"That was a good tip; we all backed it," said Glen as Nicholl came up to them.

"He won easily," said the jockey smiling.

"Your luck's in," remarked Bill.

"I hope it will continue in the Cup," answered the jockey.

Barellan was being put to rights in the corner of the paddock and they went to see him.

Bellshaw was not there, so Hadwin had an opportunity of speaking to them. He assured Glen the horse would win if he had a good run in the race, which he was almost sure to have with such a jockey as Luke Nicholl in the saddle.

Barellan looked fresh and well. His coat shone like satin. He was trained to the hour, but the suspicious-looking bandages, and one hoof bound up with copper wire, caused many people to pass him by in their search for the winner.

Luke Nicholl, wearing Bellshaw's sky blue jacket and red cap, was ready to mount when the time came. He felt confident. Hadwin had made an impression on him, inspired him with some of his enthusiasm. Nicholl was well off, Hadwin was not; the victory of Barellan meant the difference between debt and independence. The trainer was not a gambler. He seldom had more than five or ten pounds on, but he could not resist backing Barellan, at the long prices offered, when he was lame. He had three thousand to ninety about the horse, and backed him to win another thousand that morning. Glen had laid him five hundred out of the sweep money.

Perhaps Glen Leigh was one of the most anxious men on the course, but there was no sign that he was unduly excited. He laughed and joked as usual and appeared quite calm outwardly.

The chance of winning a fortune of nearly twenty-five thousand pounds for the investment of a sovereign does not come to many men in a lifetime. This was what Glen stood to win, and he conjured up his future prospects if it came off. He thought of Mrs. Prevost and Clara; the former he knew loved him; at least he was very much mistaken if she did not, and he knew he loved her. If Barellan won he would go to her and ask her to be his wife, and she would not refuse. He cared nothing about her connection with Bellshaw. He would never ask her about it. He knew the man, and pitied any woman who got into his clutches. As he stood looking at Barellan he thought what the horse's victory meant to him, and naturally he became more anxious as the time of the race drew near. He saw Bellshaw coming and would have avoided him had it been possible.

The squatter scowled at him, then asked, "Have you changed your mind? Will you give me a cent out of the sweep?"

"No," replied Glen as he walked away.

Bellshaw sent a curse after him, then turned to the jockey.

"If you can't win it doesn't matter about riding him out for a place," he said. "There's no sweep money attached to it."

Nicholl made no reply.

"Do you hear what I say?" snapped Bellshaw.

"I heard; I shall have to ride him out."

"You'll do as I tell you."

"I shall ride Barellan out," said Nicholl firmly.

"Against my orders?"

"If those are your orders, yes. I am not going to run any risks."

"What risk would you run?"

"I might be called up before the stewards to explain, and I'm not going to risk that for you or anyone else."

"You hear what he says," Bellshaw said to the trainer.

"He'll have to ride him out. There's no help for it. Besides, there's big money for the places," answered Hadwin.

"I don't want place money if he can't win. I want to keep that fellow Leigh from winning if Barellan can't come in first," said Bellshaw.

"I thought so," said Nicholl.

Bellshaw did not stay to see his horse leave the paddock. He went back into the ring. He was in a vile temper, which his trainer's confidence in Barellan did not soothe. Leigh had got the better of him. He knew it was no empty threat when Glen said he would be put on his trial for manslaughter if evidence were given incriminating him. He hated Glen Leigh. His animosity was so great he would have scratched Barellan had he dared. He intended paying him out. The best way to wound him would be through Mrs. Prevost. He cared nothing for her sufferings, even after all she had been to him. He was a man without feelings.

He was not quite sure whether Leigh would keep his promise if Barellan won. There was Lin Soo. What did Leigh know about him? The paper found under his bedroom door at Mintaro had warned him, and Leigh mentioned it again in the hotel. He must see Lin Soo on his return to Sydney, but first of all he would go to Mrs. Prevost's again and inform her he had enlightened Glen Leigh as to her past life, would gloat over her distress, make fun of her, then offer to be on friendly terms with her again. He had no doubt she would accept.

