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ANTHONY BRAID sat at his solitary dinner. The table was laid with the same scrupulous care as though he expected the most distinguished of visitors. He himself sat at the head of the table in a dinner jacket though he had no intention of going out. He had invited his trainer to dine with him, but the trainer had lost a train at Newmarket and had telephoned to say he would eat on the way. At half-past nine he came, an apologetic man with the lean, brown face of one who spends the greater part of his life in the open air.
-"I didn't stop to change," he said, as the maid put a chair for him. "I bought that two-year-old, and I must say, Mr. Braid, that I'm not particularly in love with him. He's had three outings this year, and although he showed in one of them, his trainer is certain that he is a rogue."