Next morning, when I came down to breakfast, I found a note from him saying that he had gone to the Divisional Races with his dear old college chum, Cazenove; also the following addenda:—­

“P.S.—­If William should miss a few francs from the Mess Fund tell him I will return it fourfold ere night.  I am on to a sure thing.

“P.P.S.—­If MacTavish should raise a howl about his fawn leggings, tell him I have borrowed them for the day as I understand there will be V.A.D.’s present, and noblesse oblige.”

At a quarter past eight that night he returned, accompanied by a pleasant-looking gunner subaltern, whom we gathered to be the Cazenove person.  I say “gathered,” for Albert Edward did not trouble to introduce the friend of his youth, but, flinging himself into a chair, attacked his food in a sulky silence which endured all through the repast.  Mr. Cazenove, on the other hand, was in excellent form.  He had spent a beautiful day, he said, and didn’t care who knew it.  A judge of horseflesh from the cradle, he had spotted the winner every time, backed his fancy like a little man and had been very generously rewarded by the Totalizator.  He was contemplating a trip to Brussels in a day or so.  Was his dear old friend Albert Edward coming?

His “dear old friend” (who was eating his thumb-nails instead of his savoury) scowled and said he thought not.

The gunner wagged his head sagely.  “Ah, well, old chap, if you will bet on horses which roar like a den of lions you must take the consequences.”

Albert Edward writhed.  “That animal used to win sprints in England; do you know that?”

Mr. Cazenove shrugged his shoulders.

“He may have thirty years ago.  All I’d back him to win now would be an old-age pension.  Well, I warned you, didn’t I?”

Albert Edward lost control.  “When I’m reduced to taking advice on racing form from a Tasmanian I’ll chuck the game and hie me to a monkery.  Why, look at that bit of bric-a-brac you were riding to-day; a decent God-fearing Australian wouldn’t be seen dead in a ten-acre paddock with it.”

Mr. Cazenove spluttered even more furiously.  “That’s a dashed good horse I’ll have you know.”

“I am not alluding to his morals, but to his appearance,” said Albert Edward; “I’ve seen better-looking hat-racks.”

“I’d back him to lick the stuffing out of anything you’ve got in this unit, anyway,” Cazenove snorted.

“Don’t be rash, Charlie,” Albert Edward warned; “your lucky afternoon has gone to your head.  Why, I’ve got an old mule here could give that boneshaker two stone and beat him by a furlong in five.”

The gunner sprang to his feet.  “Done with you!” he roared.  “Done with you here and now!”

Albert Edward appeared to be somewhat taken back.  “Don’t be silly, man,” he soothed.  “It’s pitch dark outside and cut up with trenches.  Sit down and have some more of this rare old port, specially concocted for us by the E.F.C.”