They both fell silent, but their body language continued to speak louder than words, and the unspoken conversation was far removed from the loving episode I had witnessed on Tuesday as they had walked, hand in hand, on their way to a drink at the bandstand bar.

Oh dear, I thought. It wasn’t just the weather that had turned cool.

The afternoon progressed without any of the excitement of the previous day. The incessant rain understandably kept many punters away from the betting ring. They preferred the dry, warm surroundings of the grandstand bars and restaurants, placing bets with the staff from the tote who would come to them rather than vice versa.

I was allowed by the racetrack to ply my trade as a bookmaker, for a sizable fee of course, but only at my chosen pitch. I couldn’t wander the bars and restaurants, relieving punters of their cash as they sat at table eating their lunch or drinking their champagne.

There were no outages of the Internet service, no disruptions of the mobile phones, no last-minute wild swings in the prices. Everything was as predictable as it was boring. Favorites won three of the six races, while a couple of rank outsiders gave us bookies some respite in the others.

All in all, it was a remarkably unremarkable day. Other than the ongoing frosty relations between my staff, the only memorable feature was the number of technical staff from both the Internet provider and the mobile phone networks who stood around waiting in vain for their systems to crash. Clearly, somebody’s tail had been seriously pulled by the events of yesterday.

“Do you two combatants need a lift home?” I asked as we packed up in deathly silence. Neither of them said a word.“For God’s sake,” I went on, “do either of you want on go on living or what?”

It raised a smile on Luca’s face. A slight smile that evaporated almost as quickly as it appeared.

“The Teddy Talbot bus leaves for High Wycombe and beyond in five minutes whether you’re on it or not,” I said with a degree of exasperation in my tone.

Still nothing.

“Do I assume, then, that we won’t be back here tomorrow?” I asked as we made it to the parking lot unrobbed. Even muggers don’t like the rain.

Royal Ascot Saturday had become one of our busiest days of the year.

“I’m game,” said Luca.

I looked expectantly at Betsy.

“OK,” she said grudgingly. “I’ll be here.”

“Good,” I said. “And can I expect a thawing of the cold war?”

There was no answer from either of them.

I was getting bored with this game.

“OK,” I said. “New rule number one. No talking, no lift.”

“I’m sorry,” Luca said.

“No problem,” I said.

“Not you, Ned,” he said with irritation. “I’m sorry to Betsy.” He turned to her.

“Oh…” Betsy burst into tears, gasping great gulps of air.

She and Luca dissolved into each other’s arms and just stood there, hugging each other, getting wet, like a scene from a romantic film.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” I said. “You lovebirds had better get in the backseat while I drive.”

I was quite thankful that Luca didn’t in fact sit in the back with Betsy but up front next to me. I don’t think I could have taken all that lovey-dovey stuff all the way to High Wycombe.

“What do you think that is?” I said to him. I handed over the black plastic object that resembled a television remote that I had put in the door pocket of the Volvo that morning.

He turned the device over and over in his hands. Then he removed the battery-compartment cover.

“Here,” I said, and passed him a pack of batteries I’d bought on my way to the races.

He slid a battery into the housing and was rewarded by the brief flash of red whenever he pushed any of the buttons, just as I had been.

“The light stays on a few moments longer if you press the ENTER button,” I said. He pressed it, and it did. “Do you think it’s a remote for something?”

“Dunno,” he said, still turning the device over and over. “It obviously can’t be for a television or a radio, there’s no volume control. How about a garage-door opener or something?”

“But why the numbers?” I said. “Surely garage-door openers just have one button?”

“How about if they need a code?” he said. “Maybe you need to push 1066 or something and then ENTER.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said. “How about these?” I passed him the small plastic bag containing the unbroken grains, along with the one I had crushed.

He poured the tiny items out of the bag onto his hand. Then he held the broken one up in between his thumb and forefinger.

“I assume this one was like the others before you stamped on it?”

“I used a knife, actually,” I said. “And yes, it was. They’re quite easy to break.”

“They’re definitely electronic,” he said.

“Even I can see that,” I replied sarcastically. “But what are they for? They don’t seem to have any connections, and I also know that glass doesn’t conduct electricity, so how do they work?”

“It’s also a bit small to have its own battery,” he said.

“So how does it work?” I asked him.

“If I knew what it did, I’d probably know how it worked.” He continued to study the tiny circuit. “Passive electronics,” he said very quietly, as if to himself.

“What?” I said.

“Passive electronics,” he repeated.

“And what are they when they’re at home?” I said.

He laughed. “Devices with no gain,” he said. “They’re called ‘passive electronic components’ or ‘passive devices.’ ”

“So?” I said, none the wiser.

“Transistors provide gain,” he said. “They can be used as amplifiers to give a signal gain, so, for example, it can drive a speaker in a radio. The signal received by the aerial is very, very small, so, in simple terms, it has to be amplified by a series of transistors in order to drive the speaker so you can hear the music.”

“The higher the volume, the greater the gain?” I said.

“Just so,” he said. “But transistors need a power supply. They must either have a battery or be connected to the mains for them to work, so this little sucker can’t have transistors.” He held up the tiny electrical circuit from the broken grain.

“Passive electronics,” I said.

“You’ve got it,” he said, smiling.

“What are you two on about?” asked Betsy suddenly from the backseat.

“This,” said Luca, carefully handing her one of the unbroken grains.

“Oh, I know what that is,” she said rather condescendingly.

“What?” Luca and I said together.

“It’s a chip for dogs,” she said. “We had one put in our Irish setter last year.”

“What do they do?” I asked over my shoulder.

“They’re for identification,” she said. “They’re injected under the skin using a syringe. We had one put in our dog so Mum and Dad could take her to France without having to do that quarantine thing when she came back. She simply got scanned by customs to check she was the right dog with the right vaccinations.”

“Like horses,” I said.

“Eh?” said Luca.

“Horses have them too,” I said. “To check they are indeed who their owner says they are. All of them have to have chips inserted or they can’t run. I read about it in the Racing Post ages ago. I just didn’t know what the chips looked like. I don’t know why, but I somehow expected them to be bigger, rectangular and flat.”

Luca looked again at the tiny electrical circuit.

“It must be a passive arfid circuit,” he said. “This little coil must be the antenna.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “What’s an arfid when it’s at home?”

“A radio frequency identification circuit, R-F-I-D, pronounced ARE-fid,” he said slowly as if for a child. “You put a scanner close by that emits a radio wave. The wave is picked up by the little antenna, and that provides just enough power for the circuit to transmit back an identification number.”