Mr. Major knew the name—through the sporting prints—"I'll cash Mr. Jacobs' cheque; though, mind you, I shouldn't be surprised if it was a stumer! This is the shop for cheques. What's your fancy, Mr. Major?"
"What price Devil's Own for the Churchill Handicap?"
"I'll give you seven to four, and I'll go you for Mr. Jacobs' cheque."
"Why," shouted a voice in the crowd, "just now you were giving six to one."
"Very well, Mr. Major, you deal with that gentleman over there. He'll lay you six to one—in pennies. Seven to four's my price."
"I want to go for more than the cheque."
"The cheque's big enough for me. What's the size of it? Nineteen thousand six hundred—yes, that's quite big enough for me."
Another penciller addressed himself to Mr. Major.
"How much more do you want to do?"
"Eight thousand five hundred."
"I'll do it at George Foote's price. You know me, I daresay, Tom Grainger, of Nottingham—Grainger with an 'i.'"
Directly the artist had made his bet Devil's Own seemed to be in general demand.
"Mr. Major! You here!"
As Mr. Major was thrusting Mr. Grainger's ticket into his pocket someone addressed him from behind. Turning, there was Miss Davidson. His heart seemed suddenly to cease to beat
"You!" was all that he could gasp.
She laughed.
