not care for riding. Renny Whiteoak's performance at the horse show had left him quite unmoved. He was infinitely more impressed by the sight of him sitting in his chair under the electric bulb, searching with complete concentration through his records. . . . He had been driven to buying the horse in order to create a meeting-place where he and Finch's brother could talk about Finch.
But how was he to begin?
His reflections were broken by a piercing cry somewhere outside, followed by a cascade of blood-freezing screeches. He turned white with terror.
Renny Whiteoak remarked laconically: "Pig. Killing it."
Leigh felt relieved, but still shocked. "Oh," he said, and, looking out at the darkness, he observed: "It seems an odd time for killing a pig."
"Yes, doesn't it?" He raised his eyes from the papers and, seeing Leigh's face, said: "It will be over in a minute."
It was. Silence fell. Leigh shivered, for the room seemed to him very cold with a damp chill that he supposed penetrated from the stable.
"Ah, here we are! Now, just draw your chair up to the desk."
Leigh obediently drew toward the desk, and the two bent over the pedigrees. He followed rather vaguely the intricacies of blood relationships, and was surprised at the knowledge one man might have of the qualities of various equine families.
They were still absorbed when a tap came at the door and Wragge entered with Renny's tea. Leigh began to feel desperate. His chances for pleading Finch's cause to the head of the clan seemed to be lessening. With a sudden nervous decision he closed the bargain. The payment was arranged.
Renny observed, while washing his hands in a basin on a small washstand in a corner: "It's too bad to have kept you from your tea so long. I wish I had had Rags fetch enough over here for two. He might just as
