Hard Pressed
by Fred M. White · English · Gutenberg #33512 · 399,048 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Hard Pressed
Author: Fred M. White
Release date: August 23, 2010 [eBook #33512]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33512
Credits: Produced by Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARD PRESSED ***
Produced by Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
HARD PRESSED
BY
FRED M. WHITE
AUTHOR OF
"THE CRIMSON BLIND"
"THE CORNER HOUSE"
"THE YELLOW FACE"
ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
18 EAST 17th STREET
WARD, LOCK & CO., LONDON
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I A MODERN SPORTSMAN 11
II AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 18
III A LIVING FORTUNE 25
IV A GREAT TEMPTATION 32
V THE SHADOW OF DOUBT 39
VI A TRIAL SPIN ON THE DOWNS 47
VII A LEAF FROM THE PAST 54
VIII ROGUES IN COUNCIL 62
IX IN THE TOILS 70
X CONFESSION 78
XI ON THE EDGE 86
XII A LION IN THE PATH 94
XIII "AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN" 102
XIV THE POST CLUB 110
XV JOLLY & CO. 117
XVI THE NOOK 124
XVII A FAIR DAY'S SPORT 132
XVIII AN EVENING VISIT 139
XIX THE EMPTY HOUSE 146
XX INSIDE 153
XXI THE EAVESDROPPERS 160
XXII A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE 167
XXIII A CHANGE OF AIR 174
XXIV A STRANGE VISITOR 181
XXV THE DERELICT 188
XXVI A SECOND TRIAL 195
XXVII DRIVING IT HOME 202
XXVIII HONOUR BRIGHT 209
XXIX ACTING THE FRIEND 216
XXX AN ULTIMATUM 223
XXXI A POINT-BLANK REFUSAL 230
XXXII AN EASY FALL 238
XXXIII THE FIVE BASKETS 246
XXXIV NO. 5 253
XXXV A POISONOUS ATMOSPHERE 260
XXXVI FIELDEN INTERVENES 268
XXXVII BETWEEN TWO FIRES 276
XXXVIII LOOSENING THE GRIP 283
XXXIX A DRAMATIC EXIT 291
XL CAUGHT! 298
XLI HOME AGAIN 305
XLII FIRST PAST THE POST 312
CHAPTER I
A MODERN SPORTSMAN
It was a gala night at the National Opera House, and the theatre was
crammed from floor to roof, for Melba was sustaining a new part, and all
London had gathered to listen. It was rarely indeed that so fashionable
an audience assembled in February. The boxes were ablaze with diamonds.
On the grand tier, however, there was one box which was not filled with
gaily garbed women and which attracted attention by the fact that its
sole occupants were a girl and two men. Though she was quietly dressed
and wore no ornaments except flowers, nevertheless a good many women
envied May Haredale; for the box belonged to Raymond Copley, who was
quite the last thing in the way of South African millionaires. He was a
youngish, smart-looking Englishman of the florid type, was becoming
known as a sportsman and, according to all accounts, was fabulously
rich. He was supposed to have discovered diamonds in Rhodesia, a stroke
of fortune which put him in a position, it was alleged, practically, to
dictate terms to the De Beers Company, and those "in the know" in the
City declared he had come out of a negotiation for amalgamation with two
millions of money in his pocket.
Be that as it may, he had purchased a fine old estate within twenty
miles of London, and lavished large sums upon his racing stud, and
people began to court his acquaintance. He was on very friendly terms
with his near neighbour, Sir George Haredale, of Haredale Park, which
accounted for the fact that the Baronet and his only daughter were
availing themselves of Copley's hospitality that evening.
May Haredale ought to have been enjoying herself. She did not have many
opportunities for pleasures of this kind, for, sooth to say, Sir George
Haredale was a poor man. He had a constant struggle to keep up
appearances, and most of his friends wondered how he managed to pay the
expenses of his racing stable. But the Haredales had been kings of the
turf for a hundred years or more, and Sir George clung desperately to
this last vestige of the family greatness. The whole estate was going to
rack and ruin, the gardens and grounds were neglected, the
conservatories were empty, the carpets and old furniture were faded and
worn. But the stables left nothing to be desired. How near they were to
the verge of collapse only Sir George himself knew.
He had few rich and influential friends. He did not care for moneyed
men, as a rule, and so the old county families were surprised to see the
intimacy that had grown up between him and Raymond Copley. They
professed not to understand it, but one or two shrewd observers declared
that May Haredale was at the bottom of it, and that Copley was over head
and ears in love with the girl.
It would have been strange were it otherwise. She was just the sort of
girl to attract a man like Copley. She was tall, well formed and
exceedingly pretty, though cold and haughty at the mere suggestion of a
liberty.
What she thought of Copley she had never been heard to say. She had not
many friends in her own circle. She was perfectly happy and contented so
long as she had a good horse and the promise of a day with the hounds.
Most people deemed her rather distant and reserved, but a few hinted
that May Haredale could be chummy enough when she chose. Others,
however, had noticed a great change in the girl during the past two
years. There was a time when she had been one of the merriest madcaps,
and then, all at once, she seemed to grow up and become staid and
dignified. And it was not altogether the weight of family trouble which
bore her down, for, as a matter of fact, she had no idea how desperate
Sir George's fortunes were.
She appeared on friendly terms with Copley, but, though for the past
twelve months he had been a familiar visitor at Haredale Park, he did
not think that he was making much progress in her good graces. Clever as
he was, the girl managed to keep him at a distance without wounding his
pride, and as time went on he found himself more and more infatuated
with May Haredale.
He belonged to the class of man who never counts the cost of anything
and is ready to go any lengths in the pursuit of a fancy. He thought he
had been extremely patient, and told himself earlier in the evening that
before the week was out things would have to be settled one way or the
other. And he was not without weapons, either. Sir George could have
unfolded a tale in that respect had he chosen to do so. The Baronet was
proud, but there are times when pride has to take a second place, and
such a crisis in his affairs had arrived. May would have been surprised
to learn that Copley could at any moment sell the old home over their
heads and turn them out to shift as best they might.
She sat with her face on her hand, looking at the stage, but she was not
listening to Melba's marvellous voice. Her mind had gone back to a
somewhat similar scene two years ago when she was last in the same opera
house. How different things had seemed then! How much happier she had
been in those days! She roused herself presently to find that Copley was
addressing her.
"Oh, I beg pardon," she said. "I suppose the singing carried me away.
What were you saying?"
Copley uttered something appropriate. There was a hard look in his eyes
as he took in the details of May's fresh beauty. She was just the wife
for him. She had a fine appearance and good breeding and would take him
into certain houses the _entree_ of which had as yet been denied him.
They were going on afterwards to supper at the Carlton, and before he
slept that night Copley would know his fate; indeed, he knew it already.
He had a kind of instinct that May disliked him. But that, after all,
was a small matter. When she learned the truth there would be no
alternative. That her dislike might turn into hatred mattered nothing to
Copley. He bent down already with an air of possession which brought a
faint flush into May's cheeks. She was feeling rebellious.
"You are enjoying it?" he asked.
"Oh, yes. I should be a strange creature if I didn't. I have so few
treats like this."
"Isn't that your own fault?" Copley returned. "Surely, you must know
that if you only liked to say the word----"
A sudden outburst of applause drowned the rest of his speech, but to all
intents May heard everything that he had to say. She blamed herself that
she had not shown this man earlier that her feelings towards him were
merely conventional. And now she would have to make up her mind one way
or the other. Copley stood with a smile upon his face, evidently very
sure of his ground. A longing to get away, to be alone with herself,
came over May Haredale. In a way she was grateful to Copley for saying
no more. She was glad when the performance was over and they began to
move towards the stairs. Here a stranger bustled up and touched Copley
on the arm. As he turned to the intruder his face changed. May thought
he looked almost alarmed, but it was a trifle and she only noticed it
vaguely. The recollection was to come back to her later.
"One moment, Sir George," Copley said. "Would you mind waiting for me in
the vestibule? It is a little business affair which won't detain me five
minutes."
Sir George passed on with his daughter, leaving the two men together.
Copley turned sharply round upon his companion.
"Now what is it?" he asked curtly.
"Oh, I thought you would like to know," the other said. "I only got back
last night. The first man I met this morning in the City was Aaron
Phillips."
"You don't mean that," Copley exclaimed.
"I do, indeed. It is a thousand pities I haven't managed to find you
before to-day. I have been chasing you from place to place in the most
maddening fashion. However, Phillips is here, and so I thought I would
come and warn you. No, no, I have made no mistake."
"But the thing is impossible, Foster. You know as well as I do that
Phillips was killed----"
"Well, so we imagined. Anyway, the beggar's back again, and there's no
getting away from it. And if he is allowed to talk, and we don't square
him----"
"Square him! Why, it would cost half a million!"
"Well, suppose it does. Won't it be cheap at the price? Wouldn't it be
better for us to plank that money down than be standing in--but you know
what I mean. It's a most infernal piece of ill luck, but, after all,
your position is by no means a bad one. You go everywhere, you are
eagerly sought after. Besides, who is to know whether you are a
millionaire or a pauper? You've got the reputation of being a rich man,
and with brains like yours----"
"I can't stop now," Copley said hurriedly. "I have some people supping
with me at the Carlton, and it is impossible to put them off."
The other man grinned.
"I understand," he said. "I guessed who the lady was. I'll come round to
your rooms at half-past twelve or a quarter to one, and then we can talk
the thing over quietly. You can see for yourself that the matter won't
keep."
CHAPTER II
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING
Meanwhile, Sir George and his daughter were waiting impatiently for
Copley. As they stood, the fashionable stream hurried by them. The road
outside was crammed with cabs and 'buses and motors, for all the
theatres were discharging their audiences. The street was one seething
mass when Copley joined his friends. They pressed together towards the
pavement, and Copley could scarcely conceal his annoyance that his car
was not in attendance. He supposed there was some misunderstanding and
suggested that it would save time if they took a cab.
"We might have some difficulty in getting two cabs," he said. "One of us
had better walk."
"I'll walk," Sir George answered. "I haven't had any exercise to-day,
and it will give me an appetite for supper."
May looked up vaguely alarmed. She had no fancy for a drive to the
Carlton in the company of Raymond Copley.
"Wouldn't it be better to walk along till we come to the end of the
street?" she proposed. "There would be more chance of getting a cab when
we are out of the crush."
Without waiting for a reply she stepped on to the pavement. In his
aggressive way Copley elbowed a clear path. The road seemed to be fuller
than ever of vehicles. Then there rose the quick cry of a woman's voice,
the sound of clashing metal, and before any one could realize it two
motors had overturned. Instantly all was confusion, and five minutes
later May found herself on the other side of the street alone and
presenting a somewhat conspicuous figure in her evening dress and cloak.
She was not frightened or alarmed. She had too much pluck and courage
for that. She thought the best thing would be to turn down this dark
side street and make her way to the Haymarket.
She walked quietly and fearlessly along, the road getting narrower as
she went. She passed one or two men who made audible remarks upon her
appearance, but she did not heed them. And, then, almost before she knew
what had happened, a man by her side began to pester her with remarks
which brought the blood flaming to her face. That the nighthawk was not
sober did not tend to improve the situation.
She looked about for some one to appeal to, and with sudden thankfulness
heard steps hurrying behind. Next moment she saw her tormentor lying on
his back in the gutter with another man standing over him.
"I am glad to be of assistance to you," the stranger said. "If you will
allow me to walk with you as far as the corner of the street I will call
a cab. I suppose you got separated from your party and this fellow
followed you."
"That is so," May replied. "I cannot sufficiently thank you."
She paused in the midst of her speech, for her rescuer's face was
shining out clear and distinct in the lamplight. At the same instant the
stranger turned and their eyes met.
"Harry," the girl murmured, "Harry!"
"Well, yes," the stranger laughed awkwardly. "This is rather an
unexpected meeting, isn't it?"
May made no reply at the moment. She was studying her companion
intently. She noticed how white his handsome face was. There was the
suspicion of suffering in his eyes. His dress was neat, but worn and
shabby, and yet there was an unmistakable air about Harry Fielden which
proclaimed that he had been accustomed to better things. He stood
half-defiant, half-smiling, and yet he held up his head as if he had
nothing to be ashamed of.
"Where have you been for the last two years?" May asked.
Harry Fielden shrugged his shoulders.
"It would be difficult to tell," he said. "In the first place, I tried
Australia. But things were worse there than they are here. America I
could not stand at any price; then I went to South Africa, where I
managed to starve. I had one slice of fortune, but was cruelly used by a
man I trusted. And now, if it be possible, I am poorer than ever. I am
trying to get employment at a stud farm or racing stable. It is the only
thing I really know."
May Haredale listened with trembling lips. Raymond Copley would have
been surprised had he seen the expression on her face. He might have
been uneasy, too.
"I am very sorry," the girl remarked. "Oh, my dear boy, how foolish you
have been! To think what you wasted! To think of that beautiful old
house!"
"I try not to think of it," Fielden said. "I was all the fool you took
me for, and worse. It was my misfortune that I had no one to look after
me. When I came into a fine property at the age of twenty-one I had no
knowledge of the world. And every blackguard and sponger who came along
I accepted at his own valuation. Well, it is an old story, May--a fool
and his money are soon parted. But, thank goodness! I never did anything
to be ashamed of. I never wronged man or woman and I pulled up in time
to pay all my debts. There is nothing left now but the old house, and
that I couldn't sell because it is not worth any one's while to buy it.
More for the sake of sentiment than anything else I have managed to pay
my subscriptions to my clubs. I still have the freedom of Tattersall's
and Newmarket, though I have known what it is to sleep out of doors, but
not till this minute did I fully realize what I threw away. Ah, we were
good friends in those days, May."
May Haredale nodded. It was difficult to speak at that moment, for she
and Harry Fielden had been more than friends. They had been brought up
together from childhood, and had been together at many a dance and
tennis party and many a clinking run with the hounds. Nothing had ever
passed between them, but it was a tacit understanding that Fielden and
May Haredale would wait for one another.
When the crash came and Fielden disappeared, May had made no sign, but
from that time she was more sedate and seemed to have left her old life
and spirits behind her.
"I had not forgotten you," she murmured presently. "We must try to do
something for you, Harry. I will speak to father. And then there is Mr.
Copley. He has a fine establishment near us and one of the largest
racing stables in the kingdom. But you don't know him. He is a South
African millionaire who has come into our neighbourhood since your
time."
"Oh, I have met some of them," Fielden said grimly. "They don't think
so much of them out there as folk do at home. I fancy I know the name. I
wonder if it is the same Copley I met on the Rand--but, no, that is out
of the question. So you think he might find me something to do? You
don't know what heartbreaking work it is, seeking occupation and finding
none. And I am anxious to work, goodness knows. I am young and strong,
steady and trustworthy, and there is no man living who knows more about
horses than I do. I wonder if you would mind speaking to this man for
me. I've got no pride now. I have had that knocked out of me. But
perhaps you would not like me to come down into the old neighbourhood
again. You might not care for it."
"Oh, my dear boy," May said reproachfully. "How can you talk like that!
You know that there are some friends who were ready to do anything for
you. But you would not give them a chance. You disappeared without so
much as saying good-bye."
"Well, you can understand my feelings," Fielden answered. "However, I've
got to go down to the old place to-morrow, in any case. There are some
things in the house that I need, and I shall hope to meet Joe Raffle. It
was very good of you to take Joe into your service. It was awfully kind
of your father to buy most of my horses. I hope there is a Derby winner
amongst them."
"We think so," May exclaimed. "We have great hopes of a Blenheim colt.
He hasn't been seen in public since the Middle Park Plate which he won
handsomely enough. We think he is the best horse we ever had, and people
appear to be of the same opinion. If he doesn't win the Derby I don't
know what will become of us. But get Raffle to take you over to Mallow's
to-morrow and he will show you the colt. It's only a matter of a few
hundred yards, as you will recollect, from our lodge gates to Mallow's
stables. Mallow is only a small trainer, but he suits us and is not
expensive. I wish you would stay down for a day or two. We shall be back
to-morrow night, and my father will be disappointed if he doesn't see
you. And now, really----"
"I am sorry," Fielden said. "I have no right to keep you talking here.
Come along and I will get you a cab. And if I can manage to stay at the
old place over to-morrow I will come and see you. How jolly if one of my
colts should win the Derby for Sir George!"
There was a tender smile on May's lips and a dash of colour in her face
as she drove presently to the Carlton. Sir George was waiting with fussy
anxiety. Copley looked disturbed and rather ill-tempered. They accepted
May's explanation. Naturally, they put down her heightened colour and
sparkling eyes to the excitement of her adventure.
CHAPTER III
A LIVING FORTUNE
Harry Fielden would have shirked the visit if he could, but there was
nobody whom he could trust to go down to the old home and procure the
papers he required. He was glad to see Herons Dyke again, but, at the
same time, he was half ashamed to meet the old faces. Many would have
welcomed him gladly, but he had made an utter failure of his life, and
pride stood in the way of meeting these acquaintances.
There was nothing left but the house. Long ago the estate had passed
into the hands of strangers. The stables had fallen into decay. The tan
track round the park was overgrown with weeds and grass. He was
surprised to find himself unrecognized. A dozen people passed him with
no more than a casual glance. He had forgotten that two years' "roughing
it" had changed him from a handsome boy into a stern, resolute man, with
an expression far beyond his age. Even his moustache had altered him. It
was true that May Haredale had recognized him readily enough, but that,
surely, was different.
He would go as far as Haredale Park Farm and look at the horses. He was
all the more ready to do this, because he felt assured he would pass for
a total stranger. It was possible Joe Raffle might identify him, but,
then, the old head groom had known him ever since he could walk. And now
Joe was Sir George Haredale's trusted right-hand man and had been so for
the last eighteen months, since the death of his predecessor. It had
always been a consolation to Fielden to know that Raffle had gone on to
Mallow's, with the stud which had once been his property. They had not
been a very brilliant lot and few of the horses had ever paid for their
keep; but Raffle believed in the Blenheim blood and had always
prophesied that some of the colts would do great things at the proper
time.
Fielden was amused to see the suspicious glances cast at him by more
than one of the lads. Presently Raffle came himself, a short, sturdy
man, bent with age, whitehaired, but with cheeks rosy as a winter apple.
He was about to ask Fielden's business sharply, when his face changed
and he led Fielden to one side. The old man was moved and with
difficulty held his voice steady, but his keen blue eyes gleamed with
pleasure.
"I never expected to see this day, Master Harry," he said. "And one of
those lads wanted to order you off the premises. Just think of it! And
they told me you were dead. I met a man in London who said he knew for
a fact that you were drowned in the Modder in South Africa."
Fielden's face grew stern for a moment.
"Your friend wasn't far wrong, Joe," he said grimly. "It was a near
thing. But that is too long a story to tell now. I came down on
business, and I don't know whether I was glad or sorry to find that no
one recognized me."
"Miss May would have been glad to see you," Raffle said.
"Oh, we have already met. That was an accident, too. I told her I was
coming to-day, and she gave me a cordial invitation to look at the
horses. I couldn't resist a chance like that. Well, Joe, I hope that Sir
George has done better with the Blenheim stock than I did. I understand
he didn't give much for them. I am told he bought the whole lot, lock,
stock and barrel, for a bagatelle. And now they say there is a Derby
winner amongst them. Is that a fact, Joe? Or is it one of the fairy
tales one is always hearing in regard to turf matters?"
Raffle lowered his voice impressively.
"It is no fairy tale, Mr. Harry," he said. "Barring accidents, we are
going to win the Derby this year with a colt locally bred and locally
trained. It is a Blenheim colt, too, and if you hadn't been unfortunate
he would have been yours. He's only once been seen in public yet, and
nobody but ourselves knows what he can do. Still, people will get
talking and our horse stands at a short price in the betting."
"I am glad to hear it," Fielden said heartily. "I am especially glad to
hear it for Sir George's sake. You know almost as much about the family
as I do. You know what Sir George could do with the money. We don't want
to gossip, but I know Sir George is a good master to you and that his
interests are yours."
"That's true, Mr. Harry. I'd do anything for Sir George, who has been a
rare good master to me. But he ain't you, sir, and he ain't the old
squire, either. You see, I served under a Fielden from the time I was
ten years old till I was close on seventy, and it was a bit of a wrench
leaving Herons Dyke. And when I heard you were dead, it seemed to me,
sir, that I had nothing else left to live for. I ain't one to show my
feelings much, sir, but when I saw you in the yard just now I could have
burst out crying like a kid. You ought never to have gone away, sir. You
ought to have stayed here and faced it out. But, perhaps, you did well
in South Africa. Maybe you have come back with a fortune. I'd like to
hear you say so."
