No one at Grace's table had the winner, a big bay gelding by the unlikely name of Meat Wagon Herb, who had gone off at 12 to 1 odds.

And so it went. Grace, against her better judgment had another martini just before dinner was served. Ravenous, she lit into her filet mignon as though she hadn't eaten for weeks. As the time grew closer for the sixth race, she found an almost unbearable tension building up in her body. It was akin to fever, leaving her weak and feeling light-headed. As Jim Meloney had suspected, Red Jewel wasn't quite good enough in the fifth, finishing third in a photo finish. Doug, who hadn't really believed Grace, bet the horse to win and lost another fifteen dollars; he was now down $130 for the evening. Judi had kept her bets at a more conservative level, but still was out $30. Of the eight people at Grace's table, only Bill Hill was ahead, and then just slightly thanks to a lucky long-shot in the third.

The feeling of light-headed excitement continued to mount to a point where Grace's hands were actually trembling when she picked up her purse shortly before the sixth race and walked toward Jim Meloney's private box. He wasn't there, nor was he in the dining room or bar area. Disappointed, she stared around hoping for a glance of him. Then, spirit crushed, and dejected, started back toward her own table. She hadn't taken more than half a dozen steps before she felt her shoulders grasped from behind and heard his voice, "Mrs. Hope. Don't go away."

She turned, a radiant smile of relief on her face. "I was looking for you." She faltered, suddenly unsure of herself. "You did say to find you before this race?"

He turned his head in both directions then gently took her elbow and steered her over to his box. "Right. Number six. Bet it to win. But don't bet more than you can afford to lose."