he railing and
came up and joined the little group of his friends just below the Grand
Stand. He lit a cigar, threw down the match furiously, smoked
furiously, and nerved himself for the strain.

Nodding toward the betting contingent he muttered: "They're sheep.
They're all betting on the favorite naturally. Bon Jour wasn't
mentioned for place even, poor little girl!"

The ignored little racer had ambled around the field, her jockey in
crimson and white, doubled up upon her back after the manner of his
profession. Bon Jour was as golden red as a young chestnut; she had
four white feet that twinkled on the fragrant turf whose odors of
crushed blades and green blades, of earth and the distant smell of the
sea went to her pretty head. She threw it up eagerly as her disputants
filled the field. There were nine horses scheduled, but only five
qualified. The Rothschild gelding, an English gray, and two others
named for probable places.

"She's cool as a rose," murmured Bon Jour's owner, "and just look at
her form, will you!"

It was charming, and already the American's horse was attracting
attention.

Molly, with De Presle-Vaulx's aid, rose on her chair, from which her
excitement threatened at any moment to precipitate her.

"Oh, Maurice--of course she'll win. Isn't she a _dear_? How much
shall I make on twenty-five francs?"

Bulstrode smiled.

"A frightful amount! There are twenty to one up on her, Molly."

The girl mentally calculated, exclaimed with pleasure and, with
sparkling eyes, watched the lining-up of the racers. Neck to neck they
stood, a splendid showing of satin and shine from fetlock to forelock,
equine beauty enough to gladden a sporting man's heart, and all five
were away before Miss Malines was even sure which one was the great
Grimace.

From the first the favorite's nose was to the good. His shapely body
followed, and when the horses came in sight again beyond the right-hand
hedge, he had put four lengths between himself and the others. The
winner of the Grand Prix had all the field with him. But the gray
gelding who strained at Grimace's flanks had no staying powers,
although he was backed as strongly for place as was Grimace to win; as
he fell back Bon Jour began to attract notice.

Bulstrode and De Presle-Vaulx exchanged glances over the absorbed
figure of Jack Falconer. "She may yet win place," murmured the younger
man.

As they came up the wide turf sweep that lay like an