The conversation among the audience began to flag again; and the silent expectation set in among them once more.  One by one, the different persons officially connected with the race gathered together on the grass.  The trainer Perry was among them, with his can of water in his hand, in anxious whispering conversation with his principal—­giving him the last words of advice before the start.  The trainer’s doctor, leaving them together, came up to pay his respects to his illustrious colleague.

“How has he got on since I was at Fulham?” asked Mr. Speedwell.

“First-rate, Sir!  It was one of his bad days when you saw him.  He has done wonders in the last eight-and-forty hours.”

“Is he going to win the race?”

Privately the doctor had done what Perry had done before him—­he had backed Geoffrey’s antagonist.  Publicly he was true to his colors.  He cast a disparaging look at Fleetwood—­and answered Yes, without the slightest hesitation.

At that point, the conversation was suspended by a sudden movement in the inclosure.  The runners were on their way to the starting-place.  The moment of the race had come.

Shoulder to shoulder, the two men waited—­each with his foot touching the mark.  The firing of a pistol gave the signal for the start.  At the instant when the report sounded they were off.

Fleetwood at once took the lead, Delamayn following, at from two to three yards behind him.  In that order they ran the first round, the second, and the third—­both reserving their strength; both watched with breathless interest by every soul in the place.  The trainers, with their cans in their hands, ran backward and forward over the grass, meeting their men at certain points, and eying them narrowly, in silence.  The official persons stood together in a group; their eyes following the runners round and round with the closest attention.  The trainer’s doctor, still attached to his illustrious colleague, offered the necessary explanations to Mr. Speedwell and his friend.

“Nothing much to see for the first mile, Sir, except the ‘style’ of the two men.”

“You mean they are not really exerting themselves yet?”

“No.  Getting their wind, and feeling their legs.  Pretty runner, Fleetwood—­if you notice Sir?  Gets his legs a trifle better in front, and hardly lifts his heels quite so high as our man.  His action’s the best of the two; I grant that.  But just look, as they come by, which keeps the straightest line.  There’s where Delamayn has him!  It’s a steadier, stronger, truer pace; and you’ll see it tell when they’re half-way through.”  So, for the first three rounds, the doctor expatiated on the two contrasted “styles”—­in terms mercifully adapted to the comprehension of persons unacquainted with the language of the running ring.

At the fourth round—­in other words, at the round which completed the first mile, the first change in the relative position of the runners occurred.  Delamayn suddenly dashed to the front.  Fleetwood smiled as the other passed him.  Delamayn held the lead till they were half way through the fifth round—­when Fleetwood, at a hint from his trainer, forced the pace.  He lightly passed Delamayn in an instant; and led again to the completion of the sixth round.