As he emerged into the open of the lawn he saw a gentleman standing somewhat listlessly, self-absorbed, as though he were not a party to the incessant turmoil of the others, who were as men mad.
With a faith born of limited experience, Mortimer risked another hazard. He would ask this complacent one for guidance. What he had to do justified all chances of rebuke.
“Pardon me, sir,” he began, “I am looking for a young friend of mine whose people own race horses. Where would I be likely to find him?”
“If he's an owner he'll probably be in the paddock,” replied the composed one.
“Could you tell me where the paddock is?”
“To the right,” and sweeping his arm in that direction the stranger sank back into his inner consciousness, and blinked his eyes languidly, as though the unusual exertion of answering his inquisitor's questions had decidedly bored him.
“That man is one in a thousand; yea, forty thousand, for he is a stranger to excitement,” Mortimer said to himself, as he strode rapidly across the grass to a gate which opened in the direction the other had indicated. His eagerness had almost carried him through the gateway when a strong arm thrown across his chest, none too gently, barred his further progress.
“Show your badge, please,” cried a voice.
Mortimer exposed the pasteboard he had acquired on his entry to the stand.
“You can't pass in here,” said the guardian; “that's only good for the stand.”