Mortimer broke from his friend, and with quick steps reached the trainer's side.

"I want to find Alan Porter," he said, in answer to Gaynor's surprised salutation.

"He was in the paddock a bit ago," answered Mike; "he moight be there still."

Almost involuntarily Mortimer, as he talked, had edged back toward his friend of disconsolate raggedness.

"I wanted to go in there—I'd like to go now to find him, but they won't let me through the gate."

"No more they will," answered Mike, with untruthful readiness, for all at once it occurred to him that if Mortimer got to the paddock he might run up against Allis and recognize her.

"De gent could buy a badge and get in," volunteered Old Bill.

The lid of Mike's right eye drooped like the slide of a lantern, as he answered: "He couldn't get wan now—it's too late; just wait ye here, sir, and if the b'y's there wit' the nags, I'll sind him out."

Old Bill made no comment upon Mike's diplomatic misstatement anent the badge, for he had observed the wink, and held true to the masonry which exists between race-course regulars.

"Yes, please send him out then, Mr. Gaynor; it's important."

"I'm in a hurry meself," said Mike; "I just come out fer a minute; see here," and he nodded his head sideways to Mortimer. The latter walked by his side for a few steps.

"Who's that guy?" asked the Trainer.

"I don't know; he calls himself Old Bill."

"Well, ye best look out—he looks purty tough. What's he playin' ye fer?"

"He advised me to bet money on Lauzanne."

"The divil he did! What th' yellow moon does he know about the Chestnut; did ye back him?"

"Not yet."

"Are ye goin' to?"

"I don't know. Do you think Lauzanne might come in first?"

A slight smile relaxed the habitually drawn muscles of Mike's grim visage; it was moons since he had heard anybody talk of a horse "coming in first;" he was indeed a green bettor, this, young man of the counting house. What was he doing there betting at all, Mike wondered. It must be because of his interest in the girl, his reason answered.

"I tink he'll win if he does his best for her."

"Does his best for who?"

Mike got to cover; his ungoverned tongue was always playing him tricks.

"Miss Allis is managin' the horses," he explained, very deliberately, "an' there's a new b'y up on Lauzanne's back, d'ye onderstand; an' if the Chestnut doesn't sulk, does his best fer the young misthress that'll be watchin' him here in the stand wit' tears in her eyes, he moight win—d'ye onderstand?"

Yes, Mortimer understood; it seemed quite clear, for Mike had been to some pains to cover up the slip he had made.

"Now I must go," he continued; "an' ye needn't come in the paddock—if the b'y is there, I'll sind him out."

When Alan's seeker returned to Old Bill, he said, "Mr. Gaynor thinks your choice might come in first."

"Why was Irish steerin' you clear of de paddock?" asked the other.

"I suppose it was to save me the expense of buying a ticket for it."

The other man said nothing further, but the remembrance of Mike's wink convinced him that this was not the sole reason.

They waited for young Porter's appearance, but he did not come. "The geezer yer waitin' fer is not in dere or he'd a-showed up," said Old Bill; "an' if yer goin' to take de tip, we'd better skip to de ring an' see what's doin'."

Mortimer had once visited the stock exchange in New York. He could not help but think how like unto it was the betting ring with its horde of pushing, struggling humans, as he wormed his way in, following close on Old Bill's heels. There was a sort of mechanical aptness in his leader's way of displacing men in his path. Mortimer realized that but for his guide he never would have penetrated beyond the outer shell of the buzzing hive. Even then he hoped that he might, by the direction of chance, see Alan Porter. The issue at stake, and the prospect of its solution through his unwonted betting endeavor, was dispelling his inherent antipathy to gambling; he was becoming like one drunken with the glamour of a new delight; his continued desire to discover young Porter was more a rendering of tithes to his former god of chastity which he was about to shatter.

Two days before betting on horse races was a crime of indecent enormity; now it seemed absolutely excusable, justified, almost something to be eagerly approved of. Their ingress, though strenuous, was devoid of rapidity; so, beyond much bracing of muscles, there was little to take cognizance of except his own mental transformation. Once he had known a minister, a very good man indeed, who had been forced into a fight. The clergyman had acted his unwilling part with such muscular enthusiasm that his brutish opponent had been reduced to the lethargic condition of inanimate pulp. Mortimer compared his present exploit with that of his friend, the clergyman; he felt that he was very much in the same boat. He was eager to have the bet made and get out into the less congested air; his companions of the betting ring were not men to tarry among in the way of moral recreation.

The mob agitated itself in waves; sometimes he and Old Bill were carried almost across the building by the wash of the living tide as it set in that direction; then an undertow would sweep them back again close to their starting point. The individual members of the throng were certainly possessed of innumerable elbows, and large jointed knees, and boots that were forever raking at his heels or his corns. They seemed taller, too, than men in the open; strive as he might he could see nothing—nothing but heads that topped him in every direction. Once the proud possessor of a dreadful cigar of unrivaled odor became sandwiched between him and his fellow-pilgrim; he was down wind from the weed and its worker, and the result was all but asphyxiation.

At last they reached some sort of a harbor; it was evidently an inlet for which his pilot had been sailing. A much composed man in a tweed suit, across which screamed lines of gaudy color, sat on a camp stool, with a weary, tolerant look on his browned face; in his hand was a card on which was penciled the names of the Derby runners with their commercial standing in the betting mart.

Old Bill craned his neck over the shoulder of the sitting man, scanned the book, and turning to Mortimer said, "Larcen's nine to one now; dey're cuttin' him—wish I'd took tens; let's go down de line."

They pushed out into the sea again, and were buffeted of the human waves; from time to time Old Bill anchored for a few seconds in the tiny harbor which surrounded each bookmaker; but it was as though they were all in league—the same odds on every list.

"It's same as a 'sociation book," he grunted; "de cut holds in every blasted one of 'em. Here's Jakey Faust," he added, suddenly; "let's try him."

"What price's Laxcen?" he asked of the fat bookmaker.

"What race is he in?" questioned the penciler.

"Din race; what you givin' me!"

"Don't know the horse."

Mortimer interposed. "The gentleman means Lauzanne," he explained.

Faust glared in the speaker's face. "Why th' 'll don't he talk English then; I'm no Chinaman, or a mind reader, to guess what he wants. Lauzanne is nine to one; how much dye want?"

"Lay me ten?" asked Old Bill of the bookmaker.

"To how much?"

"A hun'red; an' me frien' wants a hun'red on, too."

"I'll do it," declared Faust, impatiently. "Ten hundred to one, Lauzanne!" he called over his shoulder to his clerk, taking the bettor's money; "an' the number is—?"

"Twenty-five, tree-four-six!" answered Old Bill. "Pass him yer dust," he continued, turning to his companion.

The latter handed his money to Faust.

"Lauzanne!" advised Old Bill.

"A thousand-to-hundred-Lauzanne, win; an' the number is" he stretched out his hand, and turning over Mortimer's dangling badge, read aloud, "Twenty-five, three-five-seven."

He took a sharp look at the two men; his practised eye told him they were not plungers, more of the class that usually bet ten dollars at the outside; they were evidently betting on information; two one-hundred-dollar bets coming together on Lauzanne probably meant stable money.

"Let's git out, mister," cried Old Bill, clutching Mortimer's arm.

"Don't I get anything—a receipt, or—"

Faust heard this and laughed derisively. "You won't need nothin' to show for this money," he said.