"I think I am rather worse off than when I went out," Fielden smiled. "I
had a fortune in my grasp, but was robbed by a pair of murderous
scoundrels, who will have something to answer for later. And now, take
me round and show me the horses. Let me see this Blenheim colt of which
such great things are expected."
Raffle led the way across the fields to the neat yard along the range of
stables where Mallow trained for a small owner or two. Whatever the
condition of the house and grounds, there was nothing lacking in the
stables. They came at length to a loose box a little apart from the
rest, and Raffle stripped the clothing off a great raking chestnut
horse, showing a skin like satin gleaming in the sunlight. The
expression on Raffle's face was almost motherly. His eyes shone as he
laid his hand upon the horse's glossy neck.
"There," he said proudly, "look at that! You are most as good a judge of
a horse as I am, tell me if he doesn't look all the way a Derby winner.
Just cast your eye over those shoulders, look at those quarters. And a
real tryer he is, too, and as good-tempered as a lamb. I always knew we
should do great things some day with one of the Blenheim colts, but I
never expected anything quite as good as this."
A quarter of an hour later the two left the box. So far as Fielden could
see, Raffle had not overestimated the chances of the Blenheim colt. If
everything went well for the next three months, Sir George's fortunes
would be restored and there would be no more poverty at Harefield Park.
Fielden was extravagant in his praise, but there was no answering
enthusiasm upon Raffle's part. He was moody and thoughtful. There was
something almost guilty in the glance that he turned upon Fielden.
"What's the matter?" the latter asked.
"No man ever yet did a foolish thing without being found out," Raffle
muttered. "Let's walk across the park where we can be alone, because
there is something I must say to you. If you hadn't turned up yet, Mr.
Harry, it would have been all right, but seeing you have turned up, why,
it's all wrong and I am bound to tell you. When you went away, you left
your affairs in a muddle. There was money coming to you from
Weatherby's, though perhaps you didn't know it, and up to this year they
have kept up your subscriptions to one or two races, the Derby amongst
others. Oh, I knew it, and I am going to tell you now why I kept the
knowledge to myself. The year you went away so sudden you nominated more
than one colt for the Derby and, of course, the money was all right.
Well, after you disappeared and they said you was dead, nothing seemed
to matter and I thought no more about things. Sir George took over your
'osses, and it was only when this Blenheim colt began to shape so well
that I began to ask myself a few questions. It was easy to bamboozle Sir
George, because he is the worst man of business in the world. And I can
prove every bit of it, sir; I can prove every word I am saying. And
therefore it comes about that this Blenheim colt--this one that's going
to win the Derby--belongs to you, or at any rate he was nominated in
your name, which comes to the same thing. I daresay you will ask me why
I have done this, and why I kept the secret, and I'll tell you. I really
did it for the sake of Miss May. I would do anything for her, anything
to put Sir George on his legs again. You see, I thought you was dead and
out of the way and, after all said and done, I was doing nobody any harm
by keeping my mouth shut. And yet now you have come back home again I
feel a bit of a scoundrel."
"It seems incredible," Fielden exclaimed; "it is a strange discovery for
a pauper to make."
"Well, sir," Raffle said doggedly, "there it is, and this wonderful
chance is entirely in your own hands, pauper or no pauper."
CHAPTER IV
A GREAT TEMPTATION
As yet Fielden could not realize it. The thing was so unexpected he
found it hard to grasp Joe Raffle's meaning. He was too conventional to
have much imagination. He had not thought it possible that fortune could
have devised a method of restoring his old prosperity. But after the
first shock of discovery it seemed feasible. Similar things had happened
before, though, perhaps, not exactly on lines such as these.
And now the position of things as they were at the time he left was
coming back to him. He had a vivid recollection of the night when he
first stood face to face with ruin, when he knew that he had come to the
end of his tether. For Harry Fielden had not drifted into a mess with
his eyes shut. He had known that things were getting desperate and had
staked pretty well everything on a certain race and his horse had lost.
When things came to be settled up there was just enough to pay his
creditors in full. He recalled how he sat down one night with pencil and
paper and worked out the whole thing fairly and squarely. He had had
friends to dinner that evening. It was daybreak before the last hand had
been played and Fielden found himself alone to face the dreaded
disaster.
How clearly it all returned to him now! He had not felt disposed to
sleep, but had gone up to his room in the silent house and refreshed
himself with a bath and changed his clothes, after which he had come
down to the dining-room again. He had thrown back the curtains and
opened the windows to admit the sunshine of a perfect day--the day of
his ruin!
But he had done nothing to be ashamed of. He had not disgraced himself,
and no friend or tradesman was the poorer for his rashness. So leaving
his affairs to the family solicitors, he quietly vanished from the scene
of his folly.
He did not know then--indeed, he did not know fully now--that out of a
sum of money waiting at his banker's his various subscriptions and
racing liabilities were being paid, for it had never occurred to him to
withdraw the various orders he had given to his banker.
Obviously Joe Raffle was speaking the truth as to the Blenheim colt,
though the other part of the business still remained a mystery. But if
he could believe his ears aright, then at that moment he was not an
outcast and pauper, but one of the most envied men who had ever set foot
upon a racecourse. At the lowest estimate, he was worth five thousand
pounds. He could sell the Blenheim colt with all his engagements for
such a figure before the day was out. He might return to the old house
and restore some of its glories. He might have enough to keep him
comfortably, and, above all, acquire a position that would entitle him
to go to Sir George Haredale and ask for the hand of his daughter.
This was all very well from one point of view, but there was another
side. His prosperity would be Sir George's ruin. Still, the temptation
was dazzling, and for a few minutes Fielden was afraid to trust himself
to words.
"You have done very wrong, Raffle," he said presently.
Joe scratched his head contritely.
"I know it, sir," he admitted. "I didn't realize how wrong I had behaved
till I saw you come in the stable yard, and you could have knocked me
down with a feather. But what else could I do? You had gone away and I
heard you were dead. I had to believe it, because the man who told me
gave me chapter and verse for it, and I felt as if I had lost a child of
my own. By-and-by I was comfortably settled in Sir George's employ,
having as much money as I needed for my wants, and never, so far as I
knew, a single relation in the world. I said nothing about the colt,
because I hadn't much opinion of it at first. Then I began to get as
fond of Miss May as I used to be of you, sir. An idea came to me one
night when I was sitting over my pipe--and, bear in mind, nobody else
knew--and that was that, bar accidents, I had a Derby winner in the
stable. For Miss May's sake I was willing to do much. There was no
chance of anybody finding it out. And, after all, I was doing nothing
wrong. You see, in the first place, nobody will be a penny the worse. As
to Sir George and yourself, there is no reason why you shouldn't make a
large fortune. It makes no difference to me, of course; I am long past
troubling about that sort of thing. But now that I know you are alive it
is another matter. Still, the colt's keep hasn't been much, and it's
only a matter of luck that he don't happen to belong to Sir George.
Besides, Sir George is expecting to win a fortune, and he is not the man
to grudge you your share. You will have to tell him what I've told you,
sir, and if Sir George wants proofs I shall have them ready when the
time comes."
"Nobody knows anything of this?" Fielden asked.
"Not a soul, sir," Raffle said solemnly. "Nobody even guesses it, and if
you hadn't turned up I should have gone down to my grave with the secret
unspoken. Because, as I said before, sir, there's no harm done, and
nobody any the worse. But, seeing that you have come back, why, the
truth must be told."
"And what will Miss Haredale say?" Fielden asked.
Raffle's face paled perceptibly.
"Ah, well, sir," he said, "that won't be very pleasant. I'd do anything
in the world for Miss May, but she isn't you, and that makes a
difference. Of course, I know what you would do if you had your own way.
You would just say nothing about it and let Sir George put the money in
his pocket. You would rather starve than do anything you didn't consider
right. I can see it in your face now, I can tell by your eyes. But it
isn't going to be, sir. You'll excuse me for speaking so plainly, but I
couldn't rest comfortably in my grave if I thought you were in want,
when, by every right, you ought to have a fortune in your pocket. It's
no use you arguing, Mr. Harry, if you don't tell the truth, I shall."
The old man's voice shook strangely as he spoke. His lips were
quivering, but there was an air of determination about him which there
was no mistaking. Nobody knew better than Fielden how obstinate Joe
Raffle could be. There was nothing to gain by threats, and sternness
would be worse than useless.
"I am certain you have acted for the best," Fielden said soothingly.
"And, as you say, there is nothing wrong in this little scheme of
yours. Why, you might have kept the colt yourself and made a fortune
over him. But, to use a pet expression of your own, my dear Joe, what
you have told me has knocked me all of a heap. I must have time to think
it over. I should be sorry to spoil an interesting situation like this
by doing anything rash. Besides, there is plenty of time between now and
the Derby--pretty well three months, isn't it? Has the colt any other
engagements before Epsom?"
"Only two," Raffle explained. "And then he'll be an eye-opener to some
people. Now don't you do anything foolish, sir. If you go the right way
about it you've got a hundred thousand pounds in your pocket."
"Oh, I'll do nothing rash," Fielden laughed. "You needn't be afraid of
that. But I must have time to think this matter over. I shall stay down
here a day or two, though I had intended to go back to London to-morrow.
I don't mind so much now that I find nobody identifying me, and there
are several things at the house I want to gather together. I had no idea
the old furniture was left. I suppose they didn't sell it because they
had no instructions from me, and enough was saved from the wreck to pay
my creditors without it. I'll come round in the morning and see you
again, Joe. To-night I believe I am dining with Sir George. If anybody
asks you who I am, you had better say my name is Field; it sounds like
Fielden and is easy to remember. Seeing that I am so changed, nobody
will connect me with the old family. Now I must be off."
In a thoughtful mood Fielden turned towards the old house. He was glad
no one recognized him, for the knowledge was likely to make his task all
the easier. He had the key of the house in his pocket. The mansion
appeared to have been left exactly as he last saw it. There was not even
a caretaker on the premises. The estate around Herons Dyke had long
passed into the possession of strangers. It presented a striking
contrast to the neglected grounds and grass-covered paths which
surrounded the old mansion where, for the last three hundred years, the
Fieldens had kept open house and dispensed a lavish hospitality. But
those days were gone for ever, they would never come back again, unless,
perhaps----
"What a chance!" Fielden muttered to himself. "What a wonderful stroke
of fortune! And yet, I don't see how I can do it. There is no honourable
course but silence."
CHAPTER V
THE SHADOW OF DOUBT
There were many things in the place which Fielden had forgotten. Here
were boxes of cigars and cigarettes, while cards still lay scattered
about and the glasses had not been removed. Fielden had learnt much in
the hard school of adversity, and he began to realize that he had about
him the means to secure a considerable sum of money. Despite the dust
and gloom and air of decay, the library was intact. Fielden was
surprised at this, for he had frequently heard his father say that the
books were valuable. Perhaps it had occurred to nobody to look for rare
books in the house of a man who gave himself over entirely to sport, but
here they were and possibly a little later they might appear to
advantage in a London auction-room. Fielden was not so sanguine as he
once had been, but at a modest computation he thought they would fetch
at least a thousand pounds.
He went up to his bedroom and began idly turning out the drawers. At any
rate he would be able to cut a presentable appearance at Haredale Park.
He might venture in the open, too, for it was nearly dark. The lights of
Haredale gleamed hospitably as he walked up the drive. He had had no
formal invitation, nothing save May Haredale's suggestion, but he knew
Sir George well enough to be sure of his reception.
It all looked strangely familiar as the butler opened the door and asked
his name. Fielden knew the butler's face well, but it was plain the
latter did not recognize him. Yes, Sir George and Miss Haredale were at
home. They had arrived from London late in the afternoon, but, so far as
the butler knew, did not expect any guest. Still, so many people came
and went to that hospitable house that the advent of a stranger caused
no surprise in the butler's mind.
"If you will give me your name, sir," he suggested.
"Oh, tell Miss Haredale that Mr. Field is here. She expects me,
because----"
Fielden broke off suddenly, for May Haredale came across the hall at
that moment. She smiled a welcome and held out her hand. She dismissed
the butler, after giving instructions to him to take the visitor's bag
upstairs.
"I was almost afraid you wouldn't come," she said. "I feared you would
be too proud or something equally absurd."
"I plead guilty," Harry Fielden smiled. "Really I don't think I should
have had courage to come, only I found that not a soul knew me with the
exception of Joe Raffle. I have passed a score of people to-day whom I
know intimately. But it is just as well, May. Why, even Mason, your
butler, looked at me as if I were a perfect stranger."
"But I recognized you," May said quietly.
"Ah, you recognized me, and I was glad of that. I don't think I can tell
you how happy that made me. When we met in London I felt for the first
time for more than two years that I was not alone in the world. It makes
one hard and bitter to be always amongst strangers who care nothing for
one, to feel that if one dropped dead in the street no one would feel
even a pang of regret. But I ought not to be talking like this. There is
one thing I am going to ask you and Sir George, and that is, to keep my
identity a secret. It is possible I may be here a good deal off and on,
and that is why I am going to drop the last two letters of my name and
call myself Field."
It was with mixed feelings that Fielden stood by his dressing-table
adjusting his black evening tie an hour later. His surroundings were
bringing back his boyhood's associations vividly, every object was
growing familiar. It was just the same when he came down to the
drawing-room and found Sir George waiting him.
Here was a change, at any rate. Those around him daily might not have
seen much difference, but to Fielden Sir George had grown old and bent.
There were lines of care about his eyes and his manner was painfully
nervous. In this old man there was no suggestion of one of the finest
sportsmen and most fearless riders in the county. Fielden had learnt
much in the light of bitter experience. He knew great mental anxiety
when he saw it, and he needed no one to tell him that he was face to
face with it now. But Sir George's welcome was hearty. The ring in his
voice and the pressure of his hand left nothing lacking in the way of
sincerity.
"Ah, my boy, this is an unexpected pleasure," he said. "I don't think
you really know how glad I am to see you. You are almost the only one of
the old stock left except ourselves. One by one they have passed away,
and of the score of houses where I used to go as a boy there isn't one
to-day which is not inhabited by new people. Most of them are sportsmen
of a sort, but they haven't the old feeling for it. Well, perhaps I am a
bit old-fashioned. And how you have changed! I give you my word for it,
I should not have known you from Adam. Yet it seems only the other day
that you came into one of the finest properties and proceeded to get rid
of it after the manner of your kind. How we missed you! But it is no use
crying over spilt milk. I hoped at one time that you and May--God bless
me, what am I talking about! May tells me that you don't want to be
known by your own name, and that we are to speak of you as Mr. Field.
Perhaps it is natural. Now you are here, you had better stay a few days,
and I'll see if I can find something for you to do. A friend of mine
lives close by, Mr. Raymond Copley. He is new since your time, is very
rich, has a fancy to keep a stable, and is looking for some one he can
rely upon to take the entire management. He has had one or two men who
have robbed him. I am sure I can recommend you; with all your folly and
extravagance you never forgot what is due to your name."
"You are very good, sir," Fielden answered. "The post you speak of would
be a perfect boon to me. Besides, it is about the only thing I am
capable of doing properly. But who is Mr. Copley and where did he make
his money?"
"South Africa, I believe. He is a millionaire with a taste for sport,
not exactly what you would call a gentleman, but I believe him to be a
thoroughly good fellow. I don't mind telling you, between ourselves,
that I am under obligations to him. Things haven't gone very well with
me, and I don't know how I should have pulled through if it hadn't been
for Copley. He has been very generous and I only wish May could be more
cordial towards him. I can't think why she doesn't like the man. It
would be a splendid thing for her---- But, there. I am rambling again."
Fielden turned his face aside. He was feeling a strange pain at his
heart which he could not account for. But he understood what Sir George
intended to convey. Beyond all doubt, Sir George Haredale was under
great obligations to this newcomer and was warning Fielden there must be
no more nonsense between May and himself. He was telling the latter
precisely what his hopes for his daughter were.
Of course there was nothing in it that Fielden could resent. He had had
his opportunity and deliberately lost it. It was only during the last
twenty-four hours that he realized what his feelings towards May were.
If he had not been a fool, he would be rich and prosperous at this
moment, with May for his wife.
The strange sensation was with him all through dinner. He tried in vain
to shake it off. It was not a cheerful meal, on the whole, for every now
and then Sir George lapsed into moody silence and May's gaiety was
fitful. The evening dragged on till ten o'clock before Sir George came
into the drawing-room with slightly flushed face and eyes that were too
bright. May looked anxiously at her father. So here, Fielden thought,
was another skeleton in the closet. The discovery was a fresh stab to
him. His own selfishness and folly were a reproach. It was a relief when
the door bell clanged and the butler announced that Mr. Copley would
like to speak to Sir George.
"Ask him in," Sir George said unsteadily.
Fielden glanced at May. He could see that her face had changed slightly
and her eyes grown hard and cold. Then the door opened and Copley came
in, big and self-important, with the air of a man entirely at home.
There was something in his appearance which jarred upon Fielden,
something that aroused a pang beyond mere jealousy. As Copley bent over
May Haredale's hand and murmured something which he intended for a
compliment, Fielden started back for a moment.
"This is my young friend, Mr. Harry Field," Sir George said. "Harry, let
me introduce you to Mr. Copley. I think I have found the very man you
want for your stables, Copley. He is the son of an old pal of mine and
has all the game at his finger-tips."
Copley threw a half-contemptuous glance at Fielden and did not hold out
his hand, for which discourtesy Harry felt grateful.
"Excuse me a moment," Fielden said. "I have forgotten something. I'll be
back presently."
With his head in a whirl Fielden walked into the library. He was
fighting hard for the mastery of himself.
"Good God!" he muttered, "so it's that blackguard! What a blessing he
doesn't know me by sight! Raymond Copley and May Haredale! Not if it
costs me my life!"
CHAPTER VI
A TRIAL SPIN ON THE DOWNS
Harry Fielden spent a sleepless night and was glad when it was time to
come down to breakfast. He congratulated himself upon the way he had
restrained himself on the previous evening. He had even forced himself
to be polite to Copley, though his one impulse had been to take him by
the throat and choke the life out of him. His very presence in a house
like Haredale Park was an outrage. He wondered what Sir George would say
if he had known the real character of his guest. Possibly Fielden would
have spoken freely, had not he remembered what Sir George had said as to
the relationship existing between himself and Raymond Copley. Plainly
the master of Haredale Park was under the scoundrel's thumb. No doubt he
had lent him money, and probably the price of the assistance was to be
May Haredale's hand. There had been no mistaking Copley's manner towards
her. His air of cool proprietorship had sent the blood humming in
Fielden's head and caused it to tingle in his finger-tips. Harry had to
smile complacently whilst every instinct in his nature was crying out
against the villain's presence. He had only to speak and he knew that
Sir George would do his duty at any cost.
But he dared not speak. He had no desire to ruin the man who had been so
kind to him. It was far better to play a waiting game. But come what
might, May Haredale should never marry that man. Sir George should be
ruined a thousand times over and Haredale Park pass into the hands of
strangers before that catastrophe occurred.
It had been a relief to hear Copley say that he would not be down again
till the end of the week. Therefore he had three days in which to think
of some scheme. It was a bright, fresh February morning, with a touch of
frost in the air, but the diamonds were growing soft and yielding to the
sunshine. May Haredale was in excellent spirits. It was impossible not
to catch the infection of her gaiety. Fielden put trouble on one side.
There would be time for that later, he thought, as they rode out
together over the Downs. They were out again in the afternoon and it was
dark before they returned. It was like old times for Fielden to feel a
good horse under him. The exercise and motion drove all gloomy thoughts
away. Still, from time to time the shadow of distress lay heavily upon
his shoulders.
He strolled round to Mallow's after tea to have a pipe and chat with
Raffle. Everything appeared to be going well, and the old man was in
high glee.
"We shall try the colt at daybreak," he said. "Would you like to come
and have a look, Mr. Harry? I daresay there will be one or two people
about, but I don't think they'll learn much. I've got a plan of my own
on foot, and after to-morrow I shouldn't be surprised if you found the
colt going a little queerly in the betting."
