“Will she . . .” began Fauntley.

“She’s capable of it,” said Mannering. “She’s moving up. . . The Setter’s dropped behind . . .”

“Where are my glasses ?” muttered Fauntley. “I never can find the darned things.”

“Shouldn’t stuff ‘em in your pockets,” said Mannering.

He smiled to himself, knowing that Lord Fauntley, with five hundred on Feodora, could have laid five thousand or fifty thousand, and taken a loss without being worried. There would be a certain amusement to be derived from separating Lord Fauntley from the Liska diamond, for instance.

“You had a job getting the Liska,” Mannering said aloud.

“Damn the Liska! Where’s Feodora ?”

“Second at the mile and a half.”

“Second, eh ? And she’s a stayer — I know she’s a stayer.”

“Marriland is coming up,” said Mannering thoughtfully.

He was thinking less of Feodora and Marriland, battling now towards the two-mile post ready for the straight run home, than of Lord Fauntley and the Liska diamond. The Post that morning had recorded, with its superb indifference, that Fauntley had outbidden Rawson for the diamond at the figure of nine thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds. The Liska would eventually adorn the plump neck of the peeress, and it was difficult to imagine a less worthy resting-place — or so Mannering believed. H’m ! A particularly foolish train of thought.

Was it? Fauntley could stand the loss.

“Where is she?” muttered Fauntley irritably. “Damn it, Mannering, you know my eyes aren’t what they were.”

“Still second,” said Mannering, “and turning into the straight! Ah! Simmons is touching her. Good boy, Simmons ! She’ll do it.”

The excitement of the finish stirred him now. Feodora and Marriland pounded along the hard track, with the rest of the bunch fighting for third place.