"I've had a good tip for Bali Boogie."
"Nonsense," old Mrs. Sharpe said. "None of that Hippocras blood were any good when it came to a struggle. Just turned it up."
The three men stared at her, astonished.
"You are interested in racing?" Robert said, unbelieving.
"No, in horseflesh. My brother bred thoroughbreds." Seeing their faces she gave her dry cackle of laughter, so like a hen's squawk. "Did you think I went to rest every afternoon with my Bible, Mr. Blair? Or perhaps with a book on black magic. No, indeed; I take the racing page of the daily paper. And Stanley would be well advised to save his money on Bali Boogie; if anything in horseflesh ever deserved so obscene a name that animal does."
"And what instead?" Stanley asked, with his usual economy.
"They say that horse sense is the instinct that keeps horses from betting on men. But if you must do something as silly as betting, then you had better put your money on Kominsky."
"Kominsky!" Stanley said. "But it's at sixties!"
"You can of course lose your money at a shorter price if you like," she said dryly. "Shall we go, Mr. Blair?"
"All right," Stan said. "Kominsky it is; and you're on to a tenth of my stake."