"We'll be roun' at de back in a few minutes fer a couple of t'ou'," retorted Old Bill. "Let's cut trough here," he added to his companion, making a passage between the bookmakers.

Bill's knowledge of the local geography was good, and skirting the crowd they were soon out on the lawn.

"Let's watch de parade," Mortimer's adjutant suggested, and he led the way down to the course, where they stood against the rail, waiting.



XXXV

During this time there was a bustle of much interest in the paddock. Allis, ready dressed in the Porter colors, had been driven to the course half an hour before the time set for the Derby. Her face was as satisfactorily disguised with dust as though she had ridden three races.

Mike assiduously attended to every detail; even the weighing, thanks to his officious care, was a matter of not more than one minute. The girl's weight was one hundred and ten pounds, the saddle brought it up to one hundred and thirteen. She would have to ride at least two pounds overweight, for the horse's impost was one hundred and eleven. Lauzanne was being led in a circle by a boy, so Allis shielded herself from the general gaze in his empty stall. She felt quite sure that nobody there would recognize her, unless, perhaps, Philip Crane. He was rarely seen in the paddock, but might this day come out to view The Dutchman. The latter horse came in for a great deal of attention, for he had been steadily backed down to the position of equal favorite with White Moth.

At last there was the summons to saddle, and Lauzanne was brought into the stall by Dixon. Then the door was shrouded by an ever-changing semicircle of curious observers. Allis gave a little start and turned her head away as Crane, pushing through the others, stood just inside the stall and spoke to Dixon.

"Your horse looks very well; I hope you win, if I don't."

"He's as good as we could make him," answered the Trainer, as he adjusted the weight cloth.

"Is Miss Porter here?" were Crane's next words, quite in the tone of a casually interested friend.

"She may be in the stand," Dixon answered, without turning his head. Mike had deliberately interposed his body between Allis and the doorway. To the girl's relief, without further comment, Crane quietly moved away.

"Excuse me, Al, fer standin' in front av ye," said Mike, "but these outsiders is enough to make a b'y narvous the way they stare at him. Alan Porter was in the paddock a minute ago askin' fer his sister, but I hustled him out, telling him ye—I mean she—was in the stand."

"Thank you, Mike; you're a good friend," replied the girl, gratefully.

Dixon had never taken so much care over the preparation of a horse for a race in all his life; and at last everything was as perfect as it could possibly be made. Lauzanne's behavior gladdened the girl's heart; he was as supremely indifferent to the saddling, to the staring of the people, to the scent of battle that was in the soft summer air, as though he were in his own stable at home. Not a muscle of his huge flank trembled. Once, as the bridle rein was loosened for an instant, he half turned in the stall, curved his neck and stretched his golden nozzle toward the small figure in blue silk, as though he fain would make sure by scent that one of his natural enemies, a man jockey, had not been thrust upon him. Allis understood this questioning movement, and reaching out her hand rubbed the gray velvet of his nose. But for the restraining rein, tightened quickly by the boy who held him, Lauzanne would have snuggled his head against his little mistress.

"They understand each other," said Dixon to Mike, in an undertone; "we'll get all that's in him this trip."

"Bot' t'umbs up! if he doesn't come home alone I'll eat me hat. The sharks'll get a knock this journey, that'll make 'em take a tumble to themselves."

Dixon stepped back to the corner where Allis was and said: "I guess I can't give you no orders. He's a bit sluggish at the post, an' a few false breaks won't hurt him none. Just don't be afraid, that's all. A mile an' a half's a long journey, an' you'll have plenty of time to take their measure. He's sure to get away last, but that won't matter; there'll be plenty of openin's to get through after you've gone a mile. Just keep your eye on The Dutchman—he's a stayer from 'way back; an' Westley may kid you that he's beat comin' up the stretch, for he's slick as they make them, an' then come with a rattle at the finish an' nose you out on the post. Don't never let up once you're into the stretch; if you're ten lengths ahead don't let the Chestnut down, but keep a good holt on him, an' finish as though they was all lapped on your quarter. There's a horse in the race I don't understand; he can no more get a mile an' a half than I could; it's the Indian, an' why they're puttin' up the startin' price beats me, unless"—and he lowered his voice to a whisper—"there's a job to carry Lauzanne, or White Moth, or somethin' off their feet. Just watch the Indian, an' don't let him shut you in on the rail if you can help it. They've put up Redpath, an' that beats me, too, for I think he's straight. But the Indian hasn't a ghost of a chance to win. You'd better take a whip."

"I don't want either whip or spurs," answered the girl. "Lauzanne will do better without them."

"I know that, but take a whip—something else in the race might need it; an' if you have to use it, use it good an' strong. If Langdon lodges an objection I can make him quit."

Over at The Dutchman's stall there was a very confident party. Their horse would go to the post as fit as any thoroughbred had ever stripped. Langdon was a great trainer—there was no doubt about that; if there had been Crane would have discovered it and changed his executive officer. The tall son of Hanover was lean of flesh, but gross in muscle. He was as though an Angelo had chiseled with sure hand from his neck, and ribs, and buttocks all the marble of useless waste, and left untouched in sinewy beauty layer on layer, each muscle, and thew, and cord. Flat-boned and wide the black-glossed legs, and over the corded form a silken skin of dull fire-red. From the big eyes gleamed an expectant delight of the struggle; not sluggishly indifferent, as was Lauzanne's, but knowing of the fray and joyous in its welcome.

"He'll win on a tight rein," confided Langdon to Jockey Westley; "he's the greatest Hanover in the land. There's a dozen races bottled up in that carcass"—and he slapped the big Bay lovingly on the rump"—but if you're put to it, Bill, you can call on him fer the full dozen today. There's nothin' to it but yourself and White Moth."

Carelessly he stepped to the back of the stall, touching Westley as he passed. Kicking the loose dirt with his toes, and bending his head to bury his voice, Langdon continued in a subdued tone: "The Indian'll cut out the pace so fast that it'll choke off Lauzanne. The Chestnut's a plugger an' ain't no good when it comes to gallopin'. If you was to all loaf aroun' he might hang on an' finish in front; but the pace'll kill him—it'll break his heart; the fast goin'll lay out White Moth, too, for she'll go to the front an' die away after a mile an' a quarter. Just nurse the Bay, an' let the others fight the Indian. But don't loaf an' let Lauzanne get near you, fer he can keep up a puddlin' gait all day. There ain't nothin' else in the race I'm afraid of; there ain't one of them can last a mile an' a half." Then he added, with a disagreeable chuckle—it was like the slobbering laugh of a hyena—"I miss my guess if the boy on Lauzanne kills himself tryin' to win anyway. He seems a fair lad, but you can ride rings 'round him, Bill."

"I'll put up a good ride on The Dutchman, an' I think we'll ketch the Judge's eye," replied Westley. "It doesn't seem to stand for it that a stable-boy on a bad horse like Lauzanne is goin' to beat me out."

"The boss says you're to have two thousand fer winnin', Westley, so don't make no mistake. I wasn't goin' to tell you this afore you went out, fer fear it'd make you too eager. Many a race's been thrown away by a boy bein' too keen, an' makin' his run too early in the game; but you've a good head and might as well know what you're to have. There's the bugle; get up."

