Twelve o'clock struck, and no signs as yet of the Leroy party; that is
to say, with the exception of one man, namely, Mr. Jasper Vermont.

"Your swells are always late," said a thick-lipped turfite, biting his
stubby pencil prior to booking a favourable bet. "They gives any money
for style, an' plays it high on us. It ain't their way to be to time for
anything, not they--only us poor chaps."

The surrounding crowd echoed his shout of "two to one on 'King Cole,'"
despite his diatribes against the swells; when suddenly attention was
caught by a dark chestnut, thin in the flank, and badly groomed, which
was led into the paddock by a dirty, close-shaven countryman, who looked
as nonchalant and self-satisfied as if he held the bridle of "King Cole"
himself.

Presently, while the crowd pushed around the sacred enclosure, Jasper
Vermont walked swiftly up to the Yorkshireman, and whispered behind a
sheltering cough: "That will do. Take him off. The plant's safe without him."

Three minutes later, a laugh of derision arose as the announcement was
made that the chestnut was "scratched." But further discussion died
down, as the Leroy carriages arrived---only just in time, for the
saddling bell had already rang.

The course was now looking its best. Long lines of glittering motors and
smart carriages had joined their humbler brethren of traps and
omnibuses. The seats and stands were filled with gaily-dressed people;
women in their furs, velvets and exquisite hats, giving the impression
from a distance of a huge living flower garden.