It made him less careful than he was wont to be. He did not look for shadowers that evening, yet shadowers there had been—not one but many.
XI
To Lincoln Races
Sir Isaac Tramber went to Lincoln in an evil frame of mind. He had reserved a compartment, and cursed his luck when he discovered that his reservation adjoined that of Horace Gresham.
He paced the long platform at King’s Cross, waiting for his guests. The Earl of Verlond had promised to go down with him and to bring Lady Mary, and it was no joy to Sir Isaac to observe on the adjoining carriage the label, “Reserved for Mr. Horace Gresham and party.”
Horace came along about five minutes before the train started. He was as cheerful as the noonday sun, in striking contrast to Sir Isaac, whose night had not been too wisely spent. He nodded carelessly to Sir Isaac’s almost imperceptible greeting.
The baronet glanced at his watch and inwardly swore at the old earl and his caprices. It wanted three minutes to the hour at which the train left. His tongue was framing a bitter indictment of the old man when he caught a glimpse of his tall, angular figure striding along the platform.
“Thought we weren’t coming. I suppose?” asked the earl, as he made his way to the compartment.
“I say, you thought we weren’t coming?” he repeated, as Lady Mary entered the compartment, assisted with awkward solicitude by Sir Isaac.
“Well, I didn’t expect you to be late.”
“We are not late,” said the earl.
He settled himself comfortably in a corner seat—the seat which Sir Isaac had specially arranged for the girl. Friends of his and of the old man who passed nodded. An indiscreet few came up to speak.
“Going up to Lincoln, Lord Verlond?” asked one idle youth.
“No,” said the earl sweetly, “I am going to bed with the mumps.” He snarled the last word, and the young seeker after information fled.
“You can sit by me, Ikey—leave Mary alone,” said the old man sharply. “I want to know all about this horse. I have £150 on this thoroughbred of yours; it is far more important than those fatuous inquiries you intend making of my niece.”
“Inquiries?” grumbled Sir Isaac resentfully.
“Inquiries!” repeated the other. “You want to know whether she slept last night; whether she finds it too warm in this carriage; whether she would like a corner seat or a middle seat, her back to the engine or her face to the engine. Leave her alone, leave her alone, Ikey. She’ll decide all that. I know her better than you.”
He glared, with that amusing glint in his eyes, across at the girl.
“Young Gresham is in the next carriage. Go and tap at the window and bring him out. Go along!”
“He’s got some friends there, I think, uncle,” said the girl.
“Never mind about his friends,” said Verlond irritably. “What the devil does it matter about his friends? Aren’t you a friend? Go and tap at the door and bring him out.”
Sir Isaac was fuming.
“I don’t want him in here,” he said loudly. “You seem to forget, Verlond, that if you want to talk about horses, this is the very chap who should know nothing about Timbolino.”
“Ach!” said the earl testily, “don’t you suppose he knows all there is to be known. What do you think sporting papers are for?”
“Sporting papers can’t tell a man what the owner knows,” said Sir Isaac importantly.
“They tell me more than he knows,” he said. “Your horse was favourite yesterday morning—it isn’t favourite any more, Ikey.”
“I can’t control the investments of silly asses,” grumbled Sir Isaac.
“Except one,” said the earl rudely. “But these silly asses you refer to do not throw their money away—remember that, Ikey. When you have had as much racing as I have had, and won as much money as I have won, you’ll take no notice of what owners think of their horses. You might as well ask a mother to give a candid opinion of her own daughter’s charms as to ask an owner for unbiased information about his own horse.”
The train had slipped through the grimy purlieus of London and was now speeding through green fields to Hatfield. It was a glorious spring day, mellow with sunlight: such a day as a man at peace with the world might live with complete enjoyment.
Sir Isaac was not in this happy position, nor was he in a mood to discuss either the probity of racing men or the general question of the sport itself.
He observed with an inward curse the girl rise and walk, apparently carelessly, into the corridor. He could have sworn he heard a tap at the window of the next compartment, but in this, of course, he was wrong. She merely moved across the vision of the little coterie who sat laughing and talking, and in an instant Horace had come out.
“It is not my fault this, really,” she greeted him, with a little flush in her cheeks. “It was uncle’s idea.”
“Your uncle is an admirable old gentleman,” said Horace fervently. “I retract anything I may have said to his discredit.”
“I will tell him,” she said, with mock gravity.
“No, no,” cried Horace, “I don’t want you to do that exactly.”
“I want to talk to you seriously,” said she suddenly. “Come into our compartment. Uncle and Sir Isaac are so busy discussing the merits of Timbolino—is that the right name?” He nodded, his lips twitching with amusement.
“That they won’t notice anything we have to say,” she concluded.
The old earl gave him a curt nod. Sir Isaac only vouchsafed a scowl. It was difficult to maintain anything like a confidential character in their conversation, but by manoeuvring so that they spoke only of the more important things when Sir Isaac and his truculent guest were at the most heated point of their argument, she was
