Adrien Leroy

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."

Leroy's face darkened slightly. Vermont was his friend, and he resented

a word spoken against him far more than he would have done one against

himself.

"You misjudge him, Shelton," he said briefly.

"Possibly," retorted the other, unabashed. "What you find so fascinating

in him I can't imagine. Still, my dear fellow, setting Vermont aside,

there can be no two opinions respecting your chef. Sarteri is a

possession I positively envy you. There is not another chef in England

that understands entrees as he does."