At a quarter past eight that night he returned, accompanied by a pleasant-looking gunner subaltern, whom we gathered to be the Cazenove person. I say "gathered," for Albert Edward did not trouble to introduce the friend of his youth, but, flinging himself into a chair, attacked his food in a sulky silence which endured all through the repast. Mr. Cazenove, on the other hand, was in excellent form. He had spent a beautiful day, he said, and didn't care who knew it. A judge of horseflesh from the cradle, he had spotted the winner every time, backed his fancy like a little man and had been very generously rewarded by the Totalizator. He was contemplating a trip to Brussels in a day or so. Was his dear old friend Albert Edward coming?
His "dear old friend" (who was eating his thumb-nails instead of his savoury) scowled and said he thought not.
The gunner wagged his head sagely. "Ah, well, old chap, if you will bet on horses which roar like a den of lions you must take the consequences."
Albert Edward writhed. "That animal used to win sprints in England; do you know that?"
Mr. Cazenove shrugged his shoulders.
"He may have thirty years ago. All I'd back him to win now would be an old-age pension. Well, I warned you, didn't I?"
Albert Edward lost control. "When I'm reduced to taking advice on racing form from a Tasmanian I'll chuck the game and hie me to a monkery. Why, look at that bit of bric-à-brac you were riding to-day; a decent God-fearing Australian wouldn't be seen dead in a ten-acre paddock with it."
Mr. Cazenove spluttered even more furiously. "That's a dashed good horse I'll have you know."
"I am not alluding to his morals, but to his appearance," said Albert Edward; "I've seen better-looking hat-racks."
"I'd back him to lick the stuffing out of anything you've got in this unit, anyway," Cazenove snorted.