They, Castle Houses, had put up the prize for a steeplechase and had also taken over a prestigious handicap hurdle race already in the program for Saturday. The cash on offer for the hurdle race had stretched the racing world’s eyes wide and excited owners into twisting their trainers’ arms so that the entries had been phenomenal (Dee-Dee said). The field would be the maximum allowed on the course for safety, and several lightweights had had to be balloted out. As a preliminary to their blockbuster, Castle Houses had arranged the award dinner and subsidized the tickets so that more or less everyone could afford them. The dinner was being held on the racecourse, in the grandstand with its almost limitless capacity; and the whole affair, Mackie had told me, was frankly only a giant advertisement, but everyone might as well enjoy it. Before we went we met in the family room, Tremayne pretending nonchalance and looking unexpectedly sophisticated in his dinner jacket: gray hair smooth in wings, strong features composed, bulky body slimmed by ample expert tailoring.