Eager hands stripped the blanket that had been thrown over The Dutchman; Westley was lifted into the saddle, and the gallant Bay led out by Langdon.

In front strode White Moth; one by one the others, and last, seventh, Allis's fatal number, lagged Lauzanne, lazily loafing along as though he regretted leaving the stall.

As the horses passed to the course, Crane, who had followed The Dutchman to the gate, raised his eyes from scanning Lauzanne to the rider on his back. It was just a look of languid interest in the apprentice boy Dixon had put up instead of such a good jockey as Redpath. The face rivetted his attention; something in the line of the cheek recalled a face he had constantly in view.

"For an instant I thought that was Alan Porter on Lauzanne," he said to Langdon, who was at his elbow. "A strange fancy—I'm going up to the stand to watch the race:"

"It's all roight but the win now," said Mike to Dixon. "I'm goin' in be the Judges' box to watch the finish. You'll be helpin' the b'y pass the scales, Andy."

As Allis passed the Judges' Stand in the parade she cast a quick, furtive look toward the people on the lawn. She seemed pilloried on an eminence, lifted up in pitiless prominence; would anyone detect her at the last moment? Hanging over the rail in the very front she saw a pale face that struck a chill of fear to her heart—it was Mortimer's. She had not even thought of his being there. She had eluded the close scrutiny of all the others who were likely to recognize her, but there, within ten yards were eyes almost certain to penetrate her disguise. The girl turned her face away; she knew Mortimer well enough to think that if he did recognize her he would make no sign.

"That's our horse," declared Old Bill, as Lauzanne passed. "He's all right, bet yer life; he's fit ter go all day. De geezer as trains him ain't no mug. Let's go up in de stand, where we can see de whole show; den we'll come down an' cash in. Say, pard, if dis goes through I'll blow you off to a bottle of de best; wine ain't none too good fer dis coop."

Altogether it was as though Destiny had found pleasant domicile in the ancient clothing of Old Bill, and was using their unique wearer as a protective agent to ward off evil from both Mortimer and the girl. As they jogged toward the starting post Allis allowed Lauzanne to lag; she wished to avoid Redpath. But the Indian was a horse of uncertain temperament, and presently, with a foolish side rush, he cannoned fair into Lauzanne. In the melee Redpath looked full into Allis's eyes at short range. His face went white in an instant.

"You!" he cried, pulling hard at his horse's mouth; "it's you, Miss—" He stopped suddenly. "God! I'm glad I know this," he jerked between set teeth, as he fought the Indian, who was nearly pulling him out of the saddle.

"It's because he'll gallop for you, isn't it? You didn't think I was a wrong one—it wasn't because you couldn't trust me you took the mount away, was it?"

The Indian, quieted by the sleepy Chestnut, was going steadier. "No; it's because Lauzanne won't give his running for anyone but me," the girl answered.

The boy remained silent, thinking over why he was on the Indian. There was a moral obliquity about his present position; the new light of his discovery showed him this strongly. His feelings had been played upon by the owner of the Indian, at Langdon's instigation.

He had been told that the Porters had not given him the mount on Lauzanne because they distrusted him. He had been put on the horse to make running for The Dutchman. There was nothing really patently dishonest about this arrangement, and Redpath's mind had been dulled to fine discrimination by the idea that he was falsely distrusted.

Presently the boy spoke with sharp decision, in quick broken sentences, for they were nearing the Starter. "I'm in to make the running; this crock's got no license to win. Don't you bother about him—he'll come back to the others fast enough when he's done. When you want an opening to get through just come bang into me—I'll be next the rail; yell 'Lauzanne,' an' I'll pull out. I'll give them blasted crooks something to stare at. Don't gallop your mount's head off chasing this sprinter; he'll be beat when we swing into the stretch. Don't go wide at the turn; you can have my place; I'll make it wide for something else though."

They were at the post. Allis had not spoken; she had listened gratefully to Redpath's string of kindly directions. The presence of a friend in the race cheered her; the discovery she had dreaded had come as a blessing.



XXXVI

Crane's words had started a train of thought in Langdon's mind. All at once he remembered that the face of Lauzanne's rider had a dream-like familiarity. He had not given it much thought before; but his owner's suggestion that the boy was like Alan Porter echoed in his ears. He had wondered where Dixon had got this new boy; why he was putting him up on Lauzanne instead of Redpath; it seemed a foolish thing to give the mount to an apprentice when a good jockey was to be had. Could it be that it really was Alan. The whole family were natural-born jockeys, father and son, even the girl, Allis.

Langdon knew nothing of Alan Porter's movements—had not been interested enough to know. He had heard derogatory remarks about Redpath's riding of Lucretia in the Brooklyn Handicap; the Porters, no doubt dissatisfied—suspicious of the jockey—had put up Alan to insure an honest ride.

Langdon had thought these thoughts as he passed swiftly from the paddock to the stand inclosure, where he stood not far from the rail, trying to get a good look at the lad on Lauzanne. Allis's persistently averted face thwarted this. The boy was inscribed on the jockey board "Al Mayne;" the permit to ride must be under that name. If it were really Alan Porter, why had he been called Mayne? But the boy had retained the name "Al"—that was a contraction of Alan, no doubt.

While Langdon labored over the problem of Mayne's Identity he had watched the horses at the post through his glasses. The Dutchman was behaving well, his trifle of eagerness to break away was even better than Lauzanne's indolent indifference. The other five were acting as three-year-olds are wont to act—with erratic indecision; one minute violent desire, and the next obstinate reluctance characterizing their interminable twistings, backings, and plungings. It was not for long; a neck or a length at the start meant little when a mile and a half stretched its tiring length between them and the finish post.

Langdon's perplexity was cut short by the cry, "They're off!" the jingle of a bell, and the scurrying of many feet, as eager men rushed for higher points of observation in the stand.

As the seven horses came thundering by, pulling double in eager ignorance of the long journey that lay before them, Langdon saw with evil satisfaction that the Indian was well out in the lead.

The Dutchman was sixth, and behind, with a short awkward strength in his gallop, loafed Lauzanne.

There was smoothness in the stride of Hanover's big son, The Dutchman; and his trainer, as he watched him swing with strong grace around the first turn, mentally fingered the ten thousand dollars that would shortly be his.

"That skate win!" he sneered, as Lauzanne followed; "he gallops like a fat pig. He can't live the pace—he can't live the pace," he repeated, and his voice was mellow with a cheerful exultation.

His observations seemed eminently truthful; Allis's horse trailed farther and farther behind the others. Out in front galloped with unseeming haste the Indian—a brown blotch of swift-gliding color. Two lengths from his glinting heels raced four horses in a bunch—two bays, a gray, and a black; so close together that they formed a small mosaic of mottled hue against the drab-gray background of the course stables beyond. Then The Dutchman, with his powerful stride, full of easy motion—a tireless gallop that would surely land him the winner, Langdon thought, as he hung with breathless interest on every move of Westley's body.

Up in the stand Old Bill was expressing in florid racetrack speech to Mortimer his deductions.

"Days a good kid on Larcen. See what he's doin'; he's trailin' 'em. Dat's where our horse gits it; he's a stretch runner, he is. Dey'll have bellows to mend when he tackles 'em."

To Mortimer it appeared very much as though the other horses were too fast for Lauzanne. "Isn't he losing?" he asked of his exuberant friend.

