman, who, being drafted in from elsewhere, did not recognise Nigel as the young fellow on ticket-of-leave who came to report himself every month at East Grinstead.
"Oh, dear!" cried Tony, "we've lost our money."
"Never put your money on an outsider, lady," said the stout constable.
Nigel turned to her with an odd, beseeching look in his eyes.
"I'm sorry ... I'm dreadfully sorry. It's my fault—if it hadn't been for me you'd have backed the favourite."
"Oh, it doesn't matter the very tiniest bit."
"But I'm so sorry—I feel a beast."