h, come now," said he, "I'll give you a tow to the nearest repair
shop, and a word from me will expedite the business. Meanwhile, you
must jump into a hansom and appeal to the sympathies of
Miss--Vanrenen, is it?"

"No use, my lord," was the stubborn answer. "I am very much obliged
to you, but I would not dream of detaining you."

"Simmonds, you are positively cantankerous. I can spare the time."

"The first race is at 1.30, my lord," muttered Dale, greatly daring.

Medenham laughed.

"You, too?" he cried. "Someone has given you a tip, I suppose?"

Dale flushed under this direct analysis of his feelings. He grinned
sheepishly.

"I am told that Eyot can't lose the first race, my lord," he said.

"Ah! And how much do you mean to speculate?"

"A sovereign, my lord."

"Hand it over. I will lay you starting price."

Somewhat taken aback, though nothing said or done by Viscount Medenham
could really surprise him, Dale's leather garments creaked and groaned
while he produced the coin, which his master duly pocketed.

"Now, Simmonds," went on the pleasant, lazy voice, "you see how I have
comforted Dale by taking his money; won't you tell me what is the real
obstacle that blocks the way? Are you afraid to face this imperious
young lady?"

"No, my lord. No man can provide against an accident of this sort. But
Miss Vanrenen will lose all confidence in me. The arrangement was that
to-day's spin should be a short one--to Brighton. I was to take the
ladies to Epsom in time for the Derby, and then we were to run quietly
to the Metropole. Miss Vanrenen made such a point of seeing the race
that she will be horribly disappointed. There is an American horse
entered----"

"By gad, another gambler!"

Simmonds laughed grimly.

"I don't think Miss Vanrenen knows much about racing, my lord, but the
owner of Grimalkin is a friend of her father's, and he is confident
about winning this year."

"I am beginning to understand. You are in a fix of sorts, Simmonds."

"Yes, my lord."

"And what is your plan? I suppose you have one."

"I have sent for a boy messenger, my lord. When he arrives I shall
write--Oh, here he is."

Viscount Medenham descended leisurely and lit a cigarette. Dale, the
stoic, folded his arms and looked fixedly at the press of vehicles
passing the end of the street. Vivid memories of Lord Medenham's
chivalrous courtesy--his lordship's dashed tomfoolery he called
it--warned him that life was about to as