"Losin' nut'in'! De kid ain't moved on him yet. De others is gallopin' der heads off; dey're chasm' de crazy skate in front. Dere's only two jocks in de race worth a damn—Bill Westley an' de kid on our horse. He knows he's got to beat Dutchy, an' he's lyin' handy by. When you see Dutchy move up Larcen'll come away, or I'm a goat."

Mike Gaynor had taken his place on the little platform at the top of the steps leading to the stand. He was watching the race with intense interest. Would Lauzanne do his best for the girl—or would he sulk? He saw the terrific pace that the Indian had set the others. Would it discourage their horse. His judgment told him that this fast pace could not last, and that Lauzanne could gallop as he was going from end to end of the mile and a half; even faster if he so wished. Would his rider have the patient steadiness of nerve to wait for this fulfillment of the inevitable or would she become rattled and urge the horse. Mike set his teeth, and his nails were driven hard into his rough palms as he strained in sympathy with the girl's quietude.

How long the Indian held on in his mad lead! Perhaps even he might upset all clever calculation and last long enough to win. Already the gray, White Moth, had drawn out from the bunch and was second; the other three were dropping back in straggling order to The Dutchman, who was still running as he had been, strong. That was at the mile. At the mile and an eighth, White Moth was at the Indian's heels; The Dutchman had moved up into third place, two lengths away; and Lauzanne had become merged in the three that were already beaten. At the mile and a quarter a half thrill of hope came to Mike, for Lauzanne was clear of the ruck, and surely gaining on the leaders. And still his rider was lying low on the withers, just a blue blur on the dark gold of the Chestnut.

"Bot' t'umbs! but they're a pair," muttered the Irishman; "be me soul, I t'ink they'll win."

At the bottom turn into the stretch Mike could see that White Moth and The Dutchman had closed up on the Indian, so that they swung around the corner as one horse.

"Gad, she's shut off!" he muttered. It was a living wall, and through little chinks in its quivering face he could see specks of blue close up where raced Lauzanne.

"Poor gurl!" he gasped, "they've got her in a pocket. Damn them b'ys. Why did she hug the rail—she's fair t'rowed away the last chance."

Halfway up the steps stood Langdon, and his coarse, evil face took on a look of unholy joy as Lauzanne was blotted into oblivion by the horses in front.

"Pocketed, by God! Clever Mister Dixon to put up a kid like that ag'in Westley an' the others," he sneered.

Then a deafening roar went up from the stand. Somebody thrust a pair of broad shoulders in front of Mike's face; he leaned out far past the intruder, and saw the Indian sway drunkenly in his stride away from the rail, carrying White Moth and The Dutchman out; and into the opening he had left, glued to the rail, crept the chestnut form of Lauzanne.

A wild yell of Irish joy escaped Mike; then he waited. Now it would be a race; but Lauzanne was trying, trying all by himself, for the rider was as still as death. Already the clamor of many voices was splitting the air; all over the stand it was, "The favorite wins! The Dutchman wins!" Even yet there was no beckoning call for Lauzanne; but Mike knew. He had said to Allis before she went out, "If ye ever get level wit' 'em in the straight, ye can win."

And now Lauzanne's yellow head was even with the others; and soon it was in front. And then there were only two battling—Lauzanne and The Dutchman; and on the Bay, Westley was riding with whip and spur.

"In a walk—in a walk, I tell you!" fairly screamed Old Bill, clutching at Mortimer's arm; "didn't I tell you? We're a tousand to de good. Look at him, look at him!" He had climbed halfway up Mortimer's strong back in his excitement. "Look at de kid! Never moved—in a walk, in a walk! Larcen all the way for a million!"

His voice generally weak and tattered like his clothes; had risen to a shrill scream of exultation.

It was past all doubt. Lauzanne, a length in front of The Dutchman, was opposite the stand; in two seconds they had flashed by the Judges' box, and Lauzanne had won.

The wave of humanity that swept down the steps carried Mike in its front wash. He took his stand close to the Judges' box; there he would be handy for whatever might be needed. He saw Langdon with a face dark and lowering, full of an evil discontent, standing there too. Back the seven runners cantered. Lauzanne's rider saluted the judge with whip, and slipping from the horse stripped him of the saddle with deft fingers, and passed quickly into the scales. The weight was right. One after another the boys weighed.

Watching, Mike saw Langdon pass up to the Stewards. There was a short consultation, the hush of something wrong, and a murmur of an objection.

"What's the matter?" a voice questioned in Mike's ear. It was Alan Porter that had spoken.

Mike pushed his way to the small gate, even through it, that led up to the Stewards' Stand. As he did so Langdon came back down the steps. One of the Stewards, following him with quick eyes, saw Mike and beckoned with a finger.

"There's an objection to the rider of Lauzanne," said the official; "Trainer Langdon says Alan Porter rode the horse under a permit belonging to a boy named Mayne."

"He's mistook, sir." answered Mike, respectfully; "there's Alan Porter standin' down there in the crowd. I'll sind him up, sir, an' ye can ask him yerself."

Gaynor passed hurriedly down the steps, seized Porter by the arm, and whispered in his ear, "Tell the judge yer name—that a b'y named Mayne rode Lauzanne. Quick now."

Then he stepped up to Langdon. The latter had seen Alan Porter go up the steps, and realized he had made a mistake. Mike drew him inside the little enclosure that surrounded the stand.

"There's Alan Porter wit' the Stewards," Gaynor whispered close to the man's face; "an' ye'll withdraw the objection at once. If ye don't ye'll have to settle wit' the Stewards fer tryin' to bribe the b'y Mayne to pull Lauzanne. And Shandy has owned up that he was to get five hundred dollars fer dosin' Lucretia. Ye'll withdraw now, or get ruled off fer life; besides, p'isinin' a horse is jail business; an' I'll take me oath before God I can prove this, too. Now go an' withdraw quick. Ye're a damn blackguard."

Mike had meant to restrict himself to diplomatic pressure, but his Irish was up like a flash, and he couldn't resist the final expression of wrath.

A crowd of silent men had gathered about the box in a breathless wait. Fortunes depended upon the brief consultation that was being held between the Stewards.

As Alan Porter came down Langdon went up the steps with nervous haste. "I've made a mistake, gentlemen," he said to the Stewards, "with your permission I'll withdraw the objection."

"Yes, it's better that way," returned one of the Stewards; "the best horse won, and that's what racing's for. It would be a pity to spoil such a grand race on a technicality."



XXXVII

After his first burst of aboriginal glee, ecstatically uncouth as it was, Old Bill's joy over the victory of Lauzanne took on a milder form of expression.

"Let's line up fer a cash-in," he exclaimed to Mortimer, making a break down the steps to the lawn. On the ground he stopped, his mind working at fever heat, changing its methods quickly.

"Let's wait till de kid's passed de scales; dere's no hurry. Dere won't be many drawin' down money over Larcen; he's an outsider."

They were still waiting when the rumor of an objection floated like an impalpable shadow of evil through the enclosure. Old Bill's seamed face shed its mask of juvenile hilarity, and furrowed back into its normal condition of disgruntled bitterness. He had seen the slight mix-up when the Indian swerved in the straight. The objection must have to do with that, he thought. "What th' 'ell's th, difference," he said in fierce, imprecating anger; "de kid on Larcen didn't do no interferin', he jes come t'rough de openin' an' won-dey can't disqualify him."

