“Refer him to Mr. Vermont,” was the calm reply.  “I have sir, several times, but he wants to see you personally.  It’s a matter of discount——­”

“Send him to Mr. Vermont.  I know nothing of his bill or his discount.  Surely you know that, Norgate,” Leroy interrupted impatiently.

The discreet Norgate retreated silently; and ten minutes later Leroy started for his morning canter in the Row.  Here, meeting and chatting with his numerous friends, the morning passed quickly enough; and when Leroy returned to his chambers again, Norgate was putting the finishing touches to the table already set for lunch.

“Covers for four?” said his master, as he entered the room.  “Who is coming?”

“Mr. Shelton, Lord Standon, and Mr. Paxhorn, sir.”

“Ah, yes, to be sure,” replied the host, who had completely forgotten the invitation.  “I thought it was for to-morrow.”

The loud hoot of a motor outside told him that his visitors were arriving; and in another moment the door was flung open, and Mortimer Shelton, followed by Lord Standon, entered the room.

“Well, Leroy, old man,” exclaimed the former cheerily, as they shook hands, “you look as fresh as if you had awoke with the dawn!”

“Nothing new in that,” said Lord Standon, laughing.  “Nothing upsets Leroy.”

“Except a bad dinner,” murmured Algernon Paxhorn, the fourth member of the party, who had just entered the room.  He was the latest literary lion, and a fast friend—­in more senses than one—­of Adrien and the members of his set.

With jest and laughter they took their places at the table.

“Well, how’s the steeplechase going?” asked Leroy, turning to Shelton.  “What do you think of my ‘King Cole’?  Does he stand a chance?”

“A chance!” echoed all three.

“The odds are four to one on him, and few takers,” announced Shelton.

Lord Standon set down his glass.

“Ah, that was yesterday,” he said.  “I was there later, and the odds were being lifted.  You can lay what you like on him, my dear fellow, and you will have no difficulty in finding takers.”

“Oh!” commented Adrien, almost listlessly.  “Something better in the field, I suppose?  I thought the roan was not to be touched.”

“And I, also,” said Mortimer Shelton; “I can’t understand it!  The only new entry was a weedy chestnut, listed by a Yorkshireman in the afternoon.  ‘Holdfast’ they call him.”

“He’ll require more hustling than holding,” returned Paxhorn sarcastically.

Lord Standon finished his wine.

“I’ll back the roan while there’s a penny to borrow,” he said with sublime confidence.  “There’s nothing can touch him.”

“That’s what Jasper said,” remarked Leroy, “and he ought to know.”

“Oh, yes, he’s a good judge of a horse,” grudgingly admitted Shelton, who frankly hated him; “and of men too—­when it pays him.”