inute--and it probably did not take them half
one--to open the doors and come to his assistance, he would not be stone
dead in so short a time; and he was stone dead when they got in, I
believe you said?"

"Yes. God knows what killed him, the coroner will find that out, no
doubt, but there was no blood shed and no mark upon him that I could
see."

"Hum-m-m! Was there any mark on the door of the steel stall?"

"Yes. A long scratch, somewhat semi-circular, and sweeping downward at
the lower extremity. It began close to the lock and ended about a foot
and a half lower."

"Undoubtedly, you see, Cleek," put in Narkom, "some one tried to force
an entrance to the steel room and get at the mare, but the prompt
arrival of the men on guard outside the stable prevented his doing so."

Cleek made no response. Just at that moment the limousine was gliding
past a building whose courtyard was one blaze of parrot tulips, and, his
eye caught by the flaming colours, he was staring at them and
reflectively rubbing his thumb and forefinger up and down his chin.
After a moment, however:

"Tell me something, Sir Henry," he said abruptly. "Is anybody interested
in your not putting Black Riot into the field on Derby Day? Anybody with
whom you have a personal acquaintance, I mean, for of course I know
there are other owners who would be glad enough to see him scratched.
But is there anybody who would have a particular interest in your
failure?"

"Yes--one: Major Lambson-Bowles, owner of Minnow. Minnow's second
favourite, as perhaps you know. It would delight Lambson-Bowles to see
me 'go under'; and, as I'm so certain of Black Riot that I've mortgaged
every stick and stone I have in the world to back her, I should go under
if anything happed to the mare. That would suit Lambson-Bowles down to
the ground."

"Bad blood between you, then?"

"Yes, very. The fellow's a brute, and--I thrashed him once, as he
deserved, the bounder. It may interest you to know that my only sister
was his first wife. He led her a dog's life, poor girl, and death was a
merciful release to her. Twelve months ago he married a rich American
woman, widow of a man who made millions in hides and leather. That's
when Lambson-Bowles took up racing and how he got the money to keep a
stud. Had the beastly bad taste, too, to come down to Suffolk--within a
gunshot of Wilding Hall--take Elmslie Manor, the biggest place in the
neighbourhood, and cut a dash under my very nos