"What does it mean?" asked Mortimer; "what's wrong?"

"De push's tryin' to steal de race; de favorite's beat, an' it's win, tie, or wrangle wit' 'em. If dey take de race away from Larcen we don't get de goods, see? Our t'ou's up de spout. Dere he goes, dere he goes; look at de knocker," as Langdon came down from the Stewards.

Mortimer's heart sank. An exultation such as he had never experienced in his life had flushed his breast hot; the back of his scalp had tickled in a creepy way as Lauzanne flashed first past the winning post. He had felt pride in the horse, in the boy on his back, in himself at having overcome his scruples; he would be able to save Alan Porter from dishonor. His heart had warmed to the tattered outcast at his side, who had been the means to this glorious end. It had been all over, accomplished; now it was again thrust back into the scales, where it dangled as insecure as ever. It wasn't the money alone that teetered in the balance, but the honor of Allis Porter's brother.

He gave a sharp cry of astonishment, for going up the steps in front of them was the boy himself, Alan. Presently he came down again, his face looking drawn and perplexed. In his ignorance of everything pertaining to racing Mortimer feared for an instant the theft of the thousand dollars had been discovered, and the present inquiry had something to do with that, else why was Alan mixed up in it.

As the boy came through the little gate Mortimer accosted him. "Hello, Alan!" he exclaimed, very gently, "what's the trouble?"

"Just a silly mistake," answered Porter, a weak laugh following his words; "Langdon has claimed that I rode Lauzanne."

"Is dat it?" interposed Old Bill; "an' did you tell dem dey was wrong-de stiffs! Dere's cutt'roat Langdon up again; here he comes back, looking as tough he'd been fired fer splint—de crook! Hello! it's all right Hoo-ray! Lauzanne gits de race!" For already the cry of "All right!" was ringing through the betting ring. "Come on, pard," called Old Bill, eagerly, to Mortimer; "let's go an' rake down de dough."

"In a minute," the other answered; and turning to Alan Porter, took him by the arm and led him to one side. "I suppose you lost over The Dutchman," he said.

"Yes, I'm broke," answered the boy, with a plaintive smile.

"Well, I've won."

"You betting!" exclaimed Alan, in astonishment.

"Yes—strange, isn't it? But I'm going to put that money of your father's back."

The boy said nothing, and Mortimer fancied that his face flushed guiltily.

"Yes, I can put it back now that Lauzanne's won," continued Mortimer; "but don't say a word to a soul about it, I don't want anybody to know I was betting."

"But what money?" began Alan.

"I've won a thousand dollars on Lauzanne—"

"Come on, pard," said Old Bill, impatiently interrupting them, "let's get our rake off, an' den you kin buck to yer chum after."

Mortimer yielded to the tattered one's command, for without his guidance he never would be able to find the man that held the money.

"I'll be back in a little while," he said to young Porter; "don't go away."

There was delay over the cashing in; being late, they found a line of Lauzanne men in front of them at the bookmaker's stand.

When Mortimer returned to the lawn with eleven hundred dollars in his pocket Alan Porter had gone. He had dreaded that perhaps the boy might do something desperate, fearing discovery of the theft; he had thought even of taking Alan back to Brookfield with him; however, he had told him that the money would be replaced, the boy would understand that nothing could happen him and would go back, Mortimer felt sure. He spent a short time searching for Alan, but his former fruitless quest had shown him the hopelessness of trying to find a person in that immense throng. He thought kindly of the enveloping mob that had kept him hidden from Allis, as he thought. He had feared to meet her—something in his presence might cause her to suspect that something was wrong. The whole episode was like a fairy dream. It was a queer twist of Fate's web, his winning enough over Lauzanne—he, a man who had never betted in his life—to replace the money the brother had stolen.

All at once it occurred to him that some reward was due the instigator of his success. The thousand he must keep intact. He had a few loose dollars in his pocket beyond his original hundred, quite sufficient to take him back to Brookfield. Taking the hundred from his pocket and turning to Old Bill, who was still with him, he said: "I'm going home, I've had enough horse racing for one day; you've done me a great kindness—will you take this hundred—I need the thousand badly, so can't spare more than this."

"Not on yer life, pard. I give you de tip first, but you got de office straight from Irish, an' we're quits, see? I wasn't playin' you fer a sucker, an' yer straight goods. Jes' shove de boodle in yer breast pocket, an' don't show it to no one. Dere's some here as would take it off you quick enough."

"But—"

"Dere ain't no buts in dis game—it's a straight deal, an' we've split even. If you'd been a crook, well, God knows how we'd a-panned out. But you ain't no geezer of dat sort—yer square, an' Old Bill wishes you good luck till de robins nest again. Yer goin', eh? Say, pard, I'd a-been wearin' diamon's if I could quit when I was 'head of de game. Yer dead onto it. Here's my hand, Mr. Morton."

"Mortimer—George Mortimer."

"Well, shake, George. Where do you hang out?"

"Brookfield."

"My address is New York. Dat's as close a fit as I knows at present. If de run o' luck keeps up p'r'aps I'll write you from de Waldorf. Good-bye, of man."

With a light heart Mortimer hastened from Gravesend, not waiting for the other races, and took his way to Brookfield. A genuine admiration of buffeted Old Bill filled his mind.

In the morning he would be at the bank bright and early, and replace the stolen thousand dollars; nobody would know that it had been taken. The narrow escape that had come to Alan Porter might prove his salvation. Surely it would cure him of his desire to bet. Out of all this evil positive good would accrue.



XXXVIII

After winning on Lauzanne Allis had dodged the admiring crowd of paddock regulars that followed her. As Lauzanne was being blanketed she had kissed the horse's cheek and given him a mighty squeeze of thankfulness. How nobly he had done his part; good, dear old despised, misjudged Lauzanne. He had veritably saved her father from disaster; had saved her from—from many things.

She had slipped into her long coat and stood waiting for Mike to drive her to Dixon's cottage when the rumor came of an objection. Then there had been the misery of terrible suspense, a wait of uncertainty. Was her sacrifice of womanly instinct to go for nothing? Dixon had hurried to the scene of investigation; then he had come back after a little with Mike, and the good news that they had been given the race. If it had not been for prying eyes she would have knelt there at Lauzanne's feet and offered up a prayer of thankfulness. She had done all a woman could do, almost more; Providence had not forsaken her and her stricken father.

Then Mike had hurried her to the buggy just as Crane, leaving the beaten Dutchman and Langdon, had come, asking Dixon where Miss Porter was, that he might tender congratulations. He wanted to see the boy that had ridden Lauzanne, also—wanted to take his hand and tell him what a grand race he had ridden. But Dixon had been ready with excuses; the boy was dead beat after the race—he was only a kid—and had gone to Dixon's home. Miss Porter was perhaps in the stand, or perhaps she had gone home also. Crane knew of Langdon's objection. It was a silly thing, he said, due to overeagerness. He had taken no part in it, he assured Dixon. Alan Porter, too, came into the paddock, asking for his sister; but fared pretty much as Crane had. He would certainly find her at the cottage, Dixon assured him.

That night Allis wired the joyful tidings to her father, and that she would be home in the morning.

Dr. Rathbone's prophecy as to the proper medication for John Porter stood a chance of being fulfilled in one day. Allis's telegram proved that the doctor had understood the pathology of Porter's treatment, for he became as a cripple who had touched the garment of a magic healer.

