Malcolm said, "It's a spectator sport."

"Addictive," I agreed.

He glanced at me sideways. "For one million… five million… there's no guarantee the colt will ever race, isn't that what you said? One could be throwing one's cash down the drain?"

"That's right."

"It's a perfectly blameless way of getting rid of a lot of money very fast, wouldn't you say?"

"Well…" I said slowly, "is that what you're at?"

"Do you disapprove?"

"It's your money. You made it. You spend it."

He smiled almost secretively at his catalogue and said, "I can hear the but' in your voice."

"Mm. If you want to enjoy yourself, buy ten next-best horses instead of one super-colt, and get interested in them."

"And pay ten training fees instead of one?"

I nodded. "Ten would drain the exchequer nicely."

He laughed in his throat and watched the next half-grown blue-blood reach three million guineas before Mr Siddons shook his head.

"… sold for three million and fifty thousand guineas to Mrs Terazzini…"

"Who's she?" Malcolm asked.

"She owns a world-wide blood stock empire."

He reflected. "Like Robert Sangster?"

"Yep. Like him."

He made a noise of understanding. "An industry."

"Yes."

The following lot, a filly, fetched a more moderate sum, but the hush of expectancy returned for the next offering. Malcolm, keenly tuned by now to the atmosphere, watched the bidders as usual, not the nervous chestnut colt.

The upward impetus stopped at a fraction over two million and the auctioneer's eyebrows and gavel rose. "All done?" Malcolm raised his catalogue.

The movement caught the eye of the auctioneer, who paused with the gavel raised, using his eyebrows as a question, looking at Malcolm with surprise. Malcolm sat in what could be called the audience, not with the usual actors. "You want to bid, sir?" asked the auctioneer.