Raffle chuckled as he spoke, but refused to be more explicit.
"Oh, never you mind, sir," he said. "There are some things it is as well
not to talk about. If you like to turn out to-morrow as soon as it is
light, I think I can show you something worth looking at."
Fielden nodded approvingly. He woke fairly early with the pale dull
light of the wintry morning streaming through his window, crept
downstairs into the deserted hall and let himself out by a side door.
The grey mist hanging over the Downs lifted as the sun began to make his
influence felt. A little later Fielden discerned a group of figures
faintly sketched against the skyline, and could see two horses in their
clothing. Then he picked out the form of Joe Raffle. There was a stretch
of turf between two banks of gorse, and the horses began to move along
the flat expanse. Fielden strolled up to the group, and was amused to
see the suspicious glances turned in his direction.
"That's all right, Mr. Mallow," Raffle muttered. "This gentleman is a
friend of mine. Now, sir, will you go on to the top of the Downs and
wait for us by the boundary stone? That will be the winning post. No
reason, I suppose, to ask you if you know which is the colt and which is
the old horse. That's pretty plain even in this light."
"That's right enough," Fielden smiled.
He walked rapidly towards the improvised winning-post, unslung his
glasses and fixed them steadily upon the little specks in the distance.
Presently they made a move in his direction and grew larger as they came
along. Fielden could hear the thud of hoofs upon the turf. Then they
flashed by him, the old horse lengths ahead. It came as a surprise to
the watcher, for he had expected an entirely different result. What was
Mallow doing? What scheme had that wily man in his brain? Fielden
stepped aside into the gorse, so as to be out of the wind which had
already extinguished two matches he had used in his attempt to light a
cigarette. As he stooped, he heard voices from somewhere close by. The
voices carried clear enough in the silence of the spot, and Fielden
could hear every word. With an instinct of caution which he could not
have explained he crouched down behind the thick shelter of a bush.
He thought he had recognized one of the voices and now he felt sure of
it. It was Raymond Copley beyond a doubt. Who the other man was Fielden
had not the slightest idea.
"Now what does that mean?" Copley was asking.
"What does it mean?" the other man exclaimed with a sneer. "Why, it is
as plain as the nose on your face. I felt certain what was going to
happen when I advised you to come here this morning. The boy told me
there was going to be a trial, and I wanted you to see for yourself. You
are always too sanguine in these matters, Copley, and that's a fact. Now
what do you think of the chances of your friend Sir George's colt?"
"I don't know what to say," Copley muttered. "The colt seemed to be
beaten fairly and squarely. I suppose there is no faking about it."
"Faking! Sir George and his trainer between them haven't got brains
enough for that. They belong to the old-fashioned school who pride
themselves upon doing everything above board. And a precious good job
for you and me, because they find the money to keep and train horses and
we sail in when it comes to making a book. Perhaps you're sorry you had
anything on the Blenheim colt."
"Oh, you were quite right to bring me here," Copley replied. "I owe you
one for this day's work. But the worst of it is I have backed that horse
for a big stake, just when I don't know where to turn for ready money.
If anybody knew my present position, a good many people would be anxious
to have an interview with Raymond Copley, the South African millionaire.
Then there's that scoundrel Phillips to be reckoned with. But come
along, let us go before anybody sees us. After breakfast----"
"Breakfast be hanged!" the other man broke out impatiently. "What's the
use of worrying about breakfast with a bit of information like this in
our pockets? The delay of half an hour may make all the difference in
the world. Besides, there may be a dozen other people watching for all
we know."
"Well, what do you suggest?" Copley asked.
"Suggest, who wants to suggest anything? What we have to do is to get
back to your place as soon as possible and take the motor straight to
town. By ten o'clock we can get our commission on the market at our own
price. Then we can have as much breakfast as you like. That's the worst
of you, Copley. You always think everything can wait. Now come on."
The voices died away in the distance, and then Fielden straightened
himself again. He was somewhat mystified by what he had seen. He was
puzzled to know what Joe Raffle and Mallow were driving at. But no doubt
the old man would tell him at the first opportunity. Some clever scheme
was in the wind. It was just possible, too, that Raffle expected that
Copley and his friend would be there. It was more than possible that
Raffle knew the class of scoundrel he had to deal with. The old man was
coming down the wide stretch of turf, and Fielden looked eagerly towards
him. As he vaulted a patch of gorse, his left foot dropped on something
soft, like a bundle, and he was thrown violently to his knees. Then he
turned to find that he had stumbled upon the figure of a man lying at
the foot of the gorse bush, snugly rolled up in a railway rug. Here was
another tout, beyond doubt, another of the hateful tribe which has
always been the detestation of every racing man. Fielden turned upon him
savagely and demanded what he was doing there. He bent over the stranger
threateningly, and the latter rose to his feet.
"Keep your temper," he said. "I'm doing no harm. I'm not the only one
who has earned a bit on the Downs this morning. Hands off, please. Why,
bless my soul! if it isn't Mr. Fielden."
Harry stared in amazement at the mention of his name. For a moment he
did not recognize the dark unshaven features of the man. They seemed
familiar, yet somehow he failed to connect them with time, or space, or
locality.
Then it suddenly came to him.
"Aaron Phillips!" he exclaimed. "Now is it Luck that has sent you here,
or Coincidence?"
CHAPTER VII
A LEAF FROM THE PAST
Aaron Phillips was standing up with something like a smile upon his
face. He was a short, slim person, swarthy and foreign-looking, except
for the pair of keen blue eyes which bespoke the Anglo-Saxon in his
blood. From the roots of his hair across to his left temple was a long,
angry red furrow which looked like a comparatively freshly-healed wound.
As to the rest, he was fairly well dressed, with that indescribable air
of nattiness which usually pertains to those who belong to the _genus_
"horsey."
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Fielden," he grinned.
"I shall be obliged if you won't use that name here," Harry replied.
"For the present my name is Field, and I want you not to forget it. But
how did you manage to get home again? I thought you were dead."
Phillips indicated the scar on his forehead.
"It was a near thing, Mr. Fielden, I beg pardon, Field. It wasn't the
fault of those scoundrels, I can tell you. They left me for dead, and if
I hadn't been picked up by some of the boys I should have died of
starvation on the veldt. As it was, I had a very close shave, and so did
Copley and Foster, for the matter of that. Our friends chased them all
across the Colony and how they managed to escape was a mystery to me.
Still, perhaps it is as well. There are more ways than one of taking
revenge."
The little man's eyes gleamed as he spoke. He glanced meaningly at
Fielden and jingled a few coppers in his pocket.
"Make them pay for it, you mean," Fielden smiled.
"That's it, sir, you've got it first time. Now, as you know perfectly
well, there are a dozen or more people out yonder who would give a good
round sum to have Copley on the end of a rope, or within reach of a
revolver shot. They are not the sort to give information to the police,
because that is not the way we used to do things. Still, if I like to
open my mouth widely enough I could make it deuced hot for Copley & Co.
I could have them conveyed to Cape Town, and it wouldn't take me long to
find evidence enough to give those two chaps ten years on the
Breakwater. Yes, sir, I'd have done it, too, but there's a better way
than that. It took me the best part of a year or more to scrape enough
money together to pay my passage home. I had heard some queer stories
about Copley, and I wanted to find out if they were true. What do I see
when I reach London? Why, Copley with a set of offices in the
city--Copley with a suite of rooms at a palatial hotel--Copley with a
place in the country and a string of race-horses. Oh, I tell you, Mr.
Fielden--Field, I mean--I rubbed my hands when I heard of it. Thinks I
to myself, 'This is a better game than handing Copley over to the South
African police.' I don't quite know yet how Copley has managed it, but
here he is ruffling it with the best, spending money like water, and
going to marry the daughter of a baronet in these parts."
Fielden's face flushed angrily. He winced at this home thrust on
Phillips' part. So already people were coupling May Haredale's name with
Copley. It had not occurred to him that things had gone as far as that.
However, Phillips could not be expected to know this. He was merely
innocently repeating local gossip.
"I suppose you mean to have some of this money?" he asked.
"If you don't mind my using the expression, I am going to blackmail
Copley. I am not afraid of the blackguard here. There is no chance of
his trying on any of his murderous tricks in England. He knows I have
come back, but as yet I have not waited upon him. I have had a hint to
call from Foster, but I am not taking any of that, thank you. You don't
catch me dropping into a police trap with a chance of being prosecuted
and hustled out of the country before I know where I am. When I do
strike it will be in a different way altogether. For the present, I have
been looking around asking questions, because, you see, it will be of
considerable advantage to me to find out where Copley is getting his
money. That he is earning it honestly I don't believe. He couldn't do it
if he wanted to. He is the sort of blackguard who would rather make five
pounds dishonestly than a tenner by legitimate business."
"I suppose you never found those plans?" Fielden asked.
Phillips swore heartily.
"Never, sir," he said. "They were in my portmanteau, as you know. I had
the portmanteau in my possession when those blackguards attacked me, and
they had to levant without it, so closely were they pressed. But when I
was well again I asked for my baggage and no one could tell me what had
become of it. It vanished in a most mysterious manner. If you ask me,
the portmanteau was stolen by one of those thievish Kaffre boys. It
makes me wild when I think of it. Probably it is concealed in a Kaffre
hut. In the old portmanteau is a scrap of paper which is worth hundreds
of thousands to us. I say us, because it is yours just as much as it is
mine. I don't belong to your class, Mr. Fielden, but you played the
game and were always a white man. And if those papers ever do come to
hand, I shall do the fair thing by you. It doesn't follow because I
happen to be the son of a sporting publican that I don't know the
difference between right and wrong. But what's the good of worrying
about that? We shall never see those papers again, and as far as we are
concerned that diamond mine might never have existed. But what are you
doing here?"
"I used to live close by," Fielden explained. "Most of this was once my
property. Sir George Haredale's trainer employs an old servant of mine
and I came out this morning to see that trial. I might ask you the same
question."
Phillips' blue eyes twinkled.
"Bit of a disappointment, wasn't it?" he asked.
"What do you know about it?" Fielden demanded.
"Oh, well, sir, we are not partners in this job, at any rate. If you
like to keep your counsel, I am perfectly willing to keep mine. Old
Raffle is as straight as they make 'em, but he is a downy old fox all
the same, and pretty neatly he drew the feather over Copley's eye this
morning. Oh, yes, I heard all those blackguards had to say; in fact, I
followed them here. I am glad I came, because I heard something that
confirmed my suspicions."
"You mean as to Copley's movements?"
"To be sure. I wanted to know where Copley is getting his money. I know
he isn't paying his tradesmen, but that doesn't matter, for a man with
a reputation for wealth can get as much credit as he likes. But Copley
is flying at high game and must have the command of a good deal of ready
cash. Now where does it come from? What sort of a swindle is on? Why
were they so anxious to watch the trial of the Blenheim colt this
morning? And, by the way, Mr. Fielden, you must give old Raffle a hint
to keep his eye on the stable lads. Somebody has been betraying
confidence. It doesn't matter this time, because Copley was fooled this
morning as easily as if he had been a schoolboy. But I am getting a bit
away from the point. I was going to tell you where Copley got his money.
Well, it's a betting swindle, one of the biggest and most ingenious that
has been attempted on the turf for many a long day. I just heard enough
to put me on the track. But I've my work cut out before I reach the
bottom of it. You have no occasion to love Copley----"
"Indeed, I haven't," Fielden said bitterly. "I have every reason for
disliking the man, every reason for exposing him before Miss--well,
before things have gone too far. If I can help you, I will do so
cheerfully."
"That's right," Phillips said approvingly. "Now where can I see you for
half an hour in the course of the afternoon? We mustn't stay talking
here. There is old Raffle."
Fielden thought it over for a moment or two. He was glad enough to meet
this old South African comrade of his again. In several respects
Phillips was anything but a desirable acquaintance. His upbringing had
been none too strict, but, at the same time, he had a rough code of
honour, and it was one of his proudest boasts that he never forgot a
friend or a favour. Probably he had had his own reasons for leaving
England suddenly, and no doubt those reasons had something to do with
the turf. At any rate, he had a profound and intricate knowledge of
racing matters, and there was no swindle or trick with which he was not
familiar.
"You had better meet me at Heron's Dyke," Fielden said. "You can be
outside in the road about a quarter to five. There is nobody on the
premises. I have the key in my pocket, and I daresay I shall manage to
get a light from somewhere."
Phillips disappeared amongst the high gorse. As Fielden stepped into the
open he saw Raffle looking about for him. There was a shrewd smile on
the old man's face, and he did not appear in the least disconcerted by
the result of the trial.
"Well?" Fielden asked. "What about your Derby winner now?"
Raffle's eye contracted in a wink.
"It's all right, sir," he said. "The trial was a great success. Did you
happen to see anybody in the gorse?"
"Yes," Fielden replied. "I saw Mr. Copley."
"And a friend," Raffle chuckled. "I know all about it. And between you
and me, sir, I got this up for the benefit of Mr. Copley, who is about
the greatest rascal unhanged, and that's saying a good deal. It was high
time you came back."
CHAPTER VIII
ROGUES IN COUNCIL
Raffle strode sturdily along, refusing to say another word. What
deep-laid schemes the old man had in his mind Fielden could only faintly
guess. At any rate it was good to know that Raffle was satisfied, and
that some careful plan was afoot with a view to Copley's discomfiture.
"Perhaps you are wise to keep your own counsel," Fielden said. "But I've
learnt something this morning, too, Raffle. There is somebody in the
stable who is disclosing secrets, and the sooner you know it the
better."
"I know it already," Raffle grinned. "It is all part of the scheme. They
have got hold of one of the boys, and I am watching him carefully. I let
him take away just as much information as I like. Don't you worry about
me, Mr. Harry. I haven't been at this game for fifty years without
learning a thing or two. I have always made it a rule to go straight
myself, but that is no reason why I should keep my eyes closed to the
doings of other people."
"Quite right," Fielden said approvingly. "But what do you know about
Mr. Copley? He is a stranger in these parts."
"That may be, sir, but he is no stranger to me. I never forget a face,
and I've been on every racecourse in the country during the last five
and twenty years. The first time I saw Mr. Copley, he was being shown
round the stables by Sir George. I didn't like him, and I didn't like
his manner, and thinks I to myself, 'I wonder where I've seen _you_
before?' Suddenly there flashes into my mind a little incident that
happened at Lincoln. I can see it as plain as I can see this book in my
hand. And then I knew that Mr. Copley, the African millionaire, was one
and the same with the welsher that I had seen half killed at Lincoln a
good many years ago. Well, it wasn't for me to say anything about it,
because I can find you a score of men to-day, rich and prosperous men,
who started life amongst the scum of the racecourse. I have been making
a few inquiries amongst my old pals, and it is just as I expected. Mr.
Copley may be a rich man now, but he is just as big a scamp as ever he
was, and Sir George ought to know it. I tell you, Mr. Harry, it fairly
makes my blood boil to see that blackguard swaggering about here and
hanging around Miss May as if she belonged to him. It fair spoils my
enjoyment and my food, it does. But you see how difficult it is for a
man in my position to interfere. But your case is different."
Fielden shook his head sadly. His case was very different indeed. More
and more bitterly did he blame himself for the heedless, senseless folly
which had brought him to his present pitch. How changed things might
have been if he had only shown ordinary prudence! What would he gain if
he went to Sir George with these vague stories about Copley? He could
not doubt but that Sir George was deeply in Copley's debt, and that
Copley had brought this about so that, when the time came, he could
force May to marry him. These painful thoughts were uppermost in his
mind as he strode back to the house. He could not shake them off, though
May rallied him on his quietness and offered him the proverbial penny
for his thoughts.
"I know what is the matter," she said gaily. "You are fretting because
you have nothing to do. But that won't be for long. Do you know that we
are dining with Mr. Copley to-night, and that you have been included in
the invitation? Mr. Copley telephoned from London this morning, and you
were especially mentioned by name. I am sure if I put in a word for you
the post will be as good as yours. Before long you will be occupying an
important place in the racing world, and the rest is in your own hands.
You have the consolation, too, of knowing that no one has recognized
you."
It was on the tip of Fielden's tongue to refuse. It was repugnant to his
instincts to take service with a man like Copley. Yet, on the other
hand, it was fair enough to fight this fellow with his own weapons.
Through him Fielden had lost the chance of his lifetime. But for him and
his rascally associates, Fielden and Phillips would have been rich men
to-day. Moreover, if something were not done speedily, a fate which was
worse than death awaited May Haredale. To turn his back upon a chance
like this would be to precipitate the very calamity which he was most
anxious to avert. Copley was the type of strong man who always gets his
way. He was not the least scrupulous as to his methods, and Sir George
Haredale was bound to him hand and foot. It would be far better to seize
this coign of vantage, especially as Copley had not the smallest idea of
the bitter enemy he was maintaining under his roof.
Meanwhile, Copley and his friend Foster had returned from town. They
reached Copley's establishment, Seton Manor, just before dark. They had
not lost any time. Apparently they had done their work fairly well, for,
according to the late evening papers, the Blenheim colt had receded
steadily in the betting. People were asking themselves what had
happened. Most of the public knew and respected Sir George Haredale. Not
the faintest shadow rested on his reputation, and this fact had had
somewhat of a steady effect on the market. But though a certain division
had rushed in at these improved prices to back their fancy, there
seemed to be an unlimited amount of money ready to be laid against the
horse. At any rate, Copley was fairly satisfied. He had invested several
thousand pounds against the Blenheim colt, which, in his opinion, was
already as good as out of the running altogether.
He came into what he called his library just before dinner and found
Foster awaiting him. Both were in evening dress, both exceedingly shiny
and glossy, and both carried more jewellery than was in accordance with
good taste. The guests were not expected for half an hour, so Copley
helped himself liberally to brandy and soda and lighted a fresh
cigarette.
"Any letters?" he asked.
"Nothing of importance," Foster replied. "When I left you this morning I
went round to see if I could see anything of Phillips. He wasn't at his
lodgings, and they said he wasn't expected back till to-morrow. Now what
are you going to do about that chap?"
"Oh, let him go to the devil!" Copley growled.
"My dear Copley, why do you always talk like that? Why do you think that
every man is a fool except yourself? You appear to be very prosperous.
Nobody can deny your courage. And because you are not afraid of Phillips
you seem to think he isn't dangerous. I think he is. Suppose he goes to
Scotland Yard and lays his information before the people there, and
suppose they communicate with the authorities in Cape Town, the result
will be an application for your arrest, and once you get out there you
know what will happen. It will be all U.P."
"Thinking about your own skin," Copley sneered.
"Well, and what if I am? I haven't got a sanguine temperament like
yours. Of course, we could buy Phillips off; at least we could buy him
off for the time being and keep his mouth shut till we devised some plan
for getting rid of him altogether. But he is a cunning devil, is Aaron
Phillips, and has learnt how to profit by past experience. It is no use
asking him to come to your hotel. He isn't going to walk into a trap
like that, and he isn't going to wait much longer, either. If we could
give him a thousand pounds just to go on with, why----"
"A thousand devils," Copley exclaimed furiously. "Where am I going to
get a thousand pounds? I mean, where am I going to get it just at this
moment? I've got this place here, which isn't paid for. I managed to get
the bank to advance the money till I could complete the purchase, and
the furnishing was an easy matter. One can get as much credit as one
likes in this country, provided one winks at extortionate charges. As I
will never pay for the stuff at all, the West End tradesmen can charge
what they please. But the fact remains that though people are tumbling
over one another to get my custom I am fairly at my wits' end for ready
cash. Of course, it will be all right when the flat season begins in
earnest. With any luck there'll be a hatful of money to share between
us before the October meeting at Newmarket. We ought to make over a
thousand pounds at Mirst Park on Saturday week. I suppose you've got it
all ready. Got the telephone in place? The worst of this game is that
one has to take so many people into one's confidence."
"That's all right," Foster explained. "Everything is in its place now. I
went down to Mirst Park the day before yesterday. The house is finished
and all the workmen have gone. The telephone is in good order, because I
tried it. The man who fixed up the extension from the hall to the roof
was a bit curious, but I managed to put him off the scent by some lie
about the doctor's orders and a patient who had been recommended to try
outdoor treatment. But we ought to have a mechanic of our own, Copley.
If any hint of our little secret leaked out, the man who fixed that
extended telephone would be certain to see it, and naturally he would
ask himself a question or two. The fewer outsiders we have to deal with
the better."