It was thus that Allis found him when she reached Ringwood. Oh, but she was glad; and small wonder. What she had done was as nothing; it shrank into insignificance under the glamourous light of the change that had come over the home. What a magic wand was deserved success; how it touched with fairy aspect all that drooped with the fearsome blight of anticipated decay! And even then they did not know the full extent of her endeavor. Mingled with her mother's gentle welcome, and her father's full-throated thanks, was praise for the, to him unknown, boy that had ridden Lauzanne so gallantly.

The girl found tears of thankfulness glistening in her eyes as she listened to the praise that was wholly hers, though given in part to the jockey. They had not even heard his name—it had not mattered before; and now when her father asked for it, she answered that Mike called him Al something. Her father, generous in his salvation, was most solicitous as to a fitting present; a thousand dollars, or perhaps two, or even more, if Dixon advised so. What had he promised the lad? But there were so many things to talk over and settle, and laugh about, and congratulate each other upon. Good fortune was a generous dame. They were all like children in their happiness. "Yes, Alan had been there," the girl answered to a question from her father. Also it was a strange happening, a distortion of fate that Crane had beaten them in the Brooklyn with Diablo, and now they had beaten his horse, The Dutchman, with Lauzanne the Despised. All was content after the turmoil of endeavor. And of the horses, Lauzanne, who would gallop for no one but Allis, would be brought back to Ringwood, to be petted and spoiled of his young mistress for the good he had done. Lucretia, when convalescent, would also come to the farm to rest and get strong.

In the midst of it all Dr. Rathbone came in, and of course, man-like and doctor-like, with pretended pomposity, said: "I told you so. What did I say? Now Mrs. Porter, no more scolding over the ways of horses, a good horse is a delight, and a good daughter a joy forever."

Dear old Dr. Rathbone, wise in his generation and big of heart!



XXXIX

At the bank down in the village—well, at nine o'clock Mortimer, feeling the virtue of early effort, with the money of redemption in his pocket, entered into the resumption of his duties. At the earliest moment after the vault was opened he made his way to the box that contained the Porter payment. One thing troubled him slightly. It was a thousand-dollar bill that had been taken; the money he had to replace was in hundreds and fifties. As he slipped them quietly into the box he thought it wouldn't really matter; he would transfer the three thousand to the account himself, and nobody would know of the change. Leaving the box where it was for a little, in the way of subtle strategy, he came out and busied himself over other matters.

To Mortimer's slight astonishment, presently the cashier, Mr. Lane, came out from his office, and speaking somewhat carelessly, said: "Mr. Mortimer, you have that Porter note and money in charge. It is due today, isn't it?"

Looking up, Mortimer saw Lane's eye fixed upon his face with piercing intensity. He flushed out of sheer nervousness.

"Yes, sir," he stammered, "it is. I'll attend to it at once."

"Ah!" there was a peculiar drawl in the cashier's voice as he spoke; "ah, I had a communication from Mr. Porter yesterday, asking if the note had been paid."

Mortimer felt his knees shake-something was choking hire. Had the devil of mischance taken the salvation of Alan's good name out of his hands—had his work been for nothing.

"I couldn't understand it," went on the cashier. His voice sounded like the clang of a fire bell to the listening man, though it was evenly modulated, cold and steady in its methodical precision. "I thought Porter knew the money was here to meet the note," said Lane, still speaking, "but my attention being called to the matter, I looked up the papers. I found one thousand dollars missing!" He was looking steadily at Mortimer; his eyes were searching the young man's very soul. There was accusation, denunciation, abhorrence in the cashier's gaze.

Mortimer did not speak. He was trying to think. His brain worked in erratic futility. The slangy babble of Old Bill thrust itself upon him; the roar of the race course was in his ears, deadening his senses; not a sane, relevant word rose to his lips. He was like a child stricken by fear. In an indistinct way he felt the dishonor that was Alan Porter's being given to him. The cashier waited for Mortimer to say something; then he spoke again, with reproach in his voice.

"I at once sent a messenger to ask you to return from your home at Emerson to clear up this matter; he discovered that you had not been there; that your mother was not ill. May I ask where you were yesterday?"

"I was at Gravesend, sir—at the races," answered Mortimer, defiantly.

This speech broke the lethargy that was over him; his mind cleared—he commenced to think sanely.

"Can you tell me," proceeded Lane, "where the balance of Mr. Porter's three thousand dollars is?"

"It's in the box."

"That's a—it is not."

"It's in the box," repeated Mortimer, firmly.

"We can soon settle that point," declared the cashier, going hurriedly into the vault and reappearing instantly with the box in his hand.

He opened it and stared at the package of bills that rose up when freed from the pressure of the lid. With nervous fingers he counted the contents.

"I beg your pardon," he exclaimed in a quick, jerky way. "The three thousand dollars is here, but these bills have been put in the box this morning; they were not there last night. It is not the money that was taken away, either. That was one bill, a thousand-dollar note; and here are"—he counted them again—"six one hundreds and eight fifties, besides the original two of one thousand. You put those notes back, Mr. Mortimer," he said, tapping the desk with two fingers of the right hand.

"I did."

"And you took the money yesterday or the day before?"

"I did not."

"Ah!" Lane repeated in a drier, more severe tone than he had used before. This "Ah" of the cashier's, with its many gradations of tone, had been a most useful weapon in his innumerable financial battles. It could be made to mean anything—everything; flung out at haphazard it always caught his opponent off guard; it was a subtle thrust, and while one pondered over its possible meaning, Lane could formulate in his mind more decisive expressions.

"Ah," he repeated, adding, "if you did not steal the money, who did? And if you did not take it, why did you put it back?"

With an expressive sweep of the hand outward the cashier stood waiting, his tall, narrow head, topped by carefully brushed gray hair, thrust forward in the attitude of a parrot about to strike with its beak.

"I can't answer those questions," answered the man he was grilling. "The money to pay Mr. Porter's note is here; and I fancy that is all the bank needs to concern itself about. It was entrusted to me, and now I am prepared to turn it over."

"Quite true; ah, yes, quite true; but it might have been vastly different. That is the point that most concerns the bank. Whoever took the money"—and he bowed, deprecatingly, with ironical consideration to Mortimer—"must have needed a thousand dollars for—well, some speculative purpose, perhaps. Good fortune has enabled the some one to make good, and the money has been replaced."

The cashier straightened up, threw his head back, and actually smiled. He had scored linguistically—by a clever manipulation of the sentence he had made the some one who had stolen the money the some one who who had replaced it. That was accusation by inference, if you like. As the other did not speak, Lane added: "I will wire for Mr. Crane to come at once; this is a matter for investigation."

Mortimer bowed his head in acquiesence; what could he say—what other stand could the bank take?

"You might remain at your desk," the cashier said, "if there is any mistake we'll discover it, no doubt."

Mortimer felt like one dead, indeed as a dishonored man he were better dead. The bank was like a mausoleum, and he a lost spirit haunting its precincts in quest of the undefiled body that had been his but yesterday. Cass, the teller, certainly shunned him as he would a leper. Lane, vindictively pleased that he had unearthed the villain, drew his small soul into a shell of cold, studious politeness; much as a sea spider might house his unpleasant body in a discarded castle of pink and white.

