“Don’t,” Sir Timothy begged, as he saw signs of another attack.  “I don’t want to hurt you.  I have been amateur champion of two countries.  Not quite fair, is it?”

“Wot d’yer want to come interferin’ with a chap’s business for?” the man growled, dabbing his cheek with a filthy handkerchief but keeping at a respectful distance.

“It happens to be my business also,” Sir Timothy replied, “to interfere whenever I see animals ill-treated.  Now I don’t want to be unreasonable.  That animal has done all the work it ought to do in this world.  How much is she worth to you?”

Through the man’s beer-clogged brain a gleam of cunning began to find its way.  He looked at the Rolls-Royce, with the two motionless servants on the box, at Francis standing by, at Sir Timothy, even to his thick understanding the very prototype of a “toff.”

“That ’oss,” he said, “ain’t what she was, it’s true, but there’s a lot of work in ’er yet.  She may not be much to look at but she’s worth forty quid to me—­ay, and one to spit on!”

Sir Timothy counted out some notes from the pocketbook which he had produced, and handed them to the man.

“Here are fifty pounds,” he said.  “The mare is mine.  Johnson!”

The second man sprang from his seat and came round.

“Unharness that mare,” his master ordered, “help the man push his trolley back out of the way, then lead the animal to the mews in Curzon Street.  See that she is well bedded down and has a good feed of corn.  To-morrow I shall send her down to the country, but I will come and have a look at her first.”

The man touched his hat and hastened to commence his task.  The carter, who had been busy counting the notes, thrust them into his pocket with a grin.

“Good luck to yer, guvnor!” he shouted out, in valedictory fashion. “’Ope I meets yer again when I’ve an old crock on the go.”

Sir Timothy turned his head.

“If ever I happen to meet you, my good man,” he threatened, “using your whip upon a poor beast who’s doing his best, I promise you you won’t get up in two minutes, or twenty ....  We might walk the last few yards, Mr. Ledsam.”

The latter acquiesced at once, and in a moment or two they were underneath the portico of the Opera House.  Sir Timothy had begun to talk about the opera but Francis was a little distrait.  His companion glanced at him curiously.

“You are puzzled, Mr. Ledsam?” he remarked.

“Very,” was the prompt response.

Sir Timothy smiled.

“You are one of these primitive Anglo-Saxons,” he said, “who can see the simple things with big eyes, but who are terribly worried at an unfamiliar constituent.  You have summed me up in your mind as a hardened brute, a criminal by predilection, a patron of murderers.  Ergo, you ask yourself why should I trouble to save a poor beast of a horse from being chastised, and go out of my way to provide her with a safe asylum for the rest of her life?  Shall I help you, Mr. Ledsam?”