He stood alone in the ring listening to the calling of the odds. Roland was a firm favourite. Isaac, Painter, Out Back, Adelaide, The Gong, Rosehill, Canterbury, Crocker, Thane, The Rival, Jack, and Mackay, were all well backed, some at long odds, and rank outsiders at a hundred to one each.

The name of Barellan was seldom called by the bookmakers. Bellshaw wondered why? Had they laid his horse heavily before he met with his accident?

He went to Gerard and asked the price of his horse.

"Full against him," replied Nick.

"You mean you won't lay him," said Bellshaw.

"Take it as you like."

"Do you expect him to run well?" asked Bellshaw.

"I expect him to win," answered the bookmaker. "I hope he does for Leigh's sake."

Bellshaw made some remark about Leigh being a bad lot.

"He's a straight goer. It's a pity there are not more like him," said Nick.

"Perhaps it is. Even if he wins the sweep he'll soon lose it. Probably you'll get most of it, or some of your fraternity," retorted Bellshaw.

"You don't know the man. If he wins he'll stick to it, take my word for it," said Nick.

Barellan's price was a hundred to eight, and no longer odds were obtainable about him. This was not tempting enough for Bellshaw, so he made no further investment.

Jack was knocked out to a hundred to one for some reason or other. His trainer did not understand it as he thought the horse had a fair outside chance.

Glen Leigh was missing. Bill and Jim could not find him.

"He's best alone until after the race," said Bill. "He must feel a bit queer about it; I should."

"So should I," agreed Jim. "Fancy standing to win all those thousands for a sovereign; it makes a fellow's mouth water."

"He'll do something for you if he wins the first prize," said Bill.

"He's not mentioned it."

"No, it's not his way, but he will, depend upon it; I shouldn't wonder if he gives you his share in the show."

Jim thought of Clara and what he would do if such a stroke of luck came his way. Glen Leigh had gone on to the top of the stand close to the press-box, where he would have a good view of the race. He wished to be alone. His feelings almost overcame him. He saw Jerry and Tom Roslyn in front of the press-box, and was glad they had not noticed him.

There was a dull roaring sound all over the course, the voices of thousands of people talking before the race, mingled with the shouts of the bookmakers. A sea of faces met Glen's gaze as he looked across the course. Far away, on the other side of the canal, people were camped on the slopes, waiting for the big field to come out. At the back of him, on the hill, there was a dense crowd reaching down to the top of the stand; he turned round and looked at the surging mass. To his right, below, was the ring, and paddock; he saw a mass of heads on Tattersalls' stand, and just caught a glimpse of a colour or two in the paddock. On the lawn people were still strolling about in groups. The race, most of it, could be seen from the terrace and the slopes. Presently, when the horses came round the bend for home there would be a rush to get on the rails. Still further to the left was another stand, on which there was plenty of room. Late lunchers were still under the vines, but were now making a move towards the terrace and stands. A long streak of bright green, the course, stretched out between the crowds. A solitary horseman cantered down. It was the starter going to the post; then the clerk of the course came along, on an old chaser, and went after him. Already there were one or two in the stewards' stand. Near the weighing room diminutive men were going about; they were the jockeys weighed out for the race. It was an animated glittering scene; many-hued costumes, the brightest of colours, the daintiest of designs, artistic creations, the labour of clever women and clever men, and hats and sunshades almost too dazzling to feast the eyes upon, as the glorious sun poured his rays down from the cloudless sky. It was an ideal day. A faint breeze, tinged with sea air from the bay far away, cooled hot cheeks, and blew delicately through thin blouses and skirts. Men moved about in all sorts of headgear; but there were no regulation top-hats, although in the Governor's Box "a bit of Ascot" was seen. It was Glen Leigh's first Melbourne Cup, and the sight at Flemington entranced him, threw a glamour over him, and he looked at it all and fancied himself alone, even in the vast crowd. And he had drawn Barellan in the big sweep. Would the horse win? Would No. 33444 be the successful ticket? He had it in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it, thinking how wonderful it was that if Barellan won he could cash it for nearly twenty-five thousand pounds.