The boy on Nemesis had her well balanced. He did not drive her out. He seemed content to wait those three lengths in the rear. Gresham, watching them through his glasses, nodded his approval.
“They’re going no pace,” he said to the man at his side. “She was farther behind at this point in the race itself.”
Both horses were running smoothly. At the five-furlong post the lad on Nemesis let the filly out just a little. Without any apparent effort she improved her position. The jockey knew now exactly what were his resources and he was content to wait behind. The rest of the race needs very little description. It was a procession until they had reached the distance. Then the boy on Timbolino looked round.
“He’s beaten,” said Gresham, half to himself. He knew that some jockeys looked round when they felt their mount failing under them.
Two hundred yards from the post Nemesis, with scarcely an effort, drew level with the leader. Out came the other jockey’s whip. One, two, he landed his mount, and the horse went ahead till he was a neck in front. Then, coming up with one long run, Nemesis first drew up, then passed the fast-stopping Timbolino, and won with consummate ease by a length and a half.
Sir Isaac could not believe his eyes. He gasped, dropped his glasses, and stared at the horses in amazement. It was obvious that he was beaten long before the winning-post was reached.
“He’s pulling the horse,” he cried, beside himself with rage and chagrin. “Look at him! I’ll have him before the stewards. He is not riding the horse!”
Black’s hand closed on his arm. “Drop it, you fool,” he muttered. “Are you going to give away the fact that you are broke to the world before all these people? You’re beaten fairly enough. I’ve lost as much as you have. Get out of this.”
Sir Isaac Tramber went down the stairs of the grandstand in the midst of a throng of people, all talking at once in different keys. He was dazed. He was more like a man in a dream. He could not realize what it meant to him. He was stunned, bewildered. All that he knew was that Timbolino had lost. He had a vague idea at the back of his mind that he was a ruined man, and only a faint ray of hope that Black would in some mysterious way get him out of his trouble.
“The horse was pulled,” he repeated dully. “He couldn’t have lost. Black, wasn’t it pulled?”
“Shut up,” snarled the other. “You’re going to get yourself into pretty bad trouble unless you control that tongue of yours.” He got the shaking man away from the course and put a stiff glass of brandy and water in his hand. The baronet awoke to his tragic position.
“I can’t pay, Black,” he wailed. “I can’t pay—what an awful business for me. What a fool I was to take your advice—what a fool! Curse you, you were standing in with Gresham. Why did you advise me? What did you make out of it?”
“Dry up,” said Black shortly. “You’re like a babe, Ikey. What are you worrying about? I’ve told you I’ve lost as much money as you. Now we’ve got to sit down and think out a plan for making money. What have you lost?”
Sir Isaac shook his head weakly.
“I don’t know,” he said listlessly. “Six or seven thousand pounds. I haven’t got six or seven thousand pence,” he added plaintively. “It’s a pretty bad business for me, Black. A man in my position—I shall have to sell off my horses—”
“Your position!” Black laughed harshly. “My dear good chap, I shouldn’t let that worry you. Your reputation,” he went on. “You’re living in a fool’s paradise, my man,” he said with savage banter. “Why, you’ve no more reputation than I have. Who cares whether you pay your debts of honour or whether you don’t? It would surprise people more if you paid than if you defaulted. Get all that nonsense out of your head and think sensibly. You will make all you’ve lost and much more. You’ve got to marry—and quick, and then she’s got to inherit my lord’s money, almost as quickly.”
Ikey looked at him in despairing amazement.
“Even if she married me,” he said pettishly, “I should have to wait years for the money.”
Colonel Black smiled.
They were moving off the course when they were overtaken by a man, who touched the baronet on the arm.
“Excuse me. Sir Isaac,” he said, and handed him an envelope.
“For me?” asked Ikey wonderingly, and opened the envelope. There was no letter—only a slip of paper and four banknotes for a thousand pounds each.
Sir Isaac gasped and read—
“Pay your debts and live cleanly; avoid Black like the devil and work for your living.”
The writing was disguised, but the language was obviously Lord Verlond’s.
XIII
Who Are the Four?
Lord Verlond sat at breakfast behind an open copy of The Times. Breakfast was ever an unsociable meal at Verlond House. Lady Mary, in her neat morning dress, was content to read her letters and her papers without expecting conversation from the old man.
He looked across at her. His face was thoughtful. In repose she had always thought it rather fine, and now his grave eyes were watching her with an expression she did not remember having seen before.
“Mary,” he asked abruptly, “are you prepared for a shock?”
She smiled, though somewhat uneasily. These shocks were often literal facts.
“I think I can survive it,” she said.
There was a long pause, during which his eyes did not leave her face.
“Would you be startled to know that that young demon of a brother of yours is still alive?”
“Alive!” she exclaimed, starting to her feet.
There was no need for the old man to ask exactly how she viewed the news. Her face was flushed with pleasure—joy shone in her eyes.
“Oh, is it really true?” she cried.
“It’s true enough,”
