“Yes, sir.”

A long breath went up from the crowd.  Seven thousand pounds at one deal.  It was a record for Dunsloe.

“Any advance, Mr. Strellenhaus?”

“Fifty-one.”

“Fifty-five.”

“Fifty-six.”

“Sixty.”

They could hardly believe their ears.  Holloway stood with his mouth open, staring blankly in front of him.  The salesman tried hard to look as if such bidding and such prices were nothing unusual.  Jack Flynn of Kildare smiled benignly and rubbed his hands together.  The crowd listened in dead silence.

“Sixty-one,” said Strellenhaus.  From the beginning he had stood without a trace of emotion upon his round face, like a little automatic figure which bid by clockwork.  His rival was of a more excitable nature.  His eyes were shining, and he was for ever twitching at his beard.

“Sixty-five,” he cried.

“Sixty-six.”

“Seventy.”

But the clockwork had run down.  No answering bid came from Mr. Strellenhaus.

“Seventy bid, sir.”

Mr. Strellenhaus shrugged his shoulders.

“I am buying for another, and I have reached his limit,” said he.  “If you will permit me to send for instructions—­”

“I am afraid, sir, that the sale must proceed.”

“Then the horses belong to this gentleman.”  For the first time he turned towards his rival, and their glances crossed like sword-blades.  “It is possible that I may see the horses again.”

“I hope so,” said Mr. Mancune; and his white, waxed moustache gave a feline upward bristle.

So, with a bow, they separated.  Mr. Strellenhaus walked, down to the telegraph-office, where his message was delayed because Mr. Worlington Dodds was already at the end of the wires, for, after dim guesses and vague conjecture, he had suddenly caught a clear view of this coming event which had cast so curious a shadow before it in this little Irish town.  Political rumours, names, appearances, telegrams, seasoned horses at any price, there could only be one meaning to it.  He held a secret, and he meant to use it.

Mr. Warner, who was the partner of Mr. Worlington Dodds, and who was suffering from the same eclipse, had gone down to the Stock Exchange, but had found little consolation there, for the European system was in a ferment, and rumours of peace and of war were succeeding each other with such rapidity and assurance that it was impossible to know which to trust.  It was obvious that a fortune lay either way, for every rumour set the funds fluctuating; but without special information it was impossible to act, and no one dared to plunge heavily upon the strength of newspaper surmise and the gossip of the street.  Warner knew that an hour’s work might resuscitate the fallen fortunes of himself and his partner, and yet he could not afford to make a mistake.  He returned to his office in the afternoon, half inclined to back the chances of peace, for of all war scares not one in ten comes to pass.  As he entered the office a telegram lay upon the table.  It was from Dunsloe, a place of which he had never heard, and was signed by his absent partner.  The message was in cipher, but he soon translated it, for it was short and crisp.