?"

"The King's horse, my lord," replied Tomkinson, with the unctuous
conviction of a prelate laying down a dogma.

"Is it as sure as all that?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Well, I hope so. You are on a sovereign--By gad, you really are, you
know."

Tomkinson was far too keenly alive to the monetary side of the
transaction to pay heed to the quip. His portly figure curved in a
superb bow.

"Thank you, my lord," said he.

"Remind me this evening if you are right. I shall not forget to damn
you if you are wrong."

Tomkinson ignored the chance of error and its consequences.

"Your lordship will be home for dinner?"

"Yes, I have no other engagement. All ready, Dale?" for the chauffeur
was in his seat, and the engine was purring with the placid hum of a
machine in perfect tune.

Tomkinson moved grandly down the steps, ushered Viscount Medenham into
the car, and watched its graceful swoop into Holles Street.

"Times have changed," said he to himself. "Twenty years ago, when I
first came here, his lordship's father would have given _me_ a tip,
and he wouldn't have been coming home for dinner, neether."

By that last fatal word Tomkinson betrayed the cloven hoof. At least,
he was no prelate--and his assumption of the prophetic role would soon
be put to the test. But he had answered the Great Question.

The Mercury crossed Oxford Street and insinuated itself into the
aristocratic narrowness of Mayfair. It stopped in Curzon Street,
opposite a house gay with flowers in window-boxes. The Viscount looked
at his watch.

"How far to Epsom?" he asked over Dale's shoulder.

"About sixteen miles by the direct road, my lord, but it will be best
to go round by Kingston and avoid the worst of the traffic. We ought
to allow an hour for the run."

"An hour!"

"We are not in France now, my lord. The police here would have spasms
if they saw the car extended."

Lord Medenham sighed.

"We must reason with them," he said. "But not to-day. Lady St. Maur
declares she is nervous. Of course, she doesn't know our Mercury.
After to-day's experience it will be quite another matter when I take
her to Brighton for lunch on Sunday."

Dale said nothing. He had met his employer at Marseilles in October,
when Lord Medenham landed from Africa; during the preceding twelve
months his license had been indorsed three times for exceeding the
speed limit on the Brighton Road, and he had paid L40 in fines and
costs to various petty sessional cou