As the last few rays of daylight shone over the forests of the Weltford estate, Sir Charles Draykelsworth emitted a sigh of disappointment.

"Oh," he cried in frustration, "bosh! Bosh, damn, and blast! We've ridden all day. Up and down and over every corner of this cursed property, yet the treasure of Povtevkin eludes us still."

"If I may make an unorthodox suggestion," ventured Jeremiah Addlesby, master stabler, "perhaps you would be wise to alter your approach. Perhaps, rather than riding to the left, you ought to try the centre. I in no way mean, of course, to suggest that I find any fault with your technique. Quite the contrary, I must say! All the same, you're bound to give yourself a corn if you keep that up."

"I rather suspect you're right, old chum," Draykelsworth replied. "Precision and concentration outperform brutish effort every time, that's what I say. However, I rather suspect I shall wind up with quite the corn in any case."

Suddenly, a smile crossed his lips.

"Ah," he bellowed, "the treasure! The treasure of Povtevkin! Here it is! Oh, what a wonder!"