"There's no doubt of that," Copley agreed. "Then there's nothing to
settle now. Did you rehearse the bit in Covent Garden?"
"Oh, yes. I was in the office we have taken next door to the Post Club,
and went through the whole thing with Radley, who was stationed outside.
There wasn't a hitch anywhere. I don't see why we shouldn't clear a
thousand pounds; indeed, we might make a great deal more. But perhaps it
would be just as well to be on the safe side. It would be a fatal
mistake to arouse the suspicions of the bookmakers at the beginning, and
if this scheme breaks down we've got another one."
Copley smiled as he finished his brandy and soda. He threw the end of
his cigarette into the grate as the door bell rang.
"Come along," he said. "Here are our guests. Let us go into the
drawing-room and wait for them. We must assume respectability even if we
have it not."
CHAPTER IX
IN THE TOILS
In spite of his dislike of Copley, Fielden could not see much to object
to in his manner as he came forward to receive his guests. He was,
perhaps, a trifle loud and domineering, perhaps a little too familiar in
the way in which he held May Haredale's hand in his. Foster more or less
obliterated himself. It was his role in company to play the confidential
servant. He was quiet and subdued, though nothing escaped his sharp
glance. The dinner was excellent. Everything was in good taste, as
Fielden was forced to admit. The talk, for the most part, was lively and
was kept principally to the topic of sport. Afterwards there was a move
towards the billiard-room, and ere he realized it, Fielden found himself
engaged in a game of pool with Sir George and Foster, while May Haredale
and Copley looked on. A moment or two later these two vanished on a
pretext of Copley's that he wished to show May some sporting pictures he
had lately acquired. The pictures were duly inspected, but Copley made
no move to rejoin the party.
"Hadn't we better go back?" May suggested.
Copley turned an admiring glance upon the girl. There was no mistaking
the expression of his face. May had more than her fair share of courage,
but she was feeling a bit restless and nervous. She was wondering why
she disliked this man so much. She had had nothing but kindness and
courtesy at his hands. She knew that he had helped her father more than
once. Yet her instinct told her that Copley was not to be trusted. There
was a boldness about him that repelled her, something in his glittering
eye from which she recoiled. Now she knew almost before the words were
spoken what Copley was going to say.
"The others are not likely to miss us for a bit," he said. "Besides,
there is something I have to talk to you about. To be perfectly candid,
I asked you over here this evening on purpose. I wonder why it is that
you avoid me so."
"I was not aware of it," May murmured.
"But, indeed, you do. I have noticed it more than once. Surely you must
know why I come so frequently to Haredale Park. I am not much of a
ladies' man, Miss May, and I never have been. I have led a rough kind of
life. I know so little of the atmosphere of drawing-rooms. But every man
recognizes, when the time comes, when he meets with the woman who is
made for him alone, and that is the point I have reached. I think I
could provide you all you need. You will have a fine house and a good
position, and everything you want. I daresay this is a rough way of
putting it, but it is none the less sincere for that."
It was sincere enough, as May had to admit. Copley's assurance had
vanished. He was speaking from his heart. The man was rogue and
scoundrel through and through, but had fallen deeply in love with May
Haredale. He was prepared to go any lengths to make her his wife. It was
the only piece of honesty and sincerity that he had ever displayed since
he was old enough to know the distinction between right and wrong.
May stood silent and trembling. She was not insensible to the compliment
Copley was paying her. She knew that he meant every word he said, and
she knew, too, that there must be a hard fight before she could convince
him that the thing he so ardently desired was impossible. She had an
uneasy feeling, too, that Copley had not yet played all his cards. "I
ought to thank you, I suppose," she said. "In a sense you are doing me
an honour, and this is the first time that any man has asked me such a
question, and naturally I feel disturbed. But what you ask of me is
quite impossible."
"Why impossible?" Copley asked grimly. "Oh, I didn't expect you to jump
at me; I know you are not that sort of girl. Perhaps that is one of the
main reasons why I am so anxious to make you my wife. But if there is no
one else----"
"There is no one else," May said with a sorrowful sincerity which was
not lost upon her companion. "There is no one else, and there never will
be. If it is any sort of consolation to you, Mr. Copley, I shall never
marry."
"Never is a long day," Copley smiled. "At any rate, as long as there is
nobody else in question I shall feel encouraged to go on. I am a very
persistent man, and in the end I always get my own way. I'll ask you
again in a week or two, and, perhaps, when you have had time to think it
over----"
"No, no," May said firmly. "There must be no thinking it over. I could
not marry you. I could not care for you enough for that and I would
never marry a man to whom I could not give myself wholly and entirely.
It is the same to-day, it will be the same next year. Mr. Copley, I ask
you not to allude to this distressing topic again. If you do, I shall
have no alternative but to treat you as a stranger."
There was no mistaking the sincerity of May's words. Her natural courage
and resolution had come back to her. She met Copley's glance without
flinching. Her little mouth was firmly set. Even Copley, with all his
egotism and assurance, knew that the last words had been said.
A sudden blind rage clutched him. His thin veneer of gentility vanished.
He stretched out a hand and laid it upon the girl's arm.
"So you mean to defy me," he said hoarsely.
"Defy you!" May cried, indignantly. "What do you mean? Have you
forgotten that you are a gentleman? Anybody would think to look at you
and hear you speak that you were playing the villain in some sensational
melodrama. You have paid me the compliment of asking me to be your wife,
and I have done my best to decline in such a manner as to give you as
little pain as possible. You will be good enough to take me back to the
billiard-room and not to allude to this matter again."
Copley laughed derisively. He had forgotten himself. The love and
passion in his heart had died away to a sullen anger. Never since he had
known May Haredale had he felt such a wild longing to possess her. Well,
if the girl would have it, then he must speak openly and freely. She
must be made to understand that here was her master, whose lightest wish
she must learn to obey.
"You don't understand," he said. "I suppose you think you have only to
raise your hand and pick and choose. Ah, you are mistaken, my dear young
lady. If you don't believe me, ask Sir George. He promised to speak to
you on my behalf, but I see he hasn't done so. Probably he shirked it.
Now I shall have to tell you myself. Do you know that at the present
moment I am master of Haredale Park? I don't imagine you are acquainted
with business, but you know that your father is not a rich man. Has that
fact escaped you?"
"I am aware of it," May said coldly.
"Very well, then. Where do you suppose he has found the money to pay his
racing debts? Do you suppose it dropped from the clouds? During the last
twelve months, your father has had from me something like thirty
thousand pounds. Even a rich man can't always put his hand on large sums
of money like that. And I should have refused to part with the money if
it had not been for your sake. But when a man is in love, he is guilty
of all sorts of follies and extravagances and when a man like me is in
love he does not stick at trifles. Now try to realize my position. Try
to realize that if I say the word there is an end to Haredale Park as
far as you are concerned. I am not boasting. I could turn you both out
to-morrow if I chose, and what would become of you then? Ask yourself
the question. You needn't answer it now; you can take time to do so."
May Haredale trembled from head to foot. She had half-dreaded,
half-expected this, but the blow was no less crushing now that it had
fallen, and she could see from the grim expression on Copley's face that
he meant every word he said. She had read of similar situations in
novels, but they had sounded cold and unconvincing, and little like the
real thing now that she was face to face with it.
"You would never do it," she faltered.
"By Heaven, I would!" Copley cried. "Ah, you do not know what manner of
man I am. Why, when you look at me like that, instead of melting I grow
all the harder. I must make you my wife. You little know the sacrifices
I have made to bring this about. I never thought that I could be a fool
for the sake of a woman. I could almost laugh at my own folly, but it
has become part and parcel of my very existence, the only object in the
world that is worth attaining. Well, it is no use talking, for I could
go on in the same strain all night. It is for you to decide. You can
please yourself whether your father is turned out of house and home, or
whether your prosperous and happy future----"
"Prosperous and happy future," May echoed scornfully. "The words on your
lips sound like blasphemy. It seems almost incredible that a man with
any sort of pride should stoop to such a trick as this to force a woman
to marry him, when, from the bottom of her heart, she loathes and
detests him."
Copley jeered.
"Oh, go on," he said. "Let it come out. Treat me as if I were dirt under
your feet. But you will think better of it before a week has passed.
Tell your father what I have been saying to-night, and talk it over
with him. Perhaps he will be able to persuade you better than I can. Let
us go back to the billiard-room."
May turned coldly away, but her eyes were dim, and all the world seemed
slipping away from beneath her feet.
CHAPTER X
CONFESSION
Fielden was not enjoying his game of billiards. It was a favourite game
of his, and one which he had not had much opportunity of exercising
lately, but he would have given something for an excuse to get out of
it. The reason was obvious why Raymond Copley had made an excuse to get
May out of the room. His instinct told him what was going on, and if he
had had any lingering doubt on the subject it would have been dispelled
by the most casual glance at Sir George.
For Haredale had lost all geniality. He became silent and depressed.
From time to time he glanced anxiously towards the door. If such a thing
were possible to a man of his position, and with a record like his, it
might be said that he looked as if he had been committing some crime and
was in deadly fear of being found out.
There was no longer room for hesitation in Fielden's mind. There was a
conspiracy between Sir George and Copley against May Haredale's
happiness. Fielden was boiling. It seemed incredible that a man like Sir
George could deliberately become a party to such a scheme as this. And
so the game went on, with two people at least not taking the faintest
interest in it. Then the door opened and May Haredale entered.
Fielden shot a swift glance in her direction. He saw how pale her face
was, how rigidly haughty and set were her features. There were traces of
tears in her eyes, but so far as Fielden could see he had no cause to
despair. Whatever had been said or done, Copley had not gained much. His
face showed that. Defeat was written all over it. He was not the man to
put up with disaster without showing it, and Fielden knew in that moment
that so far, at any rate, things had not gone well with his host. Sir
George saw it, too, for his jaw dropped, and he turned almost a guilty
face towards Copley. For a moment there was an awkward silence.
"It is getting very late," May said. "Don't you think we had better be
going?"
Haredale looked at Copley as if waiting for a lesson.
"It is not so very late," he remarked.
"Well, it seems so to me," May said. "Besides I am very tired. I am sure
Mr. Copley will excuse me."
Copley murmured something more or less appropriate. He was not used to
taking the trouble to disguise his humiliation.
"If you must go, you must," he said. "I'll come round after breakfast
and see you to-morrow morning, Sir George. I have something important
to say to you. Perhaps you will be there, too, Mr. Fielden. I fancy I
can put something in your way. I want some one to take a general
superintendence of my stables. Sir George tells me you are thoroughly
up to the work, and that I can place every confidence in you. You seem
to be the sort of man I am looking for, and, though I am interested in
racing, I have very little time to spare to look into the details."
It was hard work to return thanks for this ungracious speech, but
Fielden managed it somehow. He was feeling strangely elated, and hoped
that nothing of his emotions found expression on his face. He was glad
enough to find himself at length seated in the brougham with his friends
on the way back to Haredale Park. It was a singularly silent ride, for
May never spoke a word the whole time and Sir George was ill at ease.
When they reached home May turned to Fielden.
"I hope you will excuse me a moment or two, Harry," she said. "I have
something to say to my father. It won't take many minutes. Perhaps you
will wait for us in the library. I think you will find everything you
want there."
Sir George stood nervously in the hall shuffling from one foot to
another. It seemed to take him a long time to get out of his overcoat.
He turned to May testily.
"Surely, there is nothing you have to say to me to-night," he said. "It
will keep till to-morrow."
Without reply May turned towards the drawing-room and Sir George
followed. He closed the door carefully behind him. She crossed to the
fireplace and stood facing her father. Her face was firm, though her
lips trembled slightly, and the task before her was by no means a
pleasant one.
"I hardly know how to begin," she said. "It is so difficult for me in my
unfortunate position. I have never ceased to regret the death of my
mother, but I cannot remember feeling the want of her so much as I do
now. I suppose you can guess what happened to-night. You know what Mr.
Copley said to me."
Sir George shook his head. His attempt to appear unconcerned was so
grotesque a failure that, in spite of her unhappiness, May could not
repress a smile.
"You are very transparent," she cried. "You make a bad conspirator,
father. You know perfectly well what happened to-night. You know why we
were asked to dine with Mr. Copley. He has done me the honour to ask me
to be his wife. Now don't pretend to be surprised, because Mr. Copley
had your full sanction; in fact, he told me he had discussed the matter
with you more than once."
"And you accepted him?" Sir George asked eagerly.
"We will come to that presently. Now let me ask you a question. Suppose
that your position was as good as it was twenty years ago, that there
were no mortgages on the estate. In that case, what would you have said
to Mr. Copley if he had expressed a wish to become your son-in-law? You
wouldn't have turned him out of the house, because we don't do things
like that. But your reply would have been no less unmistakable. You
would have made Mr. Copley feel the absurdity of his ambition. He would
never have been asked to come here again. Now isn't that so?"
Sir George shuffled about uneasily.
"Other times, other methods," he answered. "You see the condition of
things is quite altered. Really, some of our best women marry rich men
who have nothing particular to boast of in the way of pedigree. I can
call a dozen cases to mind."
"Yes," May retorted. "And I can call a dozen cases to mind where you
have expressed the strongest indignation with parents who have
encouraged marriages of that sort. You have stigmatized the thing as a
sale. Why, you refused to shake hands with Lord Middlebourne when he
told you that his daughter was going to marry young Blackley. Yet, in
the face of all this, you entered into a conspiracy with Mr. Copley, a
conspiracy which you must know would be fatal to my happiness."
"You, you didn't refuse him?" Sir George gasped.
"Refuse him! Of course I did. I hope I did not say too much. But I let
him know that the thing was impossible. I told him that in no
circumstances could I become his wife. I have felt that this was coming
for some time, and I blame myself for permitting things to go so far.
Mr. Copley took it very badly. He lost his temper. He threatened me. He
even went so far as to say that, unless I thought better of my reply, he
would turn us out of Haredale Park."
Sir George turned a white and anxious face towards his daughter.
"Did he say that?" he asked hoarsely.
"I have already told you so. But, of course, this is ridiculous. You
would never have been so foolish as to place yourself in the power of a
man like Mr. Copley. It is very well to know such people, and I daresay
you have found him useful in business. But as to the rest---- Why do you
look at me like that? You don't mean to say that his story is actually
true?"
Sir George seemed to have some difficulty in speaking. When at length
the words came they were free enough.
"It is true," he said. "My dear child, you must not blame me unduly. I
have been terribly unfortunate of late. Everything I have touched has
gone wrong. I am almost afraid to look at my betting book, and if the
Blenheim colt does not win the Derby, then I shall be something worse
than a pauper. You don't know what hopes I build upon this. If it comes
off all right we shall be rich and prosperous. But it has been an awful
struggle to keep my head above water so far, and when Copley offered to
help me in an open-handed way, I dared not refuse. Of course, I had not
the least idea then that he had given you even more than a passing
thought. It never occurred to me that he was lending me this money
merely to have a hold upon me, and I thought it possible you might care
for him. There is always the chance----"
"Oh, you didn't. I cannot believe you would ever think so meanly of me
as that."
"Well, I don't know," Sir George said, stung into retort. "Anyhow, it is
unfortunate that Harry Fielden should come back just now."
The hot blood flamed into May's face.
"That is unjust and ungenerous," she cried. "In any case, my reply would
be just the same. I never did care for anybody but Harry Fielden, and I
never will. You know that. There is not the slightest chance of his ever
being in a position to keep a wife. But we are talking in a circle. I am
more than sorry to hear what you say, but if the worst comes to the
worst we shall have to dispose of everything and leave Haredale Park.
For nothing shall induce me to marry Raymond Copley."
"Well, there's an end of it all," Sir George said. "This makes a beggar
of me. But don't decide like that. Think it over and give me your final
answer in the morning."
CHAPTER XI
ON THE EDGE
If Harry Fielden had hoped to see May again that night he was
disappointed. She was tired, Sir George said, and hoped that Fielden
would not mind if she did not come into the library. He was a little bit
under the mark himself and would go to bed. So Fielden was left to his
uneasy thoughts with the hope that he might learn something in the
morning. But glancing at May across the breakfast table he could read
nothing from the expression of her face. She was a little silent, but
otherwise her features were tranquil, and it was not till an hour or so
afterwards that Fielden found himself alone with her.
"I hope you are better?" he asked.
"Oh, there's nothing whatever the matter with me," May said in her
candid way. "I am only worried, that's all. You have been here quite
long enough to see that things are not going with us as they should. It
will be a terrible thing if our colt fails to win the Derby. Indeed, I
don't know how we shall be able to carry on till the end of May in any
case. What a wretched business it all is! How foolish people are to risk
their happiness on the speed of a horse! But the Haredales have always
been gamblers. I suppose it is in the blood. Put on your hat and take me
for a walk across the Downs. I need something to blow the cobwebs away."
Fielden was eager. For some time he walked in silence by the girl's
side, waiting for her to speak. He had a feeling that, sooner or later,
May would confide in him. She stopped suddenly and raised her eyes to
his.
"I am going to ask you a question," she said. "I want you to put
yourself in my place for a moment. Suppose that the honour and fortune
of the family rested in my hands, and it was for me to say whether the
Haredales were to leave this old place in poverty and disgrace, or
whether they were to stay on occupying the old position, what would you
do?"
"It depends on circumstances," Fielden said.
"Of course it does, my dear boy. I didn't expect you to make such a tame
reply as that. Surely you must know what I mean. It is for me to decide.
I have the opportunity of bringing into the family the necessary money
to set everything right. But at a price."
"As usual," Fielden, said sadly. "The price happens to be yourself."
"You have guessed it. The price is myself. I suppose it would be no news
to you if I told you who the man was."
"Not after last night," Fielden said between his teeth. "So Raymond
Copley has asked you to marry him. I suppose it is the old story which
one has read in books and newspapers a thousand times. Copley has got
your father under his thumb and has threatened to ruin him, unless you
consent to be his wife. I am not a very shrewd person, but I felt sure
of this when we came home last night. You refused Copley, of course, and
he took his refusal in the way such a cad would. He threatened you and
said he had your father on his side. And now you are hesitating what to
do. You have said that no power on earth shall force you to consent,
that you cannot save the family honour at such a price. You are right,
May. It is a vile thing to ask of a girl. It is so mean and
dishonourable. Heaven knows, I care for your welfare. I never knew how
much I did care till we met in London the other night. Then I realized
for the first time the price I am paying for my folly. If I hadn't been
a fool, you would be my wife to-day, and it would have been my pleasure
and privilege to help Sir George out of his trouble. Can you ever
forgive me?"
May turned a tearful face towards Fielden. Impulsively she held out her
hands to him, and he caught them almost fiercely. They were alone on
the wide stretch of Downs. Not a soul was in sight. Neither knew how it
happened, but a moment later Fielden's arms were about the girl, and she
was crying unrestrainedly upon his shoulder. There was only one thing
for it, and that was to kiss the tears away and bring the smiles back to
May's lips.
"Now we have done it," Fielden said ruefully. "I am a nice fellow to
talk about other men being dishonourable. I ought to be well thrashed
for giving way to temptation like this. Fancy a man in my position
daring to make love to any girl. But you knew what my feelings were."
"I was sure," May whispered.
"But what are we to do? It would be another matter, I suppose, if it
were three months later and the Blenheim colt had won the Derby. Then,
perhaps, Sir George would forgive me and make the best of it for your
sake. As it is, I have only succeeded in complicating matters. You are
resolved, of course, that nothing will induce you to change your mind so
far as Copley is concerned. But will you have strength enough to do it,
May? I don't think you realize the pressure which would be put upon you
when you find that Haredale Park will have to go, when you find yourself
in lodgings----"
"Never," May cried passionately. "I refuse even to discuss it. The idea
is unthinkable."
Fielden pressed the point no longer. He really had not the heart to do
so. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof. But it was with mixed
feelings that an hour or so later he walked across the fields to Seton
Manor. Copley was waiting to receive him. The latter was in his hardest
and most businesslike mood. There was something repellent about the
expression of his face. The library reeked strongly of tobacco and
spirits. From the ruddy tinge on Copley's face he had partaken of more
than one brandy and soda already.
