"They all look very small," he said reprovingly, watching a narrow colt pass on its way from stable to sale-ring.

"Well, they're yearlings."

"One year old, literally?"

"Eighteen months, twenty months: about that. They race next year, when they're two."

He nodded and decided to return to the scene of the action, and again found us seats opposite the big-money crowd. The amphitheatre had filled almost to capacity while we'd been outside, and soon, with every seat taken, people shoved close-packed into the entrance and the standing-room sections: the blood of Northern Dancer and Nijinsky and of Secretariat and Lyphard was on its regal way to the ring.

A hush fell in the building at the entrance of the first of the legend-bred youngsters, the breath-held expectant hush of the knowledgeable awaiting a battle among financial giants. A fat cheque on this sales evening could secure a Derby winner and found a dynasty, and it happened often enough to tempt belief each time that this… this… was the one.

The auctioneer cleared his throat and managed the introduction without a quiver.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we now have Lot No 76, a bay colt by Nijinsky He recited the magical breeding as if bored, and asked for an opening bid.

Malcolm sat quiet and watched while the numbers flew high on the scoreboard, the price rising in jumps of fifty thousand; watched while the auctioneer scanned the bidding faces for the drop of an eyelid, the twitch of a head, the tiny acknowledgements of intent.

"… against you, sir. No more, then? All done?" The auctioneer's eyebrows rose with his gavel, remained poised in elevation, came smoothly, conclusively down. "Sold for one million seven hundred thousand guineas to Mr Siddons…"

The crowd sighed, expelling collective breath like a single organism. Then came rustling of catalogues, movement, murmuring and rewound expectation.