“Awful,” Dennis Brown admitted.  “We ought to have had five nice wins on form.  But they weren’t trying, Joan.  The way Camomile was pulled.  I expected to see his neck shut up like a concertina.”

“Never mind, boys,” said Sir Chichester.  “You’ll get it back before Friday.”

Harold Jupp shook his head doubtfully.

“Never sure about flat-racing.  Jumping’s the only thing for the poor and honest backer.”

Joan Wentworth looked about her regretfully.

“I understand now why you have all come back so early.”

Miranda Brown ran impulsively to her.  She was as pretty as a picture, and spoke as a rule in a series of charming explosions.  At this moment she was deeply wronged.

“Yes, Joan,” she cried.  “They would go!  And I know that I have backed the winner for the last race.”

Dennis Brown contemplated his wife with amazement.

“Miranda, you are crazy,” he cried.  “He can’t win.”

Harold Jupp agreed regretfully.

“He’s a Plater.  That’s the truth.  A harmless, unnecessary Plater.  I sit at the feet of Miranda Brown, Joan, but as regards horses, she doesn’t know salt from sugar.”

Miranda looked calmly at her watch.

“He has already won.”

Tea was brought in and consumed.  At the end of it Dennis Brown observed to Harold Jupp: 

“We ought to arrange what we are going to do to-morrow.”

Both men rose, and each drew from one pocket a programme of the next day’s events, and from the other a little paper-covered volume called “Form at a Glance.”  Armed with their paraphernalia, they retired to a table in a window.

“Come and live the higher life with us, Joan,” cried Harold Jupp.  “What are you reading?”

“Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society,” Joan returned icily.  But pride burned through the ice, and was audible.

“He sounds just like a Plater,” replied Harold Jupp.

Meanwhile Dennis Brown was immersed in his programme.

“The first race is too easy,” he announced.

“Yes,” said Jupp.  “It’s sticking out a foot.  Peppercorn.”

Dennis Brown stared at his friend.

“Don’t be silly!  Simon Jackson will romp home.”

Harold Jupp consulted his little brown book.

“Peppercorn ran second to Petronella at Newbury, giving her nine pounds. 
Petronella met Simon Jackson at even weights at Newcastle, and Simon
Jackson was left in the country.  Peppercorn must win.”

“Let us hear the names of the others,” interrupted Miranda, running up to the table.

Harold Jupp read out the names.

“Smoky Boy, Paper Crown, House on Fire, Jemima Puddleduck——­” and Miranda clapped her hands.

“Jemima Puddleduck’s going to win.”

Both the young men stared at her, then both plunged their noses into their books.

“Jemima Puddleduck,” Dennis Brown read, “out of Side Springs, by the Quack.”