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Simon watched them dazedly.

Grey Ruby was moving well.

“Let’s go to the Lyvedens’ box,” said Simon Beaulieu. “They won’t be there, and I want to see this race.”

Patricia shot him a glance.

Then—

“All right, Simon,” she said.

They passed to the back of the stand and up the stairs....

Simon took out his glasses and put them up.

“I take it,” he said quietly, “that if you had ten thousand, that letter’s worth it—to you.”

“Yes,” said Patricia, “it is. It’s—it’s a question of saving my name.” She hesitated—then burst out. “But what can I do? Of course they think I’m rich. Not rolling, perhaps, but rich enough to get loans—borrow—find the money somehow, as rich people can. And I haven’t two hundred pounds. I’ve got my pearls, but what can I do with them? I couldn’t explain their disappearance. I might pretend I’d lost them, but they’re insured. Oh, Simon, isn’t it cruel? All round us people are sinning—callously, wantonly sinning—sinning for the sake of sin: but they never get caught. And I—I who’ve tried to live clean and play the game—because I love you I write one wretched letter that I’ve no business to write—and get clean bowled.”