Fielden hoped there was nothing in the expression of his face which in
any way betrayed his thoughts. Fancy a man like this married to a girl
like May Haredale! Copley was braggart and bully to his finger-tips--a
man without heart, or conscience, or feeling. Nay, he was worse than
this, as Fielden very well knew. For the moment, it was on the tip of
Harry's tongue to say he had thought the matter over and had decided to
decline Copley's offer. But more prudent thoughts prevailed. It would be
as well to be as near Copley as possible, to be on the spot, to act when
disaster threatened. Besides, Fielden, to some extent, was in league
with Aaron Phillips, and if there was anything in the way of rascality
afoot, it might be possible to detect it. It would be a fine thing to go
to Copley with the evidence of his rascality in plain black and white,
and agree to silence on the condition that this persecution of Miss
Haredale ceased.
"Ah! you have come," Copley said in his blunt way. "Well, I have
arranged everything for you. I want you to take over the entire
management of my stable. The last man had four hundred a year and the
run of the house, and I am prepared to offer you the same terms.
Everything will be left in your hands. As I told you last night, my
racing stable is only a side-show, and I don't want to be bothered with
it. You can make a start next week at Mirst Park. I have horses running
in races both days, and I shall probably run down myself. But you know
the ropes well enough."
"I think you can leave it to me," Fielden remarked.
"Very well, then, that's settled. You can ask the housekeeper to give
you a room. You can have all the meals you want, and the horses will be
yours to handle as you like. I must wish you good morning, for I have a
score of things to occupy my attention before I motor to town at six
o'clock. I think that will do. Good day."
Fielden took his leave, hardly knowing whether to be pleased or not. He
spent the next hour or so in the stables, interviewing the stud groom
and the helpers, who seemed to know all about the new arrangement. He
said little or nothing about it, but was somewhat surprised to find what
a poor set of horses Copley owned. For the most part they were little
better than platers. There might be a racer or two amongst them, but
only for small meetings. The groom was quite open in his comments, and
to these Fielden listened discreetly. He was free, presently, to go over
to Haredale Park and get his belongings together. He strode across the
Downs and passed the wide stretch of turf where the trial of the
Blenheim colt had taken place. He was hurrying down the slope when he
came face to face with Aaron Phillips.
"I was looking for you," the latter said. "I haven't been letting the
grass grow under my feet since we met last. I am beginning to get a hold
of the game. We shall be able to make those fellows sit up before long.
I suppose you couldn't manage to get away on Friday and Saturday next
for the two days' racing at Mirst Park? If you can, I shall show you
something that will open your eyes."
"As it happens," Fielden explained, "I am going there. I have just been
appointed a kind of general manager to Mr. Copley. I have to thank Sir
George Haredale for this. As you can imagine, Phillips, it is not a
congenial occupation. But there are urgent reasons why I ought to accept
it. We have a horse or two entered for the Mirst Park meeting, and I
shall go with them. Now, then, what is it?"
Aaron Phillips' face lightened.
"What a stroke of luck!" he exclaimed. "In that case, I need not detain
you now. But I'll contrive to see you on the course, and then I think it
will be our turn."
CHAPTER XII
A LION IN THE PATH
Copley did not appear to be so busy as he had professed when he
dismissed Fielden so unceremoniously. He lighted a fresh cigar and sat
down moodily over a mass of accounts. He pushed these aside presently,
and took up a copy of the _Sportsman_, which he proceeded to read with a
perplexed frown on his moody face.
"I cannot for the life of me understand it," he muttered. "The trial was
fair and square, and I see no reason why the boy's information was not
to be relied upon. But that colt is more firmly established in the
betting than ever. I can't recollect anything like it. It seemed a dead
sure thing to lay that money against the horse. And, yet, though I laid
over ten thousand pounds against him, in this morning's paper he is at a
shorter price than before. Well, if the public like to be such fools,
it's their look-out, not mine. Still, it's unpleasant. I wonder if
Foster has learnt anything this morning."
Foster came in a moment or two later. His usual smile had deserted him,
and he looked troubled and anxious.
"I wanted to see you," said Copley. "I can't for the life of me
understand this betting. Here's the Blenheim colt backed for a ton of
money again. Why, in the face of the commission we have put on the
market, he ought to be fairly knocked out."
"Oh, I've seen it," Foster replied. "I've sent for the boy. I wonder if
that young rascal played us false. But, no, I don't think he would dare
do that. Besides, he stands to win a pot of money himself. At any rate,
I have sent for him, and if there was anything about the trial that was
not fair we shall know it in half an hour."
For the next hour or so the two conspirators sat discussing the matter.
Then there came to them a diminutive youth, shrunken and clean-shaven,
with the air of one who has passed all his life in the atmosphere of a
stable. His little wizened face was white with agitation, and he stood,
with his eyes cast to the ground, waiting for Copley to speak.
"What is it?" the latter asked roughly.
"I don't know, sir," the boy said humbly. "I don't know how it was done.
Ah, that there Raffle is a deep 'un. I made sure as the trial the other
morning was all open and above board, and now I find as how it wasn't
the Blenheim colt we saw at all. It is no use asking me to explain,
gentlemen, and it is no use bullying me, for the more you do that the
more muddled I get. It is only a word or two I 'eard between Raffle and
the 'ead lad that put me on the scent. We've got two or three 'osses in
the stable as like the Blenheim colt as two peas. They are nearly all
the same blood, you know. What old Raffle is a-driving at, I dunno. But
it looks as if one colt was changed for another at the last moment, and
nobody would have been any the wiser if I hadn't 'eard that little
conversation this blessed morning."
Copley and Foster exchanged glances. It was no use to scarify the boy,
for the conspiracy was none of his making, and he was obviously telling
the truth; indeed, he had been well paid to bring information to Copley
and had nothing to gain by further deception. But what was the meaning
of it all? Why had Raffle chosen to bring off a mock trial? So far as
Copley knew, Raffle had no reason to suspect the honesty of the stable
boy. He could not know that he was in Copley's pay, nor could he have
known, either, that Copley and Foster would witness that early morning
trial. Could it be that there was some one else in the field whom Raffle
wished to deceive? At any rate, whether that was so or not, Joe Raffle
had put both Copley and his accomplice in a hole. After witnessing the
trial they had laid against the colt to an enormous amount, and, after
all, Sir George Haredale's horse might win the Derby. They dismissed
the boy with strict injunctions to keep his eyes open and let them know
the latest developments. Then they talked the matter over to see if they
could find some way out of the trouble.
"It's a bit of a facer," Copley muttered. "I am bound to confess I never
expected anything like this. I wonder what that old fox Raffle was
driving at? Whom is he trying to deceive? I'd give something to know."
"What does it matter?" Foster asked impatiently. "Wilfully or not, he
has deceived us. As I figure it out, we stand to lose something like
five thousand pounds. If that horse starts fit and well for the Derby we
shall be in a rare mess. And there's nothing to beat the colt. It would
be maddening to be done at the beginning of the season. Fancy having to
upset all our plans because of a misfortune like this!"
"Unless we could stop the colt," Copley suggested.
Foster looked keenly across the table at his companion.
"That's not a bad idea," he said thoughtfully. "If the Blenheim colt
lost the Derby we should win ten thousand pounds at least. At the price
the horse stands in the betting to-day, we could lay another twenty
thousand pounds without knocking him altogether out of the betting. I
don't call to mind a case in which the public have been more infatuated
about a horse. Why, our commission never shook him at all. Suppose,
without anybody knowing it, we could guarantee that the horse didn't
start. In that case, we could lay a hundred thousand pounds against him,
with the absolute knowledge that it would be only a question of time
before we scooped up the money. Our Mirst Park scheme is a mere fleabite
to it."
Copley's sombre eyes lighted a little.
"Yes, if we could only do it," he sneered. "But the age for that game is
past. There is no chance of hocussing a horse, or laming him, or bribing
a stable boy, or squaring a jockey. That was all very well in the old
days, when meetings were few and far between, and we hadn't got an
enlightened Press that watches everything as a cat watches a mouse. It's
no use wasting time over idle dreams of that sort, Foster. Poor as he
is, Sir George wouldn't even hear of such a thing."
"Think not?" Foster asked. "Well, I believe myself that every man has
his price. I have never found anything to the contrary. I thought you
were a fool to come down here at all. I thought you were a fool to allow
yourself to be fascinated by that girl, but now I begin to see a way of
turning it to account. I don't suppose she'll marry you. I never thought
she would."
The big veins on Copley's temples thickened.
"Stow that," he said hoarsely. "You are going too far. I'll not listen
to a word of it. It is no business of yours. If you have anything good
to suggest, I shall be glad to listen to it, but I'll thank you to leave
Miss Haredale's name out of the discussion."
"Oh, very well," Foster said sulkily. "But, in this case, one thing
leads to another. To gain Miss Haredale you found money for her father
when we could have done with it ourselves--indeed, we wanted it pretty
badly. Now is your chance to get it back, and more. Sir George can't pay
you. He could as easily repay a million. He will find, too, that it is
impossible to coerce Miss Haredale into marrying you. Don't get wild. I
don't want to introduce the young lady's name more than I can help, but
I am bound to speak of her. You will find that she will hold out to the
end, and that, if need be, she won't object to leaving Haredale Park.
But Sir George will cut up rough when the time comes. He is chockful of
family pride. He is the sort of chap who is wedded to the family home,
and when the pinch comes you'll find him ready for anything. Of course,
he will make a fuss. He will ask you how you dare suggest such a thing
to him, but it will come right in the end."
Copley glanced contemptuously at the speaker.
"What are you talking about?" he exclaimed. "What are you driving at?
Do you take Sir George for an utter fool? Do you suppose that he is
likely to scratch a horse he has backed to win or lose everything he
has?"
"Well, why not? He backed the colt at a very long price, and I don't
suppose he has put down more than a thousand altogether. On the other
hand, he owes you at least forty. Suppose you ask him to pay that back
at once. Suppose you let him know that if he doesn't you will turn him
out of his house a mere beggar. Suppose, if he consent, you offer to
wipe out his debt and give him, say ten thousand pounds, the day after
the colt is scratched. You needn't do it now; you can wait a month. Then
you can put the screw on at once. He'll kick, jib, order you out of the
house, but he will knuckle under in the long run. If he doesn't, then
I'm a fool and know nothing about human nature. Why, the thing is so
easy and perfectly safe not a soul will know anything about it. The colt
pulls up lame one day at exercise, he is reported to be coughing, and
before the fools who back horses know what has happened the pen has been
put through the name of the favourite. You've got the game entirely in
your hands. Then we can get our commissions out all over the country and
make a fortune without a penn'orth of risk. By Jove! it makes me tremble
only to think of it. If the thing is properly worked, we should divide
half a million between us. Now, what have you got to say to that?
Doesn't it sound right?"
Copley brought his fist down upon the table.
"By gad," he exclaimed, "I'll do it, Foster!"
CHAPTER XIII
"AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN"
As most people are aware, the camp-followers of the turf are a large
body whose ways of earning a living are, to say the least of it,
peculiar. This noble army numbers folk of all kinds, from the member of
a swagger West End club to the humble seller of cards on the various
courses. Amongst these, in his place, came Aaron Phillips. If he had
been asked, he would probably have said that he was a professional
backer of horses, a description which covers a wide field and embraces
many methods of getting a living--more or less honestly.
In all likelihood Phillips would have resented the imputation that he
was not a sportsman, and have declared emphatically that he was nothing
else. He had been connected with racing ever since he could recollect,
but had never been across a horse in his life, and would have found it
impossible to pick out the good points of an animal. But he was fond of
horses in his way. He had heard them talked about for years, and most of
the frequenters of his father's public-house were either followers of
racing or indirectly mixed up with the "sport of kings." He had been
born, too, in the vicinity of a classic course and had always taken the
greatest interest in the dramatic side of the turf. There was not an
ingenious swindle but he had the details of it by heart.
For some years before his departure for South Africa he had followed
racing from one course to another. Though he had never done anything
deliberately dishonest, he was up to every dodge, always seemed to have
money in his pocket, and was invariably well dressed. The fact that his
mother had belonged to one of the leading Romany tribes Phillips found
greatly to his advantage. He was never above passing the time of day
with such nomads as he encountered, and more than once had benefited by
this politeness. Had he ever wanted a useful and faithful tool,
something uncommonly smart in the way of a human ferret, he knew where
to put his hand on such a person. Strange as it may seem, there was
never a great fraud connected with the turf that was not freely
whispered amongst its humble followers long before it reached the ears
of the authorities. More than once Phillips had listened to the outline
of a story which would have astonished the magnates of the Jockey Club
if they could have heard it. And it was by such means that he had
managed to pick up the threads of a plot which, before long, seemed
likely to promise sensational disclosures. It was an additional
satisfaction to Phillips to know that the main persons in this plot were
his old enemies Raymond Copley and Foster. He had followed up the clues
in his patient way, and at last had something really definite to go
upon.
It might be inferred that Phillips already had these two in the hollow
of his hand. But he had learnt patience in the hard school of adversity,
and had no intention of throwing away the chance of making money for the
mere sake of revenge. At any moment he might have pricked the glittering
bubble which Copley had blown, and laid both scoundrels by the heels in
gaol, but that would have entailed loss of time and a considerable
sojourn in South Africa, without any material return beyond that of
triumph over his enemies. Now he was beginning to see a way to crush
both Copley and Foster, and fill his own pockets at the same time.
He was not without his peculiar code of honour. Harry Fielden had
defended him at one time and he was not going to forget it. Fielden
would have been astonished to learn how much Phillips knew about his
affairs. He knew, for instance, all about May Haredale. He knew that
Copley was infatuated with the girl and was prepared to go any lengths
to make her his wife. He knew too, pretty well what was in old Raffle's
mind, and chuckled as he thought of it. And now the time had come to
fire the first shot.
He turned out of his lodgings on a sunny Friday in February, and made
his way to Russell Square. He was more carefully dressed than usual and
wore a dark, quiet-looking suit, with a grey overcoat and felt hat. His
gloves were neat, his boots well polished, and, save the horseshoe pin
in his white cravat, there was no suggestion of the racing man about
him. He turned presently into Kelly Street, and, knocking at the door of
a certain house, asked for Major Carden. The Major, he was informed, was
just finishing breakfast, but would see Mr. Phillips.
It was the usual room in a lodging-house--shabby Axminster carpet, dingy
horsehair furniture, with the inevitable lustres on the mantelpiece. The
tablecloth was none too clean, though on it was a vase or two of
flowers, tastefully arranged. At one end of the table sat a stout
pink-faced person with a carefully-trimmed grey moustache. He was a
typical specimen of the retired military man, bluff and hearty in
manner, with a pair of faded grey eyes faintly tinged with pink.
Evidently, too, he had been accustomed to mix with the best people, as
he would have phrased it himself. Probably, he still belonged to a good
club, and no doubt found it exceedingly difficult to make both ends
meet.
The second person at the breakfast table was an exceedingly pretty
girl, who looked none the less refined and attractive because her black
dress was of the plainest. She was chattering gaily as Phillips came in.
She appeared to have a proper respect and affection for her father,
whose words she seemed to hang upon. The Major looked up from the table
and nodded genially.
"You are punctual, Phillips," he said. "I am afraid I am a little late
this morning. Alice, my dear, this is Mr. Phillips. He is the
distinguished journalist I was telling you about last night. We are both
connected with the same papers."
As the Major spoke, he winked swiftly at Phillips, and the latter
smiled. What the Major was driving at he hadn't the remotest idea.
"Oh, yes," he murmured. "The Major and I are old friends."
The girl smiled pleasantly. She appeared a trifle shy, and gave Phillips
the impression that she had no friends, and that her young life was, for
the most part, a constant sacrifice for her selfish and dissipated
father. She rose presently, and with an excuse left the two men
together. Immediately she was gone the Major crossed the room and
produced a bottle of brandy, from which he helped himself liberally.
Phillips curtly refused.
"I met some old friends last night," the Major said. "I am afraid I was
just a little--well, you know how it is."
"I do," Phillips said shortly. "But what did you tell that lie for? What
have we got to do with journalism?"
"My dear sir, there are times when one must dissemble. I know I am a bit
of an old scamp, but, you see, my daughter doesn't know it. I wouldn't
for worlds like her to know the life I am leading. She is a good girl
and believes in me, and I have managed to give her a fine education. She
is the only thing I have in the world to care for. She is the only thing
that has kept me from going headlong to the dogs. I daresay when I am
done with, some of my relations will look after her. Meanwhile, they
take precious good care to keep me at arm's length. I don't blame them,
either. I hit upon the journalistic dodge to account for my late hours.
I was afraid you might give me away. I am bound to tell you this, and I
hope you will respect my confidence. Well, now, what do you want me for?
Sit down a minute."
"I have come to put a little money in your way," Phillips replied. "I
gave you a hint of what I was after the night before last. They tell me
you are a member of the Post Club."
"Oh, yes," Carden replied. "I have managed, somehow or other, to keep
myself on the club books. Not that I go to the Post very much, because I
can't afford it. If I meet a young friend occasionally who is anxious to
see life, I take him there to lunch, on the strict understanding, of
course, that he repays me."
"Then I want you to take me there. I would like to lunch there to-day,
and I wish you to introduce me to Mr. Rickerby, the commission agent. It
is a very simple matter. If you can bring this about and get me half an
hour's conversation with Rickerby after lunch, I'll give you a tenner
and pay for the lunch besides. There's no risk and no responsibility as
far as you are concerned."
The Major pondered the matter.
"What are you up to?" he asked presently.
"That," Phillips said, "is no business of yours. But I assure you that I
am up to nothing wrong. Nothing I can say or do will get you into
trouble. I don't mind telling you there is a big swindle on foot to rob
the leading bookmakers and commission agents and I am trying to expose
it. If I do, there will be a good round sum of money for me, and if I
fail, I shall be none the worse off. Now, are you game?"
The Major smiled. At that moment ten-pound notes were scarce, and
Phillips' offer came in the nature of a windfall. But it was not part of
his diplomacy to accept the suggestion too eagerly.
"I think so," he said. "I don't see why I shouldn't accommodate you.
Perhaps, later, you might have something else to put in my way."
"Very well, then," Phillips replied. "I need not detain you now. I'll
meet you at the club at half-past one."
CHAPTER XIV
THE POST CLUB
There are several smart betting clubs in London, but none smarter or
more up-to-date than the Post Club. Like most institutions of the kind,
it is somewhat mixed and largely devoted to the purposes of gambling.
All sorts and conditions of men can be met there, from the magnates of
the turf down to small bookmakers. At the same time the subscription is
a heavy one and the entrance fee large. It is so large, indeed, that the
police have never been bold enough to raid the club, which is conducted
on the best principles. Betting on the tape goes on to an enormous
extent, and there on most afternoons of the racing season nearly all the
chief commission agents can be found. The club premises consist of a
billiard-room, dining-room, and smoking-room, the last fitted with
several tape machines, which bring the result of the day's racing
directly from the course. Great wagers are constantly being made and
sometimes enormous bets effected even after the horses have been
dispatched by the starter.
Till after lunch the club is very quiet as a rule. On the first day of
the Mirst Park Meeting not more than half a dozen racing men were in the
dining-room. At a little table near the door sat the Major and his
guest, discussing a dainty luncheon to the accompaniment of a choice
brand of champagne. The Major was beaming. This was a pastime after his
own heart, and seeing that the luncheon was costing him nothing he was
doing the thing very lavishly indeed. There was something almost regal
in the way he spoke to the waiters. His manner was bland and florid,
and, beyond all was the consciousness of the five-pound note in his
pocket which Phillips had given him to pay for the repast. They sat for
some little time, when the door was flung violently open and a large man
in an impossible waistcoat came into the dining-room.
Full-bodied and scarlet, he had an air of prosperity and in an
aggressive way suggested money. Most persons in the sporting world were
familiar with that huge personage in the striking waistcoat, for it was
none other than Mr. Rickerby, of a firm of turf accountants, who
advertised that they recognized no limit. In early life Mr. Rickerby, or
Rick, as his friends styled him, had been a butcher. He had failed at
that principally because he spent most of his time backing horses or
arranging prize-fights. After he had passed through the Bankruptcy Court
he began with a small silver book and, having a real genius for
figures, together with a striking presence, an enormous voice and
amazing audacity which amounted almost to simplicity, he soon made
headway in his new profession. In a short time he took a partner who had
been a smart accountant, and now had a suite of palatial offices in the
Strand, where he kept a large staff of clerks, and where telephone
messages were pouring in almost day and night. Rickerby was a leviathan,
and though he by no means despised the small fish that came into his
net, revelled in big bets and dramatic wagers.
