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the Dilbury Downs, and they heard the larks. Peter had spent the night with Michael and Annette and now the two men rode up over the tussocky grass, sparkling where it was brushed with dew in the sunlight.
    Work was finished for the morning and, as they came up on to the high rolling uplands, far down the rough track they could see the lads putting the sheets back on the horses ready for the two-mile walk back to the stables in the village down below, whose roofs and church tower could be seen through the trees.
    Michael was on his new young mare, a brilliant chestnut and still, each time she went out, as nervous as a dancer on her first night. Peter had settled for the stable cob. ‘I like them better when I’m off than on them,’ he had confessed.
    They had come by a short cut, over the shoulder of the hill, the cob thumping along at a slow canter, the mare collected to match him until she shied at a rabbit, slewed round until Michael brought her back, held in perfect balance and flexing to the plain snaffle in tribute to his expert hand.
    â€˜Nearly had me off,’ Peter complained.
    â€˜You! Off our old dobbin? You couldn’t be. Annette says he’s a patent safety.’
    On the crest of the hill they halted, without speaking; then Michael broke the silence. ‘I think I have an offer for Dark Invader,’ he said.
    â€˜Have you so? Who, and how much?’
    â€˜Two thousand. A man called Leventine from Calcutta.’
    â€˜Calcutta! Poor old Darkie.’
    â€˜Not necessarily. Racehorses out there are treated like princes,’ but Peter was not listening.
    â€˜Leventine. Middle East, Jewish do you think?’
    â€˜I don’t think so, could be anything. His full name is Casimir Alaric Bruce.’
    â€˜Good God! That’s not Jewish. What can he be?’
    â€˜Some sort of mixture. Immensely rich.’
    â€˜Certainly seems to have more money than sense,’ said Peter. Michael let that pass. ‘What’s his trade?’
    â€˜I don’t know, but grandfather is said to have made a million.’
    â€˜Jewels? Hides? Tea? I know,’ said Peter. ‘His grandfather was the man who first imported umbrellas into India.’
    â€˜In that case Leventine would be a multimillionaire. May be for all I know. He doesn’t give anything away. The “Bruce” suggests some Scots in him which probably makes him cautious, yet he’s a simple soul – somehow wistful.’
    â€˜
Wistful!
My dear Mike!’ but, ‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘I think horses are his dream and he’s coming up to be one of the most important owners in India, bar one or two Rajahs or Bombay magnates.’
    â€˜But as a man?’
    â€˜Impossible, but I liked him. He first came over here two years ago, obviously a revelation, as was France.’
    â€˜Can you see him at Longchamps?’
    â€˜I did and again this year. This time he was recognised by the Aga Khan – just.’
    â€˜Strewth!’ said Peter. ‘But in Calcutta?’
    â€˜Not even on the fringe of course, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Why should he? He’s a member of the Turf Club and on the way to becoming a racing personality; be a Steward before he’s finished. Mr Leventine knows exactly what he wants.’
    â€˜And now he wants our horse. I wonder why.’
    â€˜I imagine he’s after what the people out there call the “classics”,’ said Michael. ‘The Open Races of a mile and upwards; is ignoring Darkie’s form and going by the way he’s bred.’
    â€˜And that, of course, puts him at the top of any class – but what has the brute done?’ Peter’s tone was suddenly wrathful. That young man’s so spoiled he resents being let down by a horse, thought Michael, instead of taking it as the luck of the day. ‘What has he done?’ asked Peter. ‘Nothing. Nothing since that win at