Her breath was coming fast. Inch by inch the favourite drew level and there were others at his shoulder. They must have done three furlongs when the favourite got his head in front. Another furlong and Bonnie Chevalier was half a length behind the first three, and still losing ground. Her face grew hard and stony, but she refused to realise defeat. There was still a hope. But in the next few seconds it was dissipated. Bonnie Chevalier’s jockey knew when he was beaten and eased up his mount. The race was over for him.

Through her ashen lips Mrs. Gertstein ripped out an unfeminine oath. Someone spoke to her and she snarled fiercely in reply. The man, an inoffensive acquaintance who had been among the party with whom she had lunched, opened his eyes in well-bred surprise, and with an effort she composed herself.

“I really beg your pardon,” she said.

“Not at all,” he replied with mechanical politeness. “I hope that you haven’t been hard hit.”