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“At the end of your rope, Mr. Holloway?” asked the salesman, with the suspicion of a sneer.

“Thirty-five,” cried Holloway gruffly.

“Thirty-six,” said Strellenhaus.

“Then I wish you joy of your bargain,” said Holloway. “I don’t buy at that price, but I should be glad to sell you some.”

Mr. Strellenhaus took no notice of the irony. He was still looking critically at the horses. The salesman glanced round him in a perfunctory way.

“Thirty-six pounds bid,” said he. “Mr. Jack Flynn’s lot is going to Mr. Strellenhaus of Liverpool, at thirty-six pounds a head. Going–going–“

“Forty!” cried a high, thin, clear voice.

A buzz rose from the crowd, and they were all on tiptoe again, trying to catch a glimpse of this reckless buyer. Being a tall man, Dodds could see over the others, and there, at the side of Holloway, he saw the masterful nose and aristocratic beard of the second stranger in the coffee-room. A sudden personal interest added itself to the scene. He felt that he was on the verge of something–something dimly seen– which he could himself turn to account. The two men with strange names, the telegrams, the horses–what was underlying it all? The salesman was all animation again, and Mr. Jack Flynn was sitting up with his white whiskers bristling and his eyes twinkling. It was the best deal which he had ever made in his fifty years of experience.

“What name, sir?” asked the salesman.

“Mr. Mancune.”

“Address?”

“Mr. Mancune of Glasgow.”

“Thank you for your bid, sir. Forty pounds a head has been bid by Mr. Mancune of Glasgow. Any advance upon forty?”

“Forty-one,” said Strellenhaus.

“Forty-five,” said Mancune.

The tactics had changed, and it was the turn of Strellenhaus now to advance by ones, while his rival sprang up by fives. But the former was as dogged as ever.

“Forty-six,” said he.

“Fifty!” cried Mancune.

It was unheard of. The most that the horses could possibly average at a retail price was as much as these men were willing to pay wholesale.

“Two lunatics from Bedlam,” whispered the angry Holloway. “If I was Flynn I would see the colour of their money before I went any further.”

The same thought had occurred to the salesman. “As a mere matter of business, gentlemen,” said he, “it is usual in such cases to put down a small deposit as a guarantee of bona fides. You will understand how I am placed, and that I have not had the pleasure of doing business with either of you before.”

“How much?” asked Strellenhaus, briefly.

“Should we say five hundred?”

“Here is a note for a thousand pounds.”

“And here is another,” said Mancune.

“Nothing could be more handsome, gentlemen,” said the salesman. “It’s a treat to see such a spirited competition. The last bid was fifty pounds a head from Mancune. The word lies with you, Mr. Strellenhaus.”

Mr. Jack Flynn whispered something to the salesman. “Quite so! Mr. Flynn suggests, gentlemen, that as you are both large buyers, it would, perhaps, be a convenience to you if he was to add the string of Mr. Tom Flynn, which consists of seventy animals of precisely the same quality, making one hundred and forty in all. Have you any objection, Mr. Mancune?”

“No, sir.”

“And you, Mr. Strellenhaus?”

“I should prefer it.”

“Very handsome! Very handsome indeed!” murmured the salesman. “Then I understand, Mr. Mancune, that your offer of fifty pounds a head extends to the whole of these horses?”

“Yes, sir.”

A long breath went up from the crowd. Seven thousand pounds at one deal. It was a record for Dunsloe.

“Any advance, Mr. Strellenhaus?”

“Fifty-one.”

“Fifty-five.”

“Fifty-six.”

“Sixty.”

They could hardly believe their ears. Holloway stood with his mouth open, staring blankly in front of him. The salesman tried hard to look as if such bidding and such prices were nothing unusual. Jack Flynn of Kildare smiled benignly and rubbed his hands together. The crowd listened in dead silence.