"No, I don't know what became of Sorrell. Probably doing office work somewhere."
The bay was led up to them. Lacey took off his coat, removed a pair of galoshes, which he laid neatly side by side on the grass, and was thrown into the saddle. As he adjusted the leathers he said to Murray, "Alvinson isn't here today" — Alvinson was Murray's trainer. "He said you would give me instructions."
"The instructions are the usual ones," said Murray. "Do as you like on him. He should about win."
"Very good," said Lacey matter-of-factly, and was led away to the gate, horse and man as beautiful a picture as this weary civilization can provide.
As Grant and Murray walked to the stands, Murray said, "Cheer up, Grant. Baddeley may be dead, but I know who knew him. I'll take you down to talk to him as soon as this is over." So it was with a real enjoyment that Grant watched the race; saw the colour that flickered and streamed against the grey curtain of the woods on the back stretch, while a silence settled eerily on the crowd — a silence so complete that he might have been there alone with the dripping trees, and the grey wooded countryside, and the wet grass; saw the long struggle in the straight and the fighting finish, with Murray's bay second by a length. When Murray had seen his horse again and congratulated Lacey, he led Grant into Tattersalls and introduced him to an elderly man, with the rubicund face of the man who drives mail coaches through the snow on Christmas cards. "Thacker," he said, "You knew Baddeley. What became of his clerk, do you know?"
"Sorrell?" said the Christmas-card man. "He set up for himself. Has an office in Minley Street."
"Does he come to the course?"
"No, don't think so. Just has an office. Seemed to be doing quite well last time I saw him."
"How long ago was that?"
"Oh, long time."