He nodded to the Major with a mixture of insolent familiarity and
fawning politeness. Occasionally the Major was of use to him. Besides,
Carden was well connected and Mr. Rickerby had a profound admiration for
the aristocracy. He would have passed on only, at a sign from Phillips,
Carden detained him.
"Come and lunch with us, Rickerby," he said. "Try this new brand of
champagne. Waiter, lay a place for Mr. Rickerby. Bring another bottle.
No, on second thoughts, you had better bring a magnum. Rickerby, let me
introduce my friend Mr. Phillips. He is just home from the Cape."
Rickerby touched an imaginary forelock.
"Proud to make your acquaintance, sir," he said. "Do you do anything in
our line?"
"Well, I have," Phillips said. "I used to follow racing closely enough
before I left England. Out yonder, from my point of view, I found
something better. Still, there is nothing so fascinating as the great
game. I daresay I shall make a wager or two before the season is over. I
suppose one can't make bets here?"
"Not unless you are a member," the Major explained. "The committee are
most particular about that kind of thing. They must think of the police.
But I've no doubt Rickerby will be glad to accommodate you."
"Certainly, sir," Rickerby said. "Up to any amount you like. The Major's
introduction is good enough for me, and a telegram or letter will always
receive attention."
Gradually the conversation became more general. Luncheon was a thing of
the past, and cigars and coffee had been set out in the smoking-room.
Phillips seemed to find Rickerby a mine of interesting information, for
he plied him with diplomatic questions. Under the influence of the
champagne and brandy Rickerby expanded.
"Swindles, my dear sir!" he exclaimed. "There is no end to them. We drop
on a dozen dodges every year of which the public know nothing. Why don't
we prosecute? Because it isn't worth while, and the police are not
sympathetic. Moreover, why should we let the public know of ways and
means by which they might rob us? Ah, I could tell you of one or two
men, and big men, too, in some of the West End clubs who would find
themselves in a pretty tight place if some of us only liked to open our
mouths. But what's the use? Why throw good money after bad?"
"But don't you get done?" Phillips asked.
"Well, very rarely," Rickerby responded, "but there are others in the
club, who seem to me to lay themselves out for that sort of thing.
There's a chap here called Selwyn, a rich young Australian fool, who
thinks he knows everything. He's just the type of mark that the
broken-down racing man prays for. He's in the hands of one or two here
who are robbing him of thousands. He's soft enough to make bets five
minutes after a race has been run. I've tipped him a hint once or twice,
but bless you, it's no use. It is waste of breath to tell Selwyn that
the men in whose hands he is are manipulating the telephone or wire and
always betting on a dead certainty. One or two of the bets have been
offered to me, but I am not taking any. I daresay you may think I ought
to expose these people, but I've got something better to do."
"I should like to ask you one question," Phillips said. "Have you
noticed by any chance if the people you are speaking about are
particularly lucky in their bets on races run at Mirst Park?"
Rickerby looked admiringly at the speaker.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, "you know more than I gave you credit for, but
perhaps you are in the habit of studying this kind of thing. Now I come
to think of it, I do recollect hearing it said that Selwyn had dropped a
lot of money to these men last Mirst Park Meeting. If you really know
anything, Mr. Phillips, I think you ought to say so."
"Oh, I won't go quite so far as that," Phillips said modestly; "it's
only an idea that occurred to me which I was reminded of by something I
read when I was in South Africa. But mightn't this be a coincidence?"
"I think not," Rickerby replied, "you could hardly say that of a series
of bets in which Selwyn always loses and which are never made till after
the race is run."
"Extraordinary," Phillips said. "But I can't see how it can be anything
more than a mere coincidence. I suppose you do a tremendous lot of late
betting."
"My dear sir, that is exactly what the club is for. Some of us wouldn't
be able to live without it. But, all the same, we don't bet a second
after the official time of starting."
By this time the smoking-room was filling up rapidly. Two or three score
of men had come mainly to hear the result of the afternoon's racing and
to make their bets up to the very last moment that wagers were accepted.
Phillips, apparently perfectly satisfied with what he had heard, lounged
in one corner smoking a cigar, watching the crowd of sportsmen keenly
out of the corner of his eye. He seemed to have one glance, too, for the
weather outside, which had changed somewhat, for the sky was overcast
and flakes of snow were falling. A little later the room was almost in
darkness and the whole world seemed to be lost in a white drift. The
clock over the mantelpiece pointed to nearly twenty minutes past three.
The result of the three o'clock race had been announced, and, so far as
Phillips could tell, there had not been one sensational incident in the
way of a bet.
"Your friend Selwyn is evidently not present to-day," Phillips observed,
as Rickerby dropped into a seat by his side.
"Oh, yes, he is," the bookmaker retorted.
"That's very interesting," Phillips said. "I wish you would introduce me
to Mr. Selwyn. I think a little later I shall be able to show him a way
of saving money."
CHAPTER XV
JOLLY & CO.
Phillips slipped out of the club by and by, and for a while walked up
and down opposite, studying the building in which the Post Club was
situated. It was a large block of offices on five or six floors, mostly
given over to merchants and dealers whose business was in connexion with
Covent Garden Market. Moving up and down as if waiting for a friend,
Phillips was making an exceedingly careful scrutiny of the building.
"It isn't as easy as I thought it was at first," he said. "I've got a
pretty shrewd idea, for which I have in the main to thank that
snowstorm. It is evident that Rickerby is perfectly right, and that
there is some cunning plot afoot to rob this Selwyn. I wonder whether
Rickerby was alluding to Raymond Copley. It can't be anybody else. Now
it is clear the gang cannot make late bets during a snowstorm or thick
mist or anything of that kind. I should like to know how they manage to
get the name of the winner into the club before the horse is past the
post. But that I must leave for the present. The point I have to find
out now is how the man upstairs who comes to do the betting gets his
information. If there was another block of buildings opposite the club I
could understand it, because it would be easy to signal from one window
to another. But there's nothing opposite except the Market with a lot of
porters hanging about, and I don't suppose they have anything to do with
it. The puzzle beats me for the moment. Still, having got so far, it is
hard if I can't get to the bottom of it. The signal must come from
somewhere in the block of buildings where the club is situated. Well,
that gives me something to go on with anyhow, and I haven't much time to
spare, especially as I must meet Fielden to-morrow at Mirst Park. I
suppose there is only one thing to do, and that is to find out the name
and occupation of every firm which has an office under the roof. The
first thing I need is a Post Office Directory."
With the aid of this book he managed to winnow down the doubtful firms
to five or six. The rest he found were established houses engaged in
legitimate trade, the others being more or less new-comers whose
callings were rather nondescript. By a stroke of good fortune, just
before five o'clock Phillips obtained the assistance of a clerk in a
fruit concern, whose firm was in the block of buildings in which the
club was housed, and the doubtful firms were reduced to two. Standing
outside looking up at the club, the windows of which were now in
darkness, Phillips saw that next door were a couple of windows bearing
on their wire blinds the legend, Jolly & Co. There was a light behind
the blinds, so that the lettering stood out clear and distinct.
"I think I am getting on," Phillips commented. "Now, how am I going to
find out about Jolly & Co.? It is a bit too dangerous to ask casually
for Mr. Jolly. But, stop. Most of the people have left, and it is any
odds the light has been used by the charwoman who is cleaning out the
offices. It won't do any harm to go up and see."
Phillips put his plan into execution. He came at length to the second
floor, and stopped at a door at the end of the passage which led to the
rooms occupied by the Post Club. On the door the name of Jolly & Co. was
painted in white letters. From behind it came the sound of scrubbing.
Phillips entered boldly. The room was furnished as an office. There were
a table and a chair or two, and in a corner an American roll-top desk.
Beside the desk was a telephone which, from its glittering newness, had
not been long erected. Attached to the receiver in the place of the
usual short flex was a cord at least eight or nine feet long. It was a
small matter in itself, but it did not escape Phillips' keen glance. He
wondered what it was for. It was certain that it was not attached to
the receiver by accident.
In one part of the room an old woman was kneeling down scrubbing the
floorcloth.
"Is Mr. Jolly here?" Phillips asked.
"No, sir," was the reply. "He went away early. I saw the key of the
office hanging up soon after half-past three."
Phillips smiled. He was beginning to understand now. There had been
snowstorms most of the afternoon at intervals, and this, no doubt, had
interfered with the campaign against the bookmakers.
"That is very annoying," Phillips said. "I particularly want to see Mr.
Jolly. I have some very important business with him. Can you tell me
where he lives?"
The old woman shook her head emphatically.
"No, I can't, sir," she said. "I haven't any idea where he lives. And,
besides, he is mostly a stranger to me."
"He hasn't been here long, then?"
"No, sir. He came last autumn and, of course, I does for him like I do
for the other gentlemen. He stayed till about the end of November, then
he told me he had to go abroad for the winter. He has only been back
about a week."
Phillips thought his time was not being wasted. Everything appeared to
be going his way.
"I am very sorry," he said, "but, really, I must find him. It is most
awkward, seeing that he is a stranger to me. Would you mind telling me
what he is like? If you can give me a description of him I might make
inquiries in the neighbourhood. It is possible he may be in one of the
hotels close by playing billiards or something of that sort."
"Well, that's possible," the old woman said. "I know Mr. Jolly is fond
of a game of billiards, because my little boy has had to fetch him once
or twice. He is young and clean-shaven, looks like a boy almost till you
get close to him, and then you can see what a lot of wrinkles he has
round his eyes. He might easily be mistaken for an actor. Dresses very
well, he does, except he wears a steel watch-chain."
Phillips gave the old woman a shilling and departed. He had found out
all he was likely to discover. He had already moved towards the door
when a sudden thought struck him.
"Oh, by the way," he said, "I wish you would let me have the number of
your telephone. If I can't come here again I shall telephone Mr. Jolly
in the morning."
The old woman intimated that the number was on the top of the telephone,
and Phillips made a note of it. Then he went away, on the whole very
well satisfied with his afternoon's work. He had yet, however, to verify
a certain suspicion, and this he could not accomplish till late in the
evening. It was eight o'clock or more before he turned into a public
telephone call-office and rang up the number which he had copied in
Jolly's office. He was not surprised to find that he received no reply,
but it was not a reply he was after. What he really wanted was to get in
connexion with the Exchange. He managed this presently. It was growing
late, and there was no great pressure upon the office.
"I am sorry to trouble you," he said, "but I can't get anything from
this number. Can you tell me if Mr. Jolly has a wire between the office
and his house?"
The assistant amiably replied she would ascertain. In a few moments she
spoke again.
"No wonder you couldn't get a reply," she said. "Jolly & Co. are not
connected with the Exchange at all. We switch them on by arrangement for
business purposes, but their wire is a private one. It has only been
recently erected."
Phillips drew a sharp breath. He was expecting sensational developments,
but this information fairly staggered him.
"I am much obliged to you," he said. "But I am very anxious to get on to
Mr. Jolly. You say the wire is a private one. I suppose it goes from the
office to Mr. Jolly's own house. Where is that?"
"His place is called The Nook, Mirst Park."
Once more Phillips was taken aback. The whole plot was opening up before
his eyes. Many important matters remained to be cleared up, but he felt
he was getting on with a vengeance.
"I didn't know where he lived," he said, "but many thanks for this
information and all the trouble you have taken. Would you mind putting
me in connexion with the Nook?"
The assistant was still obliging. For the best part of five minutes
Phillips stood there with the receiver at his ear, and the longer he had
to wait the more satisfied he appeared to be. Then, presently, the thin
voice at the other end of the wire began to speak to him again.
"I am very sorry," she said. "But I have rung half a dozen times and
can't make anybody hear. Probably they have left the receiver off the
instrument. I can try again presently."
"A thousand thanks," Phillips said. "But I won't trouble you. I'll call
round at the office in the morning. What a stroke of luck! Now for Mirst
Park."
CHAPTER XVI
THE NOOK
On second thoughts, Phillips deemed it more prudent to remain in town
overnight. There would be no difficulty in reaching Mirst Park to-morrow
in time to open his campaign. Besides, when he came to think it over
there were a good many things yet to be done. He ate his modest dinner
in his modest lodgings and then sat down over a cigarette to think out
the result of his day's work. The more he cogitated the more satisfied
he was with his rate of progress.
He had got past the age when a man burns for revenge and that sort of
thing. He infinitely preferred to make Copley smart and put money in his
own pocket at the same time. As for his diamond-mining adventure, he
expected to hear no more of that. He had been robbed of his precious
plans and had no hopes of seeing his missing portmanteau again, but,
like a prudent man, he was not inclined to cry over spilt milk.
He had thought it all out before morning, and shortly after ten o'clock
set out to call upon Major Carden again. To his surprise he found that
the Major had already breakfasted and was making preparations for going
out. A big fur coat was carelessly thrown across an arm-chair, and
Phillips smiled when he saw it. Probably the Major had struck a
prosperous line. Possibly some of the ten-pound note had been laid out
at an adjacent pawnbroker's.
"I didn't expect to see you this morning," the Major said genially.
"Most infernally cold, isn't it? Looks like snow, too. Still, one must
take the rough with the smooth when one goes racing."
"So you are going racing?"
"Well, I had thought of it. I don't often get the chance of treating
myself, and my idea was to run down to Mirst Park this afternoon. You're
going, aren't you?"
"Oh, yes, I am going down on business. But I wanted you to stay in town
and do a little commission for me."
The Major's florid face fell.
"That is very awkward," he muttered. "You see, I promised to take my
daughter with me. She is fonder of that kind of thing than I am, and the
poor child seldom has an outing. In the old days of my prosperity Alice
had her own horse, and deuced good across country she was. Can't you
manage to put it off till to-morrow, Phillips? I shall be greatly
obliged if you can."
Phillips reflected for a moment.
"Very well," he said. "I daresay it can be managed. I will see you on
the course this afternoon and let you know what my address is. If you
are discreet and cautious over this little matter there is a fair sum of
money in it for you. You can drop me a note to-night, because there is
no pressing hurry, and you can get the information this evening or early
to-morrow. What you have to do is to go round to the Post Club and find
out all the heavy bets which were made there with Selwyn in connexion
with to-day's racing at Mirst Park. You must let me know with whom the
bets were made and who made them. I think that is all. But I shall see
you on the course later, and if anything crops up in the meantime I
shall let you know."
There was nothing to prevent Phillips from making his way to Mirst Park.
Half an hour later he took train from Waterloo and, arrived at his
destination, proceeded to look out for lodgings. He had his own reasons
for preferring rooms to an hotel. He needed to keep himself as quiet as
possible. This matter satisfactorily settled, he turned his steps to the
course, which was as yet practically deserted. There was little to
indicate that a race meeting was in progress, excepting the shows and
roundabouts and booths outside the stands and paddocks. There were the
usual loafers picnicking on the grass, the usual litter of torn
betting-tickets and papers scattered far and wide. Phillips passed
along, looking eagerly about him. He wanted somebody who could give him
certain information. He stood on the centre of the course, some four or
five hundred yards from the ring. He appeared to be admiring the
landscape, which was pleasant enough under the brilliant sunshine,
though this was interspersed now and then by ominous-looking clouds
which seemed to threaten snow later.
As most people know, Mirst Park course is situated in a kind of theatre,
with rising ground behind the stands, so that it is possible for
everybody to obtain a perfect view of a race from start to finish.
Peeping out of the trees here and there were a few good-class houses,
one of which, standing higher than the rest, towered over the top of the
grand stand. There was the suggestion of a smile on Phillips' face as he
adjusted his racing-glasses and made a close inspection of the house in
question. He could see that it possessed a flat roof with a parapet
around it. Phillips was still intent upon his examination when a
policeman with a fine air of detachment strolled by.
"The best natural course I have ever seen," Phillips said with
enthusiasm. "Have you got many like this in these parts, officer?"
"Not that I know of," the policeman said. "I suppose you have never been
here before."
"I am from South Africa," Phillips said. "We've got nothing like this
out there. I should like to have one of those houses yonder. It must be
nice to sit in your own house and be able to watch all the races,
especially in weather like this. Now there's that place at the back of
the stand. I suppose you know who that belongs to. Some man with money,
I expect?"
"I can't tell you, sir," the policeman replied. "I've lived here most of
my life, but that house yonder has been empty for a long time. I
understood it was taken by some Colonial gentleman last autumn, but I
don't think he has been in it yet. Of course, I don't know for certain,
because my beat is on the other side of the Common, and I am only on
duty here on race days."
"Just so. What is the name of the house?"
"Let me see," the policeman said, reflectively. "Oh, I know. I think
they call it The Nook."
The officer passed on, and Phillips replaced the racing-glasses in their
case. Fortune was still on his side. He made his way through the woods
up into the road which ran in front of the houses, and came at length to
a pair of iron gates with the name of the house, The Nook, painted on
them in gilt letters. The place appeared to be fairly well looked after.
The paths were trim, but, so far as Phillips could see, there was little
traffic through the gates and no sign whatever of wheels, either of cabs
or motors. Peering through the shrubs, he noticed that the windows were
fitted with curtains and blinds as if the house were inhabited. There
was, perhaps, some risk in what Phillips was about to do, but he was
prepared to take the consequences. He walked briskly up the drive until
he came in front of the house. Most of the blinds were up. He saw
evidences of refinement and luxury in the blinds and curtains, though it
struck him as rather significant that the gardens had not had much
attention bestowed upon them. Phillips hesitated before ringing the
bell. It was an old-fashioned bell, with a drop-handle, and he could
hear it clanging through the house with a hollow sound which suggested
emptiness. As he expected, no reply came, though he rang two or three
times. It was impossible for any one to see into the living-rooms, for
the house was built upon a slope and the front door was approached by a
flight of steps. Just as Phillips was turning away a man emerged from
behind a belt of shrubs, followed by a truculent-looking bull-terrier.
He looked like a gardener, though there was in his appearance that
faint, intangible something which suggested a close familiarity with the
turf. He eyed Phillips sourly and suspiciously, and none too politely
requested to know his business.
"Are you employed here?" Phillips asked.
"Yes, I am," the man growled. "I am the gardener. And there's no one at
home, if you want to know."
Phillips' assumption of annoyance was artistic. He turned away
impatiently.
"Then Mr. Ronaldson is not here now?" he asked.
"Never heard the name," the gardener responded.
"But he used to live here. I knew him well in South Africa. He gave me
his address two years ago and asked me to look him up if ever I came to
England. I suppose he has gone somewhere else then. Do you happen to
know the name?"
"No, I don't," the gardener said sulkily. "We've only been here a few
months, and my master hasn't come into the house yet. He's a stranger,
too. You had better make inquiries in the village."
Phillips expressed his thanks. He had found out pretty well all he
wanted to know, and felt that if this repellent person had entertained
any suspicions they were lulled to sleep by this time. He stood
examining the repulsive-looking bull-terrier. He alluded to the animal's
points approvingly. He spoke, too, as a man who knew what he was talking
about. One or two remarks elicited the assent of the gruff gardener, who
smiled slightly.
"Yes, he's a good dog," he said. "And capital in the house."
"Keeps the burglars away," Phillips laughed.
"Oh, I daresay he would if I left him here. But I don't live on the
premises. I only look round to see that things are all right. I believe
the servants are coming in next week."
"But why not have a caretaker?" Phillips asked.
"Oh, there's no occasion for that. They're more trouble than they're
worth."
Phillips nodded and walked leisurely away.
CHAPTER XVII
A FAIR DAY'S SPORT
At Mirst Park there was not very much for Fielden to do. The horses he
had brought with him were a moderate lot, and, in the words of the
stud-groom, there was not a racer amongst them. With his intimate
knowledge of horse-flesh Fielden wondered why Copley kept such an
indifferent stable, and where he got his animals. They were even worse
than the ordinary run of equine rubbish usually foisted on the
millionaire whose ambition it is to figure as a patron of the turf.
Perhaps the whole thing was a blind. Perhaps the stud at Seton Manor was
merely intended to cover Copley's rascality in another direction. At any
rate, Fielden watched the first two races with mingled feelings of
contempt and amusement. He had seen his employer's horses figure in both
in the sorriest fashion, and till the four o'clock race was free to do
as he pleased.
