ld be so obstinate in refusing to take
her share in the spending of these phenomenal riches.

"I am exceedingly glad to hear it," he said.

"Oh, thank you very much. You see, fortune cuts all round. What's good
for me is good for you. In the first place, you can make your mind easy
about that affair of Absalom & Co., because they won't trouble you any
more. After the Derby we need not worry ourselves as to money matters.
That brings me to my reason for coming here this evening. I understand
that the colt has broken down permanently. From what I see in the papers
there is not the remotest chance of his winning a race as a three-year
old."

"It looks like it," Sir George answered. "At the same time, Mallow
doesn't share my opinion. He is very obstinate."

"Oh, what the devil does it matter what he says or thinks?" Copley said
impatiently. "He is only a servant. Surely you can do what you like with
your own. Besides, in this matter the opinion of the whole racing world
will sustain you. At the worst people can only say that you have made an
error in judgment. The Press recognizes that you have acted like a good
fellow and a sportsman in running this risk simply with the object of
taking the public into your confidence. They don't know, of course, that
you don't want the horse to win, nor what a surprise the Mirst Park
victory was to you. And on the top of that they tumble over one another
to back the colt, and if he doesn't start at all they are to blame.
Still, it has been a good thing for me. I have laid against your animal
thick and thin and after the Derby is over I shan't need to do any more
work."

Sir George made no reply. He sat gazing dubiously into the fire. Looking
back at the course of events, he could hardly see how he had got himself
into this mess. He ought to have refused to listen to Copley, and should
have supported the opinion of such a sound judge as Raffle. Besides, he
had never won a Derby in his racing career, and it seemed to him that he
was wasting a splendid chance. But it was too late to repent, too late
to draw back, and all Sir George could hope was that no one would ever
have an inkling of his shame. He did not know, neither did Copley, that
May was standing in the doorway. She had come in for something she
required. Her evening shoes had made no sound on the thick carpets, and
she had heard every word that was said. Not that she intended to play
the eavesdropper. But one remark of Copley