Alan Porter was late—he had not come yet. Mortimer waited in suffering suspense for his appearance. What would come of it all. Now that the money was replaced, if the boy admitted his guilt to Crane, probably no further action would be taken, but he would be dishonored in the sight of his employer. Mortimer had sought to avert this; had not denounced Alan in the first instance; by good fortune had been able to replace the money; even now had refused to divulge the name of the thief. He was well aware of the mass of circumstantial evidence, the outcome of his own hurried actions, that pointed to himself as the guilty one. Better this than that he should denounce the boy. Dishonor to the lad might kill his father; for Mortimer was well aware of the doctor's edict. And Allis, the girl he loved as his life, would hang her head in shame for evermore. He was anxious to see Alan before the cashier did; he did not want the boy to deny taking the money at first, as he might do if he were unaware of the circumstances; it would place him in a wrong light.

Just before twelve Alan Porter came hurriedly in. He had missed his train the night before, he explained in a general way to all. Mortimer stepped up to him almost at once, speaking with low, earnest rapidity; the cashier was in his own office and Mr. Cass was not within earshot.

"I put the money back, but its loss had been discovered yesterday. I have been accused of taking it, but have denied it, accusing no one. I want you to say that you borrowed it, thinking it no great harm, as it was your father's money."

Alan would have interrupted him, but Mortimer said, "Wait till I finish;" and then continued: "There will be nothing done to you, I feel sure, if you will take this stand, because of your father's connection with Crane. It will save me from dishonor—"

"Mr. Porter."

It was the cashier's voice of Damascus steel cutting in on Mortimer's low, pleading tones.

Alan turned his head, and Mr. Lane, beckoning, said, "Will you step into my office for a minute?"

The cashier's one minute drew its weary length into thirty; and when Alan Porter came out again, Mortimer saw the boy sought to avoid him. Had he denied taking the money? My God! the full horror of Mortimer's hopeless position flashed upon him like the lurid light of a destroying forest fire. He could read in every line of the boy's face an accusation of himself. He had trembled when it was a question of Alan's dishonor; now that the ignominy was being thrust upon him, the bravery that he possessed in great part made him a hero. If through his endeavor to save the boy he was to shoulder the guilt, not of his own volition, but without hope of escape, he would stand to it like a man. What would it profit him to denounce the boy.

Harking back with rapidity over his actions, and Alan's, he saw that everything implicated him. Once he thought of his mother and wavered; but she would believe him if he said he had not committed this dreadful crime. But all the world of Brookfield would despise the name of her son if it were thought that he had sought to testify falsely against his friend. And was not Alan the brother of Allis?

Mentally his argument, his analysis of the proper course to pursue was tortuous, not definable, or to be explained in concise phraseology; but the one thought that rose paramount over all others was, that he must take his iniquitous punishment like a man. He had fought so strongly to shield the brother of the girl he loved that the cause in all its degradation had accrued to him.

At one o'clock the president, Crane, arrived from New York, and in him was bitterness because of his yesterday's defeat. He had sat nearly the whole night through mentally submerged in the double happening that had swept many men from the chess board. Lauzanne, the despised, had kept from his hand a small fortune, even when his fingers seemed tightening on the coin, too. That was one happening. John Porter had gained over twenty thousand dollars. This made him quite independent of Crane's financial bolstering. The Banker's diplomacy of love had been weakened. That was the other happening.

Crane was closeted with the cashier not more than ten minutes when Mortimer was asked to join the two men who had so suddenly become deeply interested in his affairs.

The cashier's hand had been strengthened by Crane's contribution of evidence. Mortimer had told the same falsehood about his mother being ill to him at the race course. From Alan the cashier had learned that Mortimer had been betting heavily; he had admitted to the boy that he had won enough to replace the thousand dollars he had stolen. Mortimer's words had been contorted into that reading in their journey through two personalities. He had even begged young Porter not to speak of his betting transactions. He had denied taking the money—that was but natural; he had been forced to admit replacing it—that was conclusive. Indeed it seemed a waste of time to investigate further; it was utterly impossible to doubt his guilt. Mesh by mesh, like an enthralling net, all the different threads of convicting circumstances were drawn about the accused man.

"Let us question him?" said Crane; and in his heart was not sorrow, nor hate, nor compassion, nor anything but just joy. Greater than the influence of money in his love ambition would be this degradation, this reducing to a felon a man he felt stood between him and Allis Porter.

Yesterday they had won; to-day victory, almost, to him had come. Yes, bring the deliverer in; he would feast his eyes, the narrow-lidded eyes, upon the man whose young love might have conquered over all his diplomacy, and who would go forth from his hands branded as a felon.

The probing of the already condemned man elicited nothing beyond a repeated denial of theft. With the precision of Mam'selle Guillotine, Cashier Lane lopped off everything that could possibly stand in Mortimer's defense, grafting into the cleaved places individual facts which confirmed his guilt. Mortimer contended nothing, threw suspicion upon no one. Was it Alan Porter? Was it Cass?—but that was impossible. Was it the cashier himself? Still more impossible. Mortimer answered nothing. He had not taken the money. Yes, he had replaced it—because he was responsible for its custody.

"Can't you see," cried Crane, impatiently, "that this simple denial of yours is of no value as against so much that points to your—" he hesitated—"your implication?"



XL

While Mortimer was still in the cashier's improvised inquisition room, Allis Porter came into the bank to arrange the payment of her father's note.

The sunshine seemed to come with her into the counting house that was all gloom. Her glorious success, the consequent improvement in her father, the power to pay off his indebtedness—all these had turned that day into a day of thankfulness. The happiness that was in her rippled her face into smiles. When the door creaked on its hinges as it swung open, she laughed. It was a thriftless old door, such as bachelors kept, she murmured. Her brother's face, gloomy behind the iron screen, tickled her fancy. "You're like a caged bear, Alan," she cried, with a smile of impertinence; "I should hate to be shut up a day like this—no wonder you're cross, brother."

"I'm busy," he answered, curtly. "I'll see you after bank hours, Sis; I want to see you."

"I've come to pay father's note, busy-man-of-importance," she flung back, with the swagger of a capitalist.

"It's paid, Allis."

"Paid! I thought—"

"Wait, I'll come out;" and opening a door in the rail, he passed around to the girl.

"Father's note is paid," he resumed, "but there's fierce trouble over it. Crane left the money, three thousand dollars, with Mortimer, and he stole"—the boy's voice lowered to a hoarse whisper—"a thousand of it to bet at Gravesend."

"That's not true, Alan; God knows it's not true. Mortimer wouldn't steal."

"Yes, he did," persisted the brother, "and he begged of me to take the blame. He said it would ruin him, but that Crane wouldn't do anything to me. He's a vile, sneaking thief, Allis!"

"Hush, Alan; don't say that. It's all some dreadful mistake. The money will be found somewhere."

"It has been found; Mortimer put it back. Why should he replace the money if he had not stolen it?"

"Where is Mr. Mortimer, Alan?"

The boy pointed with his thumb to the door of the cashier's office. "Crane's in there, too. I hope Mortimer owns up. He can't do anything else; they caught him putting the money back."

Allis remembered that she had seen Mortimer on the race course.

"Mr. Mortimer doesn't bet," she said.

"Yes, he does; he did yesterday, anyway; and when he saw that I knew about it, he begged me to say nothing—practically admitted that he had taken the money, and was going to put it back."

