But to return to the present.  By this time the late falling twilight of May had begun to close in, and presently—­as the day was now done and the night approaching—­Logan led in Black Riot from the paddock, followed by a slim, sallow-featured, small-moustached man, bearing a shotgun, and dressed in grey tweeds.  Sir Henry, who, it was plain to see, had a liking for the man, introduced this newcomer to Cleek as the South American, Mr. Andrew Sharpless.

“That’s the English of it, Mr. Cleek,” said the latter jovially, but with an undoubted Spanish twist to the tongue.  “I wouldn’t have you risk breaking your jaw with the Brazilian original.  Delighted to meet you, sir.  I hope to Heaven you will get at the bottom of this diabolical thing.  What do you think, Henry?  Lambson-Bowles’s jockey was over in this neighbourhood this afternoon.  Trying to see how Black Riot shapes, of course, the bounder!  Fortunately I saw him skulking along on the other side of the hedge, and gave him two minutes in which to make himself scarce.  If he hadn’t, if he had come a step nearer to the mare, I’d have shot him down like a dog.  That’s right, Logan, put her up for the night, old chap, and I’ll get out your bedding.”

“Aye,” said Logan, through his clamped teeth, “and God help man or devil that comes a-nigh her this night—­God help him, Lunnon Mister, that’s all Ah say!” Then he passed into the steel room with the mare, attended her for the night, and coming out a minute or two later, locked her up and gave Sir Henry the key.

“Broke her and trained her, Ah did; and willin’ to die for her, Ah am, if Ah can’t pull un through no other way,” he said, pausing before Cleek and giving him a black look, “A Derby winner her’s cut out for, Lunnon Mister, and a Derby winner her’s goin’ to be, in spite of all the Lambson-Bowleses and the low-down horse-nobblers in Christendom!” Then he switched round and walked over to Sharpless, who had taken a pillow and a bundle of blankets from a convenient cupboard, and was making a bed of them on the floor at the foot of the locked steel door.

“Thanky, sir, ’bliged to un, sir,” said Logan as Sharpless hung up the shotgun and, with a word to the baronet, excused himself and went in to dress for dinner.  Then he faced round again on Cleek, who was once more sniffing the air, and pointed to the rude bed:  “There’s where Ted Logan sleeps this night—­there!” he went on suddenly; “and them as tries to get at Black Riot comes to grips with me first, me and the shotgun Mr. Sharpless has left Ah.  And if Ah shoot, Lunnon Mister, Ah shoot to kill!”

“Do me a favour, Sir Henry,” said Cleek.  “For reasons of my own, I want to be in this stable alone for the next ten minutes, and after that let no one come into it until morning.  I won’t be accountable for this man’s life if he stops in here to-night, and for his sake, as well as for your own, I want you to forbid him to do so.”

Logan seemed to go nearly mad with rage at this.