"I'll come back," I promised helplessly, lending her my handkerchief, "I'll come back."

The taxi from the air terminal brought me through a tree-filled square to the Earl of October's London home in a grey drizzle which in no way matched my spirits. Light-hearted, that was me. Springs in my heels.

In answer to my ring the elegant black door was opened by a friendly faced manservant who took my grip from my hand and said that as his lordship was expecting me he would take me up at once.

"Up' turned out to be a crimson-walled drawing-room on the first floor where round an electric heater in an Adam fireplace three men stood with glasses in their hands. Three men standing easily, their heads turned towards the opening door. Three men radiating as one the authority I had been aware of in October. They were the ruling triumvirate of National Hunt racing. Big guns. Established and entrenched behind a hundred years of traditional power. They weren't taking the affair as effervescently as I was.

"Mr. Roke, my lord," said the manservant, showing me in.

October came across the room to me and shook hands.

"Good trip?"

"Yes, thank you."

He turned towards the other men.

"My two co-Stewards arranged to be here to welcome you."

"My name is Macclesfield," said the taller of them, an elderly stooping man with riotous white hair. He leaned forward and held out a sinewy hand.

"I am most interested to meet you, Mr. Roke." He had a hawk-eyed piercing stare.

"And this is Colonel Beckett." He gestured to the third man, a slender ill-looking person who shook hands also, but with a weak limp grasp.

All three of them paused and looked at me as if I had come from outer space.

"I am at your disposal," I said politely.

"Yes… well, we may as well get straight down to business," said October, directing me to a hide-covered armchair.