It was strange to move about the paddock, by the weighing-room and on
the stand, rubbing shoulders with a score of men whom he knew well. The
course was familiar to him, too. Were the past two years but a dream,
and had he never left the scene of his former recreations? But no one
recognized him. He strolled about listening to the roar of the
betting-ring and the cries of the multitude, or threaded his way in and
out among the horses. He even spoke to one or two jockeys whom he had
once known, but none seemed to identify him.
Despite the crowd and the horses, the ladies on the stand and the
members in the enclosure, however, it was a lonely business, and his
face lightened as he caught sight of May Haredale seated by herself on
one of the stands. He made his way eagerly to her side. She turned and
smiled upon him. There was a healthy flush on her face. Her eyes were
sparkling, and yet there was a suspicion of anxiety about her which
Fielden had noticed more than once lately.
"Why are you alone?" he asked.
"Oh, it has only been the last few minutes," May explained. "We have a
colt running in this race, and my father has gone to give instructions
to his jockey. By the way, how badly your horses have cut up to-day. No,
I am not particularly interested in this race, and I haven't so much as
a pair of gloves on it."
"Then what do you say to a stroll?" Fielden suggested. "It is cold, and
we look like having another fall of snow. I couldn't see the three
o'clock race for the snow. Positively I hadn't the faintest notion what
had won till I saw the numbers go up. Let us walk across the course to
the starting-point and back. We shall have plenty of time."
May consented, and soon they were beyond the enclosure and past the
white posts and rails towards the patch of gorse across the Downs, where
the starter was already fidgeting about on his cob. Away from the noise
and excitement of the ring the flush faded from May's face, and her eyes
seemed inexpressibly sad.
"What's the matter?" Fielden asked anxiously. "We all change as we grow
older. I suppose I am different from what I used to be. But I don't like
to see you so quiet. It is so foreign to your nature, May. There was a
time when you were all laughter and sunshine. Oh, dear, what a fool I
have been, to be sure. How different things might have been if I had
only had a little common sense. You don't know how I blame myself."
"Were you altogether to blame?" May asked. "I don't think so. You had no
one to look after you from the time you were at school till you came
into your property. You were merely a boy then, and you behaved like
one."
"Oh, I know, I know," Fielden sighed. "But that's all past and done
with. But don't talk about me. I am far more interested in you. I hope
nothing has happened to increase your anxiety. You know what I mean."
May looked irresolutely at her companion.
"I ought not, perhaps, to tell you," she said. "I ought not to tell
anybody. But, then, well, you are Harry Fielden, and I have known you
all my life. If you didn't care for me quite as much as you do, if I had
not cared for you--but, there, we need not go into that. It is my father
who has worried me. It is extraordinary what a change has come over him
lately. He used to be so kind to me, to let me do as I liked, and even
when we were so poor that we didn't know where to turn for money he was
always happy and cheerful. Why, a few months ago he would have laughed
at the idea of my marrying a man like Mr. Copley. Now he is almost eager
for it."
Fielden made no reply for a moment. A wave of indignation came over him.
He caught his lip between his teeth and bit it fiercely. A year or two
ago he would have smiled at the suggestion that Sir George would
sanction a match between his daughter and a man like Copley. But during
the hard and bitter months of his wanderings he had learnt some amount
of cynical wisdom. He was no longer inclined, as he had been in the old
days, to take every man at his face valuation. And, no doubt, when the
pinch came, Sir George was just like the rest. He would speak loudly
enough of his willingness to give up the old house and live in humble
lodgings rather than have any slur cast upon his honour. But it would be
different when this pretty theory came to be put to the test. Fielden
forgot all about the racecourse. He heard nothing of the shouting crowd.
The horses streaming to the post conveyed nothing to his eye.
"I want you to be candid with me," he said. "Is Sir George putting
pressure upon you to marry that blackguard?"
There was something so vehement in Fielden's speech that May looked at
him in astonishment.
"Surely you are going too far," she said. "Mr. Copley is not a
gentleman, of course----"
"I tell you, he is a scoundrel," Fielden interrupted. "Believe me, May,
I would not have spoken unless I had been bound to. That man is not fit
to go into any respectable house. I cannot say more than that at
present, because the secret is not altogether mine. But this much I tell
you: Had there been no such person as Raymond Copley I should be a rich
man at the present moment. I know that, but for the merest accident,
there would be blood on that man's hands. You must not marry him, May.
You must not give him the slightest encouragement. When I think of your
associating with that rascal my blood boils. If the worst comes to the
worst, I must tell Sir George what I know myself. It is with the
greatest reluctance I entered Copley's employment; indeed, I only did
so because there are certain things I want to find out and this seemed
to provide a favourable opportunity. Otherwise, I would rather get my
living by selling race-cards and sleep under a furze bush. But do you
mean to say your father really insists on this?"
A rush of tears filled May's eyes.
"That is what it comes to," she rejoined. "It is only the last two days
that I have noticed such a change in my father. Harry, do you think it
is as bad as he says it is? He tells me that unless I consent to marry
Mr. Copley we shall be ruined and be turned out of the house without so
much as a penny. It seems incredible. I can't understand a man with an
atom of self-respect who would compel a girl to marry him against her
will. It isn't as if I were rich, or intellectual, or beautiful."
Harry thought he could understand. Indeed, any man could understand who
looked down into the pretty, pleading, anxious face that was turned up
towards Fielden.
"There is no accounting for people like Copley," he said. "He is the
kind of man that has not an atom of consideration for anybody but
himself. He has no heart or conscience, and the more unattainable a
thing is the more he longs for it. He cannot win you; therefore, you are
the one thing in the world that he passionately desires. God help the
woman, however fascinating and beautiful, who becomes Copley's wife! It
would mean years of brutality and neglect and self-contempt. You
mustn't, May. I understand the duty you owe to your father, but no man
has a right to exact such a sacrifice as that. Don't you think I had
better see Sir George and give him a hint of the sort of man Copley is?"
May shook her head resolutely.
"I am afraid that would do more harm than good," she said. "I must fight
my battle alone, Harry, and if you interfered my father might forbid you
Haredale Park. He has already hinted that, if you had not come home
again, I should have been willing to become Mrs. Raymond Copley, and if
I were not allowed to see you I don't know what I should do. There is
nobody else I could confide in. But I will let you know how things go
on. We had better go back. I feel better for this confession."
But it seemed a hopeless business, and Fielden's face was sad and gloomy
as he strode alongside May towards the stand.
Ah! but hope was not dead yet.
CHAPTER XVIII
AN EVENING VISIT
For once Sir George Haredale did not seem to be in the least pleased to
see Fielden. He was standing on the lower steps of the stand talking to
Major Carden with the air of one who is conversing with an old
acquaintance. By Carden's side was his daughter, eager and interested,
following all that was going on around her with the zest and enjoyment
of a child.
"Oh, here you are," Sir George said fussily. "I was beginning to wonder
what had become of you. Carden, this is my daughter. Major Carden and I
were at Eton together. We used to do a good deal of racing before you
were born."
The Major took off his hat with a flourish.
"Charmed to meet the daughter of my old friend," he said, "charmed. Ah,
those were pleasant days when one had youth and strength and a banking
account which appeared to be inexhaustible. Now I deem myself fortunate
if I can steal a day off occasionally to get down to a suburban
racecourse. Let me present you to my daughter. My dear Alice----"
"But I know her already," May Haredale cried. "We were at school
together. I had no idea that my father and yours knew one another. I am
so pleased to see you again. Father, Alice Carden was my greatest friend
all the years I was at Eastbourne. We parted promising to write to one
another regularly, but somehow or another we have never corresponded.
But now that I have met you I won't lose sight of you any more. Major
Carden, you really must let Alice come and stay at Haredale Park with
me. I want her for a long visit."
Carden professed himself to be delighted, and this in all sincerity. He
began to see visions of a snug and comfortable time, away from dingy
lodgings and vilely-cooked food to which he had never become accustomed.
The two girls paired off, and the Major strolled towards the paddock
gates, for he had noticed Phillips there, evidently waiting for a chance
to speak to him.
"Got any instructions?" the Major asked.
"Nothing fresh," Phillips explained. "I want you to do exactly as I
asked you, and if you can manage it this evening, after you get back to
town, so much the better. I have written my address on the back of this
card, and it is possible I may be here for two or three days longer. I
want you to find out what wagering there was to big money with Selwyn at
the Post Club to-day, and wire to the address on this card. It is more
than probable that, before the week is out, I may be able to put a good
thing in your way. I suppose I can come round and see you whenever I
like."
The Major thought that would be all right. It would be just as well,
perhaps, to get his daughter out of the way. With diplomacy he might
contrive to expedite the invitation to Haredale Park, so that he could
have the ground clear without fear of interruption. He returned to the
place where his daughter was waiting for him.
At a sign from Phillips, Fielden came forward.
"Well," he asked, "how are you getting on?"
"Splendidly," Phillips replied. "I have been far more fortunate than I
anticipated. We will get some fun out of Copley and Foster yet. From
your point of view I daresay you may think I am wrong. But I mean to
make money out of this. I will expose Copley and fill my purse at the
same time. You wonder what I am driving at? Can you manage to stay here
over to-morrow?"
"I think so," Fielden said.
"That's good. In that case we can push our investigations farther and,
with any luck, before the week is out we shall not only know where
Copley gets his money, but how he makes it. Of course, we know that he
doesn't even begin as a millionaire; we know that he is an unscrupulous
adventurer. But he has the command of ready money, and we wish to know
how he makes it. As a matter of fact, I know that already. But there are
a few weak points in my case, and we can't make a definite move till
these are cleared up. Now I want you to have dinner with me in my
lodgings. I told my landlady I might have a friend staying with me, and
she will be ready to put a bedroom at your disposal."
"Why this mystery?" Fielden asked.
"Oh, it is no mystery. I only want to interest you. After dark we shall
indulge in a little quiet burglary, that is, if you don't object."
"It is not an alluring prospect," Fielden said.
"Of course it isn't," Phillips agreed. "But when you are dealing with
scoundrels it is necessary to use their own weapons. I presume you are
as interested as I am in the exposure of Copley and Foster and all their
methods."
"Up to the hilt," Fielden said between his teeth. "Poor as I am, I would
give all I possess to bring that about. I would give five years of my
life to manage that between now and Derby Day. And if necessary I can
find some money. I am better off than I expected, but I intended to keep
the money for a start in life later. Still, if you want it and will
promise to put it to a good use, I will give you every farthing
cheerfully. You have only to say the word."
Phillips chuckled.
"Oh, there's no occasion to do that, sir," he said. "Keep the money in
your pocket. I shall have enough and to spare before long. I mean to
drag Copley's plunder from between his teeth. I will take all I can get
from him, and when the time comes we shall drop a hint in the proper
quarter, and there will be an end to Raymond Copley. Within three months
you will see that man in gaol. You needn't be alarmed for Miss Haredale.
She is as safe from that man as if she were the daughter of the King. I
had better be going, because it is as well that we should not be seen
talking together for too long. I have scribbled my address on the back
of this card, and shall expect you about half-past seven."
Fielden asked no more questions, but returned to his friends with a
vivid sense of curiosity. He listened to Major Carden's flamboyant talk,
and as he bowed to Alice Carden could not help thinking what a pretty
and refined girl she was. He made his excuses for not returning to
Haredale, and was faintly amused to see how relieved Sir George appeared
to be.
"No, I can't get back to-night," he explained. "I have several things to
do here. But I hope to see you on Sunday, if I may be allowed to come
over."
"Of course, you may," May smiled, as she held out her hand. "Miss Carden
is coming to stay with me to-morrow. I have persuaded her to come at
once. I am ashamed to have neglected her so long."
Fielden finished his business, saw the stud-groom and the horses safely
on the rail, and then went to the retired part of the village where
Phillips' lodgings were situated. It was little more than a cottage, but
the place was neat and clean, and the cooking left nothing to be
desired.
"It is only a bit of fish and a steak," Phillips said cheerfully, "but
you will find it beautifully served, and as to the wine, well, I got
that myself, and I know it is everything it should be. Please sit down
and make yourself at home. We can discuss matters over our cigars.
There's nothing like racing to give you an appetite. I only hope it
won't snow before morning."
"I hope not," Fielden said. "To all intents and purposes the racing was
spoilt this afternoon by the snow, and it is very odd that no one saw a
yard from start to finish of the three o'clock race. It was most
annoying."
"Was it?" Phillips asked. "Well, I confess I didn't find it so.
Yesterday at the time of the three o'clock race I was at the Post Club,
and, singular to say, we had the same blinding snowstorm in Covent
Garden. Now it surprises you, but from your point of view and mine that
snowstorm was the most fortunate thing that could have happened. When I
sat smoking my cigar in the Post Club there came to me the inspiration
of a lifetime. I seemed to see in a flash exactly what had happened, and
soon I shall know to a dead certainty. You must restrain your curiosity
for a little longer. You will probably know all about it before you go
to bed. Try one of these cigars. They are excellent."
Fielden had hardly got his cigar aglow before the landlady came in with
a telegram, which Phillips opened eagerly. There was a smile of triumph
on his face as he handed it to Fielden.
"What do you make of that?" he asked.
"I can make nothing of it," Fielden said. "It is a wire to the effect
that no important wager was made this afternoon on the three o'clock
race at the Post Club, and is signed Carden. I presume that is our stout
friend with the florid face and ingratiating manner, who was talking to
you this afternoon. But how it helps us I haven't the ghost of an idea."
Phillips rose and threw his cigar in the fire.
"Come," he said. "It is time to start. You haven't much longer to
wait."
CHAPTER XIX
THE EMPTY HOUSE
There was just enough moonlight for Phillips' purpose, but not enough to
render his task dangerous. Fielden asked no questions, partly because he
deemed it would be useless, and partly because he did not wish to spoil
what appeared to have in it the making of a dramatic adventure. His
spirits were rising, and he was looking forward keenly to something in
the way of enterprise. He and Phillips had been in more than one tight
place together, and he had every confidence in his companion.
They made their way along the main street in silence, and came presently
to the deserted racecourse. There was very little evidence of the
afternoon's sport, nothing but a few partially dismantled tents and
booths, and the extraordinary remnants of reeking humanity that always
haunt a race meeting.
They went across the heath, and by and by Phillips pulled up in front of
the avenue to The Nook.
"This is the place," he said quietly.
"Oh, is it?" Fielden asked. "Perhaps you had better tell me before we go
farther who lives here."
"That is precisely what we've come to find out," Phillips said coolly.
"I've got a pretty shrewd notion, but that isn't good enough for me.
I've told you that there's a gang of clever swindlers in England who
have put their heads together to rob the betting ring of an enormous sum
of money. Operations began last autumn, but the flat-racing was nearly
finished, so that they did not make quite such a haul as they had
anticipated. Still, they made enough to keep themselves in luxury all
the winter and to find the necessary funds for carrying on the campaign
in the spring. It is a big combine, and unless something is done to stop
it, these people will make colossal fortunes. Mind you, one or two of
the large bookmakers have a suspicion, but up to now they haven't been
able to prove anything. Indeed, without egotism, I may say they would be
powerless without me. I got some vague idea of the scheme three years
ago from a man who is now dead. Then when racing began again this year I
fancied I could see a trace of the same idea in this business. I knew I
was right when I discovered that Copley was operating on a large scale.
I lunched at the Post Club with a member who gave me an introduction to
Rickerby, the financial agent. You remember him?"
"I ought to," Fielden said drily. "Goodness knows, his firm had enough
of my money. But go on."
"Well, I pumped Rickerby. I don't mind telling you that I went to the
Post Club on purpose. He has been pretty hard hit. He believes he has
been the victim of a swindle, and he is right, though it was no part of
my policy at the time to tell him so. He can't very well refuse to take
big bets, even when he feels there is something underhand going on. Only
a short time ago he was hit for some thousands of pounds by one of the
gang, and, moreover, had to pay the money."
"This sounds very interesting," Fielden said, "but what has it to do
with our present adventure?"
"Oh, I am coming to that," Phillips went on quietly. "You see, these
bets are always made in the same way. One of the conspirators, who is
actually a member of the Post Club, strolls into the smoking-room some
five or six minutes before--well, we'll say before the three o'clock
race. He hangs about till the horses are about finishing and then, in
the most casual way in the world, makes a bet. Now, mind you, this bet
is booked before the race is finished, as a careful comparison of the
time shows. Yet the horse has won, and the man in the smoking-room of
the Post Club knows it before the judge has given his decision."
"Impossible," Fielden exclaimed.
"I know it seems impossible, and twenty years ago you would have said
the telephone was impossible, and people would have scouted the idea of
wireless telegraphy. But they both came, like the phonograph and other
wonders."
"Oh, that's all very well," Fielden smiled. "But you are not going to
ask me to believe that this thing is done by thought-reading or anything
of that sort? You won't tell me that this famous member of the Post Club
is a clairvoyant who sees the race finished while it is being run?
Because, if that were the case, the favoured person would have no need
of a syndicate to help him; he would do it all by himself."
"I am not suggesting anything of the kind," Phillips said. "There's
nothing occult about the business. The thing is capable of explanation,
and I am in a position to give it, except for the finishing touches,
which make this dodge almost a work of genius. I know who is at the
bottom of it, I know who is working it, and I know how the information
is conveyed to within a few feet of the tape machines in the Post Club.
But how that information is filtered to the man inside is the thing that
beats me at present. But so much I have found out. In the very next
office to the smoking-room of the Post Club is a firm who call
themselves Jolly & Co. Now Jolly & Co. only took their office last
September or October. There is not the slightest sign of any business
being done there, because I have been in the office myself. Taken in
conjunction with what I have told you, it must strike you as an odd
thing that this mysterious Jolly & Co. shut up the office and went
abroad last year after the flat-racing was over. Probably Jolly & Co.
went off to make a bit in the Riviera, or Egypt, or some other
fashionable resort where fools and money congregate. It is an odd thing
that during the January meeting at Mirst Park Jolly & Co. should turn up
again and resume operations in Covent Garden. Now I called to see Mr.
Jolly. He had left his office, but I guessed that before I called, or I
shouldn't have ventured. The first thing I saw was a telephone with an
unusually long flex to it. I don't quite understand why this flex is so
long, but I can make a shrewd guess. It cost me an hour or two and
plenty of hard thinking to get farther in my investigations, but I found
late in the evening that Jolly & Co.'s telephone was a private wire
leading from Covent Garden to his residence at Mirst Park. Now do you
begin to understand?"
Fielden shook his head.
"It begins to smell suspicious," he said. "I am bound to confess it
looks very like a deep-laid conspiracy. But I must confess myself too
dense to follow it."
"Oh, it requires explanation. But luck favoured me in my investigations,
and I managed to pick up a good many unlooked for clues. Still, the
fact remains that from this house here to an office next door to the
Post Club there is a private telephone. Now a child would admit that no
one would have a private telephone from here to an office in London, at
a cost of something like a hundred and fifty pounds a year, merely for
the sake of sending domestic messages. I came here to have a good look
at The Nook, as this house is called, and I found, not altogether
unexpectedly, that nobody was living here. I was told by a gardener that
the tenant had not yet taken possession, though it has been furnished
for some time. I had rung the bell a few times, and when the man came
professed I had called to see some one who used to live here.
Considering that it is supposed to be a fully-furnished house, that bell
made a great deal of noise. I am ready to bet that the house is
practically empty. At any rate, I have come here to find out for myself,
and as I believe there is nobody on the premises our task ought not to
be difficult."
"I don't like it," Fielden said. "It smells very much like burglary, and
if we were discovered we should find some difficulty in giving an
explanation which would satisfy the police. Isn't there any other way?"
Phillips waved the suggestion aside impatiently.
"You can go back if you like, sir," he said. "As for me, I will see this
thing through. We might never have such an opportunity again. And,
besides, I want to have a look at that telephone. I think we shall find
something that will open our eyes. I am not in a position actually to
prove it, but I am convinced that Jolly & Co. will be found to be part
and parcel of Copley and Foster. Now you understand why I am so anxious
to enter the house. Still, if you prefer to remain outside and leave the
matter to me----"
"Oh, no," Fielden said hastily. "Having come so far I won't turn back. I
am taking it that you are correct in thinking the house is empty."
"Of course it is, there is no question about that. The gardener told me
so, and I see no reason to doubt his statement. I wouldn't miss this
chance for anything. Even if I get nothing out of it, I should like to
know how this swindle is being worked. But come along, we are wasting
time. There is enough moonlight to help us without using lights, which
is so far fortunate. It may be a little awkward for you, connected as
you are with Copley, but it is all in the game."
