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breath, Turnbull set off in the direction of his wife.
    â€œYou both should be ashamed of yourselves,” Eliza said. “And if I were your wife, Lord Saxton, I’d push you in front of one of these racehorses.”
    He gave her an injured look. “Eliza, is that any way to talk to me? I thought we were friends. In fact, I thought we were—” His face suddenly turned as green as his racing colors. “Excuse me, but—but I think I’m about to be ill.” Without another word, Saxton ran off, cradling his stomach.
    Higgins looked at Eliza. “Are we done here?” he asked in a long-suffering voice.
    But they’d gone no farther than twenty feet when Eliza was waylaid by an overenthusiastic Cockney fellow by the name of Billy Grainger. A friend of the Doolittles from the East End, he near talked their ears off before Higgins was able to drag Eliza away. When they finally reached Lord Saxton’s private box overlooking the racecourse, Colonel Pickering greeted them with a scowl.
    â€œAbout time the pair of you arrived,” he said. The viewing box was now a muddle of empty chairs and trays of discarded tea cakes. “Detective Inspector Shaw and I thought we’d have to send the police out looking for you.”
    Jack Shaw stood leaning against the box railing, arms crossed. “This story about the man with the gun better be good, Lizzie. I won’t be happy if you’ve wasted my time.”
    She hurried to give her cousin a hug. “Jack, thank you for coming. I know you’re on duty and trying to keep an eye out for suffragettes and all, but the Professor saw a man with a gun. He’s so upset, he won’t stop talking about it and—oh look, the Gold Cup has started!”
    Jack threw his hands in the air. “I give up. How about you, Professor? Have I been summoned here to watch another race, or will someone tell me about the man with the gun?”
    â€œHang the race.” Higgins joined the detective at the railing.
    Feeling a bit guilty, Eliza divided her attention between the horses and the conversation about the gun. The Colonel stood next to them, listening. None of the Donegal Dancer’s owners or their wives had returned to the box. They must still be at the parade ring.
    Although she hadn’t placed a bet on this race, Eliza found herself caught up in the excitement nonetheless. As the horses made the turn, she got to her feet. The roar of the crowd rose to fever pitch. Tracery was in the lead as the horses hit the straight mile headed for home.
    She heard Jack ask, “But what exactly did this Harold Hewitt look like? What was his approximate age? And what was he wearing?”
    â€œCome on, Tracery,” she murmured. “Run. You’re almost there. You can beat that Prince.”
    Suddenly a man burst from the shrubbery along the track. Eliza couldn’t believe her eyes as he ran onto the racecourse. She let out a cry as the horses thundered toward him. The same tragedy that occurred at the Derby two weeks ago was going to happen again. Someone was about to be trampled!
    â€œLook!” She pointed at the man who now stood in the middle of the course, the galloping horses almost upon him. They would never be able to stop in time.
    Higgins and Shaw jumped to their feet. The man waved a flag in one hand and what looked like a gun in the other.
    â€œBloody hell!” Higgins shouted as the horses reached the man.
    Several swerved wildly to avoid him, hitting other animals. But Tracery rode right over him. Eliza screamed as the man fell beneath the horse’s hooves. Another horse kicked him as it raced past. Tracery went down immediately. His jockey somersaulted over the animal’s head and crashed to the ground.
    Pandemonium erupted. Many spectators hissed and booed that anyone dared run in front of the horses again. Once the other racehorses galloped past, dozens of people dashed onto the field. The man