ase by his
companion's side. "And you will back Grimace?" He ignored the young
man's prognostication.

De Presle-Vaulx said ingenuously: "_I_? Oh, seriously, I'm not
betting. I lost at baccarat last night, and I haven't a sou for the
race."

He looked boyish and regretful. The American put his hand in his
pocket and took out his portefeuille.

"Let me," he suggested pleasantly, "be your banker."

The light dry rustle of French bank-notes came agreeably from between
his fingers.

The young man hesitated, then put out his hand.

"A thousand thanks, Monsieur, you are too good--I _will_ back Grimace,
and after the race----"

Jimmy handed him the notes to choose from.

At the stair foot stood Molly and Mrs. Falconer.

"We went this afternoon to see Jack's horse," Miss Malines said to the
Marquis. Whatever she said, no matter how general, she said to
him--others might gather what they could. "Bon Jour's a beauty--a
dear, and as fit as possible. Oh, she's in great form! Jack's crazy
about her, and so is the jockey. I know Bon Jour will win! I'm going
to put twenty-five francs on her to-morrow."

Mary Falconer smiled radiantly. "And you, Jimmy," she took for
granted, "are of course betting on the favorite?"

"If you mean Grimace--" his tone was indifferent--"no, I shall back
your husband's horse."

"_Jimmy_!" Her tone changed, and her expression as well.

De Presle-Vaulx saw it, and he knew what women's voices can mean. He
was a Frenchman, and he understood what a slow, delicious flush, a
darkening of the eyes, a sharp note in the voice can signify of
feeling--as well as of gratitude, surprise and a little scorn. There
was all this in Mary Falconer's exclamation and her face.

"And Maurice!" Molly said, "of course, you're doing the same?"

The Marquis met his fiancee's clear eyes, her girlish enthusiasm and
her confidence. He bit his lip, shrugged, hesitated, looked at
Bulstrode, at Molly, and laughed. The presence of the others and the
custom of his country made it only a pretty courtesy--he lifted Molly's
hand to his lips.

"Of course--_chere Mademoiselle_, I am backing Bon Jour with all my
heart, _cela va sans dire_!"

Miss Malines regarded her friend with a pretty grimace and a smile.

As they walked along together all four, Bulstrode said to himself:

"He's a sport, a true sport--that's five thousand francs to the bad.
He was game, however, he's a good sport and, better yet, he's a