"Why should he tell you that, Alan?"

"I don't know, unless he feared it might be found out while he was away; or, perhaps he was so excited over winning a thousand dollars that he didn't know what he was saying. At any rate, he took it right enough, Allis, and you ought to cut him."

"I shan't do that. He's innocent, I know he is—I don't care what they say. If he replaced the money, it was to shield the man who took it." She was looking searchingly into her brother's eyes—not that she was accusing him of the theft, she was just searching for the truth.

"Do you mean it was to shield me—that I took it? No one could have taken the money except Mortimer or myself."

"I don't know," answered the girl, wearily; "it's all so terribly new; I only know that Mortimer did not steal it."

While she was still speaking, the accused man came from the cashier's office, holding his head as erect as an Indian, not at all as a half-convicted felon should have slunk through the door; yet withal in his face was a look of troubled gravity.

When Mortimer saw Allis his face flushed, then went pale in an instant. He felt that she knew; he had seen her talking earnestly to her brother. Probably she, too, would think him a thief. He admitted to himself that the evidence was sufficient to destroy anyone's faith in his innocence, and he was helpless, quite helpless; he was limited to simple denial, unless he accused her brother; even had he been so disposed, there was nothing to back up a denunciation of the boy. He felt a twinge of pain over Alan's ingratitude; the latter must know that he had put his neck in a noose to save him. Now that one of them needs be dishonored, why did not Alan prove himself a man, a Porter—they were a hero breed—and accept the gage of equity. Even worse, Alan was shielding himself behind this terrible bulwark of circumstantial evidence which topped him, the innocent one, on every side.

As he resumed his place at his desk close to the brother and sister, Alan looked defiantly at him. He could see in the boy's eyes malignant detestation, a glimmer of triumph, as though he felt that Mortimer was irrevocably in the toils. The lad was like a strippling Judas; his attitude filled Mortimer with loathing. He stole a look into the girl's face. Would she, too, say with her, eyes, "Behold, here is Barabbas!"

A thrill of ecstatic comfort warmed his being. In Allis's eyes was the first touch of kindness he had known in this hour of trial; faith, and sorrow, and cheer, and love were all there, striving for mastery; no furtive weakening, no uncertain questioning, no remonstrance of reproval—nothing but just unlimited faith and love. If the boy's look had angered him, had caused him to waver, had made the self-sacrifice seem too great when repaid with ingratitude, all these thoughts vanished in an instant, obliterated by that one look of unalterable love. In the hour of darkness the girl stood by him, and he would also stand firm. She would believe in him, and his sacrifice would be as nothing. He had undertaken to avert the sorrow of dishonor from her, from her brother, from her parents, and he would continue to the end. He would tell no one on earth but his mother the full truth; she must know. Then with the faith of the two women he loved, still his, he could brave the judgment of all others. Perhaps not willingly in the first place would he have taken upon himself the brand of Barrabas, but out of good motive he had incurred it.

Mortimer heard the brother say, "I think you had better not," then the girl's voice, clear and decisive, answering, "I will, I must."

In anger Alan left his sister's side, and she, stepping up to the wicket, said, "Will you please come out for a minute, Mr. Mortimer, I want to speak with you."

He passed around to her side. Crane and the cashier were still closeted in the latter's office.

"Let us go out into the sunshine," Allis said. "Can you—will it make any difference?"

"I don't think it matters much," he answered, despondently; "things are as bad as they can be, I suppose."

He took it for granted that she knew everything; but he was possessed of no shame, no diffidence, no reserve; he was innocent, and her eyes had assured him that she knew it. As they passed through the door it creaked again on its dry hinges. Before she had laughed at the weird complaining; now it sounded like a moan of misery. Outside the village street was deserted; there was no one to listen.

"What is this dreadful thing all about?" and she laid her hand on his arm in a gesture of amity, of association. Her touch thrilled him; she had never gone that length in friendly demonstration before. He marveled at her generous faith. All but dishonored, the small, strong hand lifted him to a pedestal-her eyes deified him.

"A thousand dollars was stolen from the bank, and I am accused of taking it," he answered, bitterly.

"You didn't, did you? I know you didn't, but I want to hear you say so."

He looked full into the girl's eye, and answered with deliberate earnestness, "I did not steal the money."

"Some one took it?"

"Yes."

"And you know who it was?"

"I do not."

"But you suspect some one?"

He did not answer.

"Did you put the money back?"

He nodded his head.

"To protect somebody's good name?"

"Because it had been in my charge. I can't talk about it," he broke in, vehemently; "all I can say is, that I am innocent. If you believe that I don't care what they do. They'll be able to prove by circumstantial evidence that I took it," he added, bitterly, "and nothing that I can say will make any difference. My mother won't believe me guilty, and, thank God, you don't; and I am not; God knows I am not. Beyond that I will say nothing; it is useless—worse than useless; it would be criminal—would only cast suspicion on others, perhaps innocent. I don't know what they'll do about it; the money has been repaid. They may arrest me as a felon—at any rate I shall be forced to leave the bank and go away. It won't make much difference.—I am as I was before, an honest man, and I shall find other openings. It's not half so hard as I thought it would be; I feared perhaps that you—"

She stopped him with an imploring gesture.

"Let me finish," he said. "I must go back to the office. I thought that you might believe me a thief, and that would have been too much."

"You cared for my poor opinion?" she asked. The quiver in her voice caused him to look into her face; he saw the gray eyes shrouded in tears. He was a queer thief, trembling with joy because of his sin.

"Yes, I care," he answered; "and it seemed all so dark before you brought the sunlight in with you; now I'm glad that they've accused me; somebody else might have suffered and had no one to believe in him. But I must go back to—my prison it seems like now—when I leave you;" this with a weary attempt at brave mockery.

Allis laid a detaining hand on his arm, the small gloved hand that had guided Lauzanne to victory. "If anything happens, if you are going away—I think you are right to go if they distrust you—you will see me before you leave, won't you?"

"Will you care to see me if I stand branded as a thief?" The word came very hard, but in his acridity he felt like not sparing himself; he wanted to get accustomed to the full obloquy.

"Promise me to come to Ringwood before going away," she answered.

"Yes, I will; and I thank you. No matter how dark the shadow may make my life your kindness will be a hope light. No man is utterly lost when a good woman believes in him."

The creaking bank door wailed tremulously, irritably; somebody was pushing it open from the inside. With a whine of remonstrance it swung wider, and Crane stepped out on the sidewalk. He stared in astonishment at Mortimer and Allis, his brow wrinkled in anger. Only for an instant; the forehead smoothed back into its normal placidity and his voice, well in hand, said, in even tones: "Good afternoon, Miss Porter. Are you going back to Ringwood?" and he nodded toward Allis's buggy.

"Yes, I am. I'm going now. Good day, Mr. Mortimer," and she held out her hand.

Mortimer hesitated, and then, flushing, took the gloved fingers in his own. Without speaking, he turned and passed into the bank.

"May I go with you?" asked Crane; "I want to see your father."

"Yes, I shall be glad to drive you over," the girl answered.



XLI

When they had passed the edge of the village the Banker said: "I doubt if you would have shaken hands with Mr. Mortimer if you knew—I mean, he is under strong suspicion, more than strong suspicion, for he is practically self-accused of having stolen a sum of money from the bank. In fact, I'm not sure that it wasