"Oh!"
"I've just been backing him for nearly thirty thousand pounds!"
"The deuce you have!"
"He's sure to win."
"Is he, indeed? May I ask how you know it?"
"A person with whom I am acquainted gave me yesterday the names of all to-day's winners. Devil's Own is one of them. I have them here." Mr. Major took out an old, soiled envelope. There was something written in pencil on the back of it. He held it out in front of him. There was a universal smile. The artist was aware of it. "I came out this morning with four hundred pounds. I have backed three of the horses whose names are on this envelope. I have already won nearly thirty thousand pounds. I have placed it all upon Devil's Own. Devil's Own will win. All the horses whose names are on this envelope will win. I am sure of it."
In his voice there was a ring of enthusiastic conviction. His eyes met Miss Davidson's. She smiled at him. "I hope they will, for your sake."
"Thank you. I knew you would."
He held out his hand to her. She gave him hers, blushing as she did so. The other people on the drag glanced at one another. When Miss Davidson withdrew her hand she turned to the course.
"We shall soon know if your prediction is true; they are starting."
They were starting, though they did not start just then. Racehorses are not to be induced to start by clockwork. But, at last, the flag was dropped. The runners came flying down the course.
