“Have you backed Timbolino?”
“Don’t ask impertinent questions,” said the earl curtly. “And unnecessary questions,” he went on. “You know infernally well I’ve backed Timbolino. Don’t you believe me? I’ve backed it and I’m afraid I’m not going to win.”
“Afraid?”
Whatever faults the old man had, Horace knew him for a good loser.
The earl nodded.
He was not amused now. He had dropped like a cloak the assumption of that little unpleasant leering attitude. He was, Horace saw for the first time, a singularly good-looking old man. The firm lines of the mouth were straight, and the pale face, in repose, looked a little sad.
“Yes, I’m afraid,” he said. His voice was even and without the bitter quality of cynicism which was his everlasting pose.
“This race makes a lot of difference to some people. It doesn’t affect me very much,” he said, and the corner of his mouth twitched a little. “But there are people,” he went on seriously, “to whom this race makes a difference between life and death.” There was a sudden return to his usual abrupt manner. “Eh? How does that strike you for good melodrama, Mr. Gresham?”
Horace shook his head in bewilderment.
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you at all, Lord Verlond.”
“You may follow me in another way,” said the earl briskly. “Here is my car. Good morning.”
Horace watched him out of sight and then made his way to the racecourse.
The old man had puzzled him not a little. He bore, as Horace knew, a reputation which, if not unsavoury, was at least unpleasant. He was credited with having the most malicious tongue in London. But when Horace came to think, as he did, walking along the banks of the river on his way to the course, there was little that the old man had ever said which would injure or hurt innocent people. His cynicism was in the main directed against his own class, his savageness most manifested against notorious sinners. Men like Sir Isaac Tramber felt the lash of his tongue.
His treatment of his heir was, of course, inexcusable. The earl himself never excused it; he persistently avoided the subject, and it would be a bold man who would dare to raise so unpleasant a topic against the earl’s wishes.
He was known to be extraordinarily wealthy, and Horace Gresham had reason for congratulating himself that he had been specially blessed with this world’s goods. Otherwise his prospects would not have been of the brightest. That he was himself enormously rich precluded any suggestion (and the suggestion would have been inevitable) that he hunted Lady Mary’s fortune. It was a matter of supreme indifference to himself whether she inherited the Verlond millions or whether she came to him empty-handed.
There were other people in Lincoln that day who did not take so philosophical a view of the situation.
Sir Isaac had driven straight to the house on the hill leading to the Minster, which Black had engaged for two days. He was in a very bad temper when at last he reached his destination. Black was sitting at lunch.
Black looked up as the other entered. “Hullo, Ikey,” he said, “come and sit down.”
Sir Isaac looked at the menu with some disfavour.
“Thanks,” he said shortly, “I’ve lunched on the train. I want to talk to you.”
“Talk away,” said Black, helping himself to another cutlet. He was a good trencherman—a man who found exquisite enjoyment in his meals.
“Look here. Black,” said Isaac, “things are pretty desperate. Unless that infernal horse of mine wins today I shall not know what to do for money.”
“I know one thing you won’t be able to do,” said Black coolly, “and that is, come to me. I am in as great straits as you.”
He pushed back his plate and took a cigar-case from his pocket.
“What do we stand to win on this Timbolino of yours?”
“About £25,000,” said Sir Isaac moodily. “I don’t know if the infernal thing will win. It would be just my luck if it doesn’t. I am afraid of this horse of Gresham’s.”
Black laughed softly.
“That’s a new fear of yours,” he said. “I don’t remember having heard it before.”
“It’s no laughing matter,” said the other. “I had my trainer, Tubbs, down watching her work. She is immensely fast. The only thing is whether she can stay the distance.”
“Can’t she be got at?” asked Black.
“Got at!” said the other impatiently. “The race will be run in three hours’ time! Where do you get your idea of racing from?” he asked irritably. “You can’t poison horses at three hours’ notice. You can’t even poison them at three days’ notice, unless you’ve got the trainer in with you. And trainers of that kind only live in novels.”
Black was carefully cutting the end of his cigar.
“So if your horse loses we shall be in High Street, Hellboro’?” he reflected. “I have backed it to save my life.” He said this in grim earnest.
He rang a bell. The servant came in.
“Tell them to bring round the carriage,” he said. He looked at his watch. “I am not particularly keen on racing, but I think I shall enjoy this day in the open. It gives one a chance of thinking.”
XII
The Race
The curious ring on the Carholme was crowded. Unusually interested in the Lincoln handicap was the sporting world, and this, together with the glorious weather, had drawn sportsmen from north and south to meet together on this great festival of English racing.
Train and steamer had brought the Wanderers back to the fold. There were men with a tan of Egypt on their cheeks, men who had been to the south to avoid the vigorous and searching tests of an English winter; there were men who came from Monte Carlo, and lean, brown men who had spent the dark days of the year amongst the snows of the Alps.
There were regular
