morning, but some remark made by the Earl caused him to lay down the newspaper, and, when next he picked it up, he became interested in an article on the Cape to Cairo railway, written by someone who had not the remotest notion of the difficulties to be surmounted before that very desirable line can be constructed.
Cynthia, however, was watching him, and she laughed gleefully.
"Ah, Fitzroy, you hadn't heard of Vendetta before," she cried. "Confess now--your faith in Tomkinson is shaken."
"Vendetta certainly does sound like war to the knife," said he.
"It is twenty to one," purred Mrs. Devar complacently. "I shall risk the five pounds I won on the first race, and it will be very nice if I receive a hundred."
"I stick to Old Glory," announced the valiant Cynthia.
"The King for me," declared Medenham, though he realized, without any knowledge of the merits of the horses engaged, that the Honorable Charles was not the sort of man to run a three-year-old in the Derby merely for the sake of seeing his racing colors flashing in the sun.
Mrs. Devar kept to her word, and handed over the five pounds. Cynthia staked seven, the five she had won and the ten dollars of her original intent: whereupon Medenham said that he must cross the course and make these bets in the ring--would the ladies raise any objection to his absence, as he could not return until after the race? No, they were quite content to remain in the car, so he repacked the luncheon basket and left them.
Vendetta won by three lengths.
Medenham had secured twenty-five to one, and the bookmaker who paid him added the genial advice: "Put that little lot where the flies can't get at it." The man could afford to be affable, seeing that the bet was the only one in his book against the horse's name. The King's horse and Grimalkin were the public favorites, but both were hopelessly shut in at Tattenham Corner, and neither showed in the front rank at any stage of a fast run race. When Medenham climbed the hill again, hot and uncomfortable in his leather clothing, Mrs. Devar actually welcomed him with an expansive smile.
"What odds did you get me?" she cried, as soon as he was within earshot.
"A hundred and twenty-five pounds to five, madam," he said.
"Oh, what luck! You must keep the odd five pounds, Fitzroy."
"No, thank you. I hedged on Vendetta, so I am still winning."
"But really, I insist."
He handed her a bundle of notes.
"You will find a hundred and thirty pounds there," he said, and she understood that his refusal to accept her money was final. She was intensely surprised that he had given her so much more than she expected, and the first unworthy thought was succeeded by a second--how dared this impudent chauffeur decline her bounty?
Cynthia pouted at him.
"Your Tomkinson is a fraud," she 

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