"Lead on," Fielden said curtly.
They turned into the avenue and came presently to the front of the
house. Somebody had evidently been in since Phillips' visit, for all the
blinds had been pulled down. Then they walked cautiously round, looking
for a weak spot where they could effect an entrance.
CHAPTER XX
INSIDE
The adventurers managed to squeeze through a scullery window, the latch
of which had not been secured, and a moment later were in the house. As
Phillips had surmised, the place was empty. There were, however, cooking
utensils in the kitchen, a quantity of plates and dishes and glass, with
two baskets containing a small supply of cutlery and silver. Floorcloth
had been laid down on the kitchen floor and a carpet in the hall, and
there were carpets on the stairs, but three of the four living-rooms on
the ground floor were empty. But the fourth room was comfortably
furnished. A fire was still burning in the grate, and on the tiled
hearth Phillips detected the ends of two or three cigarettes. There was
a faint aroma of tobacco on the air, not the sort of tobacco likely to
be consumed by a caretaker.
"It is just as I told you," Phillips chuckled. "I felt sure we should
find the house empty."
"Yet you are not altogether right," Fielden replied. "Somebody has been
here recently, and somebody who knows how to appreciate a good
cigarette. Besides, look at that fire. I don't like it, Phillips, and
wish we were well out of it. We don't happen to be in South Africa now."
"Oh, that's all right," Phillips said cheerfully. "No doubt the fire was
lighted this morning by the gardener, and no doubt also one of the
conspirators has been here. In fact, I should have been disappointed if
I hadn't found traces of him. It isn't necessary for our friends to come
often, but they couldn't very well work their scheme unless they were on
the spot when racing is taking place at Mirst Park. I wonder what our
friend thought of the snowstorm about three o'clock. I guess that must
have upset his calculations a bit. Now look at this."
Phillips bent down to the fireplace and lifted one of the cigarette
ends, which he handed to Fielden.
"Do you know anybody who smokes these?" he asked.
"I think so," Fielden said after close inspection. "They are
particularly expensive cigarettes, and can't be had unless specially
ordered. The only man I know who smokes them is Raymond Copley."
"Precisely. And you may bet your boots this is one of his. At any rate,
it is a curious coincidence, and tends to confirm what I have already
told you. I should be greatly surprised if Copley were not here this
afternoon. Now let us get a bit farther. There is nothing to detain us
after we have examined the telephone. I am afraid we shall have to use a
match, but, then, we are bound to take certain risks."
By the aid of a box of vestas the telephone instrument was found in the
hall. It presented no special features. It appeared to be the kind of
hanging instrument to be seen in hundreds of offices and private houses.
"Nothing remarkable about that," Fielden said.
For the moment Phillips made no reply. He fetched a chair from the
kitchen and mounted it. After the expenditure of two or three matches,
the ends of which he was careful to deposit in his pocket, he broke into
a smile.
"Ah, I expected something like this," he said. "There is an extension to
this instrument. If you look in the angle of the wall you will see that
it goes up to the ceiling. To tell you the truth, I am glad to find
this, because it bears out what strikes me as a very plausible theory. I
was rather disappointed to find the telephone here at all. But now I can
understand why it was placed in this particular spot. We have a cunning
lot to deal with, and it was to be expected they would not do things
like other people. Let us go upstairs and see how far this extension
goes. To the roof, unless I am mistaken."
The exploration proved troublesome, but the extension was traced to the
second floor and thence along the ceiling, where it finally disappeared
through a skylight which gave on to the roof. An iron ladder was
attached to the skylight, and Phillips pointed out to his companion that
the ladder appeared to have been regularly used. The iron rungs were
worn bright, the sides were clean and shiny.
"Come along," Phillips whispered. "We must get out on the top. But be
cautious and display as little light as possible. I daresay we can
manage with a solitary match."
They found themselves on the roof presently. By feeling about they could
trace the flex of the extension to a square wooden box screwed down to
the leads. The box did not appear to be locked, and it was easy for
Phillips to fumble about inside it until he drew out a cylinder of gutta
percha with something glittering at either end.
"Stoop down and light a match," he whispered, "and hide the flame under
your coat. Now, then, bend down here. That's right."
The match burst into flame under cover of Fielden's coat. The feeble
light displayed another telephone receiver attached to the end of a
somewhat long flex.
"You can blow out the match," Phillips went on, "and don't forget to put
the end in your pocket. It is just as well to be careful when dealing
with such a gang. Perhaps you begin to understand? You don't know, I
expect, that this roof commands the whole racecourse, and enables one to
see everything from start to finish. Now a man could sit down here on
this box and watch the race with the telephone receiver to his mouth. If
he were a really good judge of racing--I mean, if he were any good as a
judge of a finish--he would be able to spot the winner in nine cases out
of ten fifty lengths from home, and therefore, if there was some one at
the other end in the office of Jolly & Co., the result of a particular
race would be known in London before the horse was past the post. Do you
follow?"
"Yes, that's all very well," Fielden objected, "but that does not
account for the fact that----"
"That the information is conveyed in the smoking room of the Post Club.
Of course it doesn't. That, I confess, is where I am beaten for the
present. I am certain that a second later the confederate in the Post
Club knows what has happened. Don't ask me to tell you how the final
touches are put on, because I don't know. But, knowing as much as I do,
we shall soon find out, and I think you will admit that we haven't
wasted our evening. You understand now why either Copley or a
confederate was here this afternoon. The man, whoever he was, came with
the intention of sending the result of the three o'clock race to Covent
Garden. Why the three o'clock race is always picked out for this
swindle we don't know, but that will be made plain sooner or later. They
didn't make anything yesterday or to-day, because on both occasions the
race was run in a snowstorm. It was the snowstorm that first put the
idea into my head; in fact, it was the snowstorm that led me here at
all. And now, let us go back to my lodgings and discuss the matter over
a cigar."
The telephone receiver was replaced in its box, the lid shut down, and
the investigators began their descent to the lower rooms. They had not
forgotten to be cautious and walked as quietly and carefully as if the
house were occupied, which was, perhaps, as well, for as they reached
the first-floor landing there came the scratch of a match downstairs. It
was only a slight noise, but in the empty house it boomed loudly in the
ears of the explorers. The match had been struck to light the gas, for a
moment later the hall blazed up brightly, and Fielden and his companion,
looking over the banisters, saw two men in the hall.
"Have you made up a fire in the dining-room?" one of them asked. "You
haven't? Well, do so at once. I am half frozen. It's precious poor fun
motoring from London on a night like this. Did you bring in the hamper?"
Phillips started at the sound of the voice.
"This is awkward," he whispered. "I wish to goodness we had gone five
minutes sooner. It will be worse for you than for me if we are found
out. Did you recognize that voice?"
"Copley," Fielden muttered. "I'd give something to be out of this. The
other man is Foster, of course. I wonder what ill luck brings these
fellows here to-night. Still, as all these rooms are empty they are not
likely to come upstairs. But they mean to stay, or Copley would not have
been so fastidious about the fire."
"They are going to make a night of it," Phillips replied. "Judging from
that remark about the hamper, they have brought supper with them,
expecting somebody else, very likely. Well, there is nothing for it but
to wait. If we could only put out the gas in the hall we might have a
chance. We can slip down while they are at supper and leave by the way
we came. We must have that gas out."
"They would only light it again."
"Not if I plug the burner. I'll go and look for a piece of wood. It is
likely the carpenters have left some behind: they generally do. If I can
find a piece about four feet long, the trick will be done."
CHAPTER XXI
THE EAVESDROPPERS
To Fielden, waiting, it seemed that Phillips was a long time away. While
he stood looking over the banisters he learned that the fire had been
made up downstairs. With grim amusement he watched Foster open the
hamper and take from it certain delicacies which formed the foundation
of what promised to be an exceedingly good supper. There were sundry
bottles, too, with gold foil about the necks, and when the hamper had
been emptied Foster repaired to the kitchen and presently reappeared
with a tray laden with plates and dishes, the requisite number of
glasses and knives and forks, and a tablecloth. Judging from the smell,
Copley was smoking in the dining-room whilst his accomplice was
preparing the supper. Matters had progressed thus far when Phillips
stole gently back, carrying a long very thin slip of wood from a broken
board, the end of which he had whittled to a fine point.
"I've found it," he said. "If I lean over the banisters I can jam the
point of this stick into the eye of the burner, and put out the gas.
They won't be able to light it again for a while. Is it safe?"
The sudden pop of a cork was heard.
"Sounds like it," Fielden whispered. "I think Foster carried in
everything and they are at supper. Now is your time."
Phillips leant over the banisters, and at the second attempt thrust the
sharpened end of the long strip of wood into the eye of the burner.
There was a feeble flicker or two, and then the whole place was wrapped
in darkness. He was only just in time, for almost on the same instant
Foster came out of the dining-room. They heard him muttering that the
gas had gone wrong, and watched him, faintly outlined by a match, strive
in vain to light the gas once more. After the third attempt he abandoned
the effort with an oath and went back to the dining-room. Straining
their ears, the two men on the landing could hear Copley's reply.
"Choked up with dust, I suppose. But never mind so long as we are all
right. Sit down and eat. I daresay those other fellows will be some time
yet."
Phillips whispered in his companion's ear.
"I think we shall be safe. What do you say to creep away now we have the
opportunity? Or would it be worth while to stay outside the dining-room
and listen to what they're talking about? It is pitch dark, and we can
slope at any moment."
Fielden was feeling reckless. It did not matter what happened. Without
further ado they tiptoed into the hall where, by the aid of the intense
stillness and a door ajar, they commanded all that was going on. Copley
sat at one end of the table, facing Foster at the other. For some time
the two men ate steadily with an appetite sharpened by their drive
through the cold air. When the meal was finished Copley pushed his chair
aside and strode over to the fireplace. Would Foster remove the supper
things? He had begun to gather the plates and dishes together when
Copley stopped him.
"Oh, never mind the things," he said impatiently. "Let the man remove
them in the morning. He can finish up what is left. We have more
important matters to attend to. Take a cigar and sit down by the fire.
What is the next move?"
"We have had cruel bad luck," Foster replied. "Who would have expected
to have two race-days ruined by snowstorms? A prophet could not have
foreseen anything like this. I reckon we have lost twenty thousand
pounds the last two days."
"It's a bad start," Copley answered. "We didn't have the luck, and we
haven't made the money. I was on the roof yesterday and to-day, and I
declare to you I couldn't see a single incident in the race. I've never
seen two such blinding snow showers. It was simply maddening to stand
there and feel a fortune supping through your fingers, all on account of
the snow. And that's not the worst, Foster. It will be another month
before there will be two days' racing at Mirst Park, and we can't count
upon a single penny till then. I tell you frankly I don't know where to
turn for ready cash. It's all very fine to have tradesmen breaking their
necks to get my custom, but that doesn't fill my purse with the needful.
It's very odd that a man in my position can procure almost any article
of value he pleases, but when it comes to raising a bit of cash
everybody's suspicions are aroused at once."
"Well, philosophy won't help us," Foster said. "We must annex some ready
money to carry us over the next month, at any rate. The same ill luck
can't happen at the next meeting. Such a coincidence couldn't happen
twice. Don't forget that if we can manage to hang on for four weeks we
shall make enough to carry us on to the Derby, and after the big race is
run we shall be in clover. If you work your cards properly the Blenheim
colt is bound to lose, and with this knowledge we can lay against the
horse as long as anybody is fool enough to take our bets."
"I haven't forgotten that," Copley said. "Of course, I haven't spoken to
Sir George about it yet, but I have asked him to dine with me on Sunday
evening at Seton Manor, and I shall put on the screw then. He'll kick at
first. He'll talk about the blood of his ancestors and the honour of his
race and all that kind of rot, but he is bound to give in. If I asked
him to-night he would say he would rather leave Haredale Park and beg
his bread before he would do anything to be ashamed of. We have both
heard people talk like that before now, but when it comes to the point
Sir George will sing another tune. They all do."
"Provided the lady does not change her mind," Foster said with a grin,
which caused Fielden, listening at the door, to clench his fists. "You
mustn't lose sight of that fact, Copley. Miss Haredale dislikes and
despises you. But though she vows that nothing in the world will induce
her to marry you, circumstances alter cases, and when she knows she is
no longer mistress of Haredale Park, it is possible her frowns may turn
into smiles."
Copley laughed unpleasantly.
"I haven't lost sight of these things," he said. "Miss Haredale has the
bad taste to dislike me exceedingly. I would give anything if I could
induce her to change her mind. I believe I might even grow honest and
lead a respectable life. Still, that would be beastly monotonous. Your
plan is the best. I had better accept my dismissal and leave Miss
Haredale to go her own way. Then I can put the screw on Sir George and
compel him to find some excuse for scratching his colt. When he sees
that I mean to have my money and discovers the sheriff in possession, he
will not be long in inventing a reason why the Blenheim colt should not
run that shall be consistent with his confounded dignity. You can leave
that safely to me, Foster. My word, how cold it is! I wish you would
shut that door. The draught is cutting my legs off. I daresay----"
What Copley was about to say was lost to the listeners in the hall by
the closing of the door. They could hear nothing save a murmur of voices
which conveyed nothing to their ears. Phillips touched his companion's
shoulder.
"Here's our chance," he whispered. "The sooner we are off the better. We
cannot learn anything more this evening; indeed, there cannot be much
more to learn."
They stole cautiously along the hall, through the kitchen and outhouses,
and were soon outside safe under cover of the darkness. It was black
enough now that the moon had gone down, and they could move freely into
the road and across the heath to the village.
"Well, what do you think of these precious rascals?" Phillips asked.
"Don't you agree that we are deep in the secrets of a vile conspiracy?
We can't leave it where it is."
"Most certainly not," Fielden said. "At present I am thinking more about
Sir George Haredale than of anybody else. A year or two ago I should
have scorned the idea of his doing anything dishonourable. But I have
learnt worldly wisdom, and can imagine how it would be if Sir George
were suddenly face to face with poverty. He is completely under Copley's
thumb. If these two men bring off their coup, they will make an enormous
fortune. But it must be prevented at all costs, Phillips. Think out some
scheme of checkmate, and I shall be your debtor for the rest of my
life."
"I think I can manage that," Phillips said. "I'll tell you what my plan
is when we get back to my rooms."
CHAPTER XXII
A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE
Major Carden sat over the breakfast which his daughter had prepared for
him. He had been unusually late the night before, and showed it in the
additional pinkness of his cheeks and the slightly red rims under his
eyes. Not that he was feeling much the worse for the previous evening's
pleasure; indeed, in his philosophical moments, the Major was fond of
speculating which was the wiser--to take his fill of enjoyment's cup
with its concomitants in the morrow of suffering and tribulation, or
abandon such courses, however delightful. One mode of life was jolly to
a point, but, on the other hand, the man who exercised prudence and some
measure of control had a compensation in his economy. As a matter of
fact, the Major never had been economical. "Sufficient for the day is
the evil thereof" summed up his religion to its fullest extent. After a
stimulant he knew he would be himself again, so he ate his breakfast
with a zest that was truly amazing after the carousal of the night.
For Major Carden always appeared to be in the best of health and
spirits. Beyond his impecuniosity he had little to trouble him, and at
the moment things appeared to be going very well indeed. He saw his way
to make money out of Phillips, and had also been offered a roving
commission on the Continent to purchase horses for the Army. This would
entail his being away for three or four months, but his travelling
allowance was liberal, he would put up at the best hotels, and enjoy
himself in a manner consonant with his mission and dignity. He would
tell his daughter that he was going abroad on some journalistic
commission, for the Major, to do him justice, would have been loth for
Alice to know all the expedients he resorted to in earning his
precarious living.
His love for his daughter was the one wholesome spot in his otherwise
shady existence. He had been a selfish man all his life, had spent his
own fortune and his wife's, and had broken the heart of that unhappy
woman in a gentlemanly way. There had been no violence, no open
unkindness, but the refinement of neglect that undermines health and
spirit. When the crash finally came the Major removed to London with his
young daughter. He told her just as much as he considered necessary,
with the consequence that she regarded him as one of the best and most
self-denying of men. Alice had few friends, and none knew anything about
the Major's means, so that the journalistic fiction remained
unassailable, and Alice could speak freely of her father as adding high
intellectual qualities to his other gifts. His frequent late absences
from home were explained in this way, and if he never said anything
definite about his work, his diffidence might be attributed to natural
modesty.
In the circumstances, therefore, the Major was not sorry his daughter
had had an invitation to spend a holiday at Haredale Park. He had
thought of inviting himself also, but his new commission put that out of
the question. After he had finished his breakfast he helped himself to a
liberal dose of brandy and soda, and had just lighted his first cigar
when his daughter came in.
"You are very late," she said with playful fondness. "I declare you grow
worse and worse."
"Not my fault, my dear," the Major protested. "These things are
inevitable amongst newspaper men. I thought I should be at home by
eleven, but something important turned up at the last moment and they
told me off to attend to it. They are good enough to say they can depend
on me, Alice. That is one of the advantages of being steady. If anything
goes wrong at the office the first thing they say is, 'Where is
Carden?'"
Alice smiled affectionately. To her this was quite natural. For a girl
who had spent so many years in London she was wonderfully simple.
"I suppose it can't be helped," she said. "How few men there are who
would have endured your misfortunes and turned to and made a living as
you are doing! I wish I were clever."
"Oh, so you are, my dear, so you are," the Major said magnanimously.
"The great thing is pluck and perseverance. Without egotism, I think I
am endowed with those qualities, and to some extent so are you, and you
will make a name as an artist yet. Stick to it, my child, stick to it.
At the same time, it is good to have an occasional change, and I am glad
you are going to Haredale Park. I suppose you can manage to put your
painting pupils off for a week or two? Probably you will find it lonely
when I am away. I shall only be able to run over from the Continent
occasionally."
"Oh, I shall miss you," Alice said. "But I shall be safe enough. The
landlady is always motherly, and she will see I come to no harm."
The Major dismissed the subject with a flourish of his cigar. He had
rather feared his daughter might give way to tears. He thought she might
ask him to take her along with him and so put him to the pain of
refusal. Possibly the girl was looking too eagerly forward to her visit
to Haredale Park to think of anything else. She had not forgotten the
days when Major Carden was a man of position and they occupied a fine
house in the country, when she had her horse and plunged into the dear
delights of country life. It was good to feel she was going back to it,
even though it was only for a little time. She had already made her
modest preparations. She only hoped there would not be too many visitors
at Haredale Park. But May Haredale had assured her they lived very
quietly and had not many friends.
"I am getting nervous about it," she said. "It will seem so different to
the life I have been leading here. If I had only foreseen this I might
have saved up and bought myself another dress or two. Still, I know I
shall enjoy myself."
"Of course you will," the Major said heartily. "But you won't get much
gaiety at Haredale. They don't go in for society much. You see, there
are very few of the old families left. Times change, my dear, and we
change with them. I don't suppose, plainly speaking, that Sir George is
much better off than I am. I happen to know that much depends upon the
Blenheim colt winning this year's Derby. I was in the Post Club
yesterday with one or two of my----"
The Major coughed hastily as if his cigar smoke had gone the wrong way.
"What am I talking about?" he exclaimed. "Anybody would think I am still
interested in sport. Do you know, beyond an occasional day at a small
meeting, I have no time for that sort of thing. I was in the Post Club
on business, purely on business. It is a very sad thing to see young
men wasting so much of their time and money on horses. But I can't
prevent them from talking and am bound to hear the gossip that goes on.
That is how I came to know so much about Sir George's affairs. Every
penny he can scrape together goes on the stables, so you'll probably
find that Miss Haredale leads a very quiet existence."
"I am glad to hear it," Alice said. "I shall be happy with her. She was
the greatest friend I had at school, and I can't understand how I ever
managed to lose sight of her. Is it a nice place?"
"Very pleasant," the Major said critically. "It is a grand old house,
full of works of art and furniture and that kind of thing. Of course,
all these things go with the estate, so that Sir George could not
dispose of them, which is a precious lucky thing for the heir, for there
won't be too much for him when the time comes. The stables are very
fine, too, and Sir George has some of the best cattle in the country.
Oh, I have no doubt you will enjoy yourself. When do you go?"
"To-day," Alice said.
The Major appeared to be slightly embarrassed.
"Oh, yes," he said, "I had forgotten. It is a trifle awkward, because I
have only a littl
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