“Hum-m-m!  Was there any mark on the door of the steel stall?”

“Yes.  A long scratch, somewhat semi-circular, and sweeping downwards at the lower extremity.  It began close to the lock and ended about a foot and a half lower.”

“Undoubtedly, you see, Cleek,” put in Narkom, “someone tried to force an entrance to the steel room and get at the mare, but the prompt arrival of the men on guard outside the stable prevented his doing so.”

Cleek made no response.  Just at that moment the limousine was gliding past a building whose courtyard was one blaze of parrot tulips, and, his eye caught by the flaming colours, he was staring at them and reflectively rubbing his thumb and forefinger up and down his chin.  After a moment, however: 

“Tell me something, Sir Henry,” he said abruptly.  “Is anybody interested in your not putting Black Riot into the field on Derby Day?  Anybody with whom you have a personal acquaintance, I mean, for of course I know there are other owners who would be glad enough to see him scratched.  But is there anybody who would have a particular interest in your failure?”

“Yes—­one.  Major Lambson-Bowles, owner of Minnow.  Minnow’s second favourite, as perhaps you know.  It would delight Lambson-Bowles to see me ‘go under’; and as I’m so certain of Black Riot that I’ve mortgaged every stick and stone I have in the world to back her, I should go under if anything happened to the mare.  That would suit Lambson-Bowles down to the ground.”

“Bad blood between you, then?”

“Yes—­very.  The fellow’s a brute, and—­I thrashed him once, as he deserved, the bounder.  It may interest you to know that my only sister was his first wife.  He led her a dog’s life, poor girl, and death was a merciful release to her.  Twelve months ago he married a rich American woman—­widow of a man who made millions in hides and leather.  That’s when Lambson-Bowles took up racing, and how he got the money to keep a stud.  Had the beastly bad taste, too, to come down to Suffolk—­within a gunshot of Wilding Hall—­take Elmslie Manor, the biggest and grandest place in the neighbourhood, and cut a dash under my very nose, as it were.”

“Oho!” said Cleek; “then the major is a neighbour as well as a rival for the Derby plate.  I see!  I see!”

“No, you don’t—­altogether,” said Sir Henry quickly.  “Lambson-Bowles is a brute and a bounder in many ways, but—­well, I don’t believe he is low-down enough to do this sort of thing—­and with murder attached to it, too—­although he did try to bribe poor Tolliver to leave me.  Offered my trainer double wages, too, to chuck me and take up his horses.”

“Oh, he did that, did he?  Sure of it, Sir Henry?”

“Absolutely.  Saw the letter he wrote to Logan.”

“Hum-m-m!  Feel that you can rely on Logan, do you?”

“To the last gasp.  He’s as true to me as my own shadow.  If you want proof of it, Mr. Cleek, he’s going to sit in the stable and keep guard himself to-night—­in the face of what happened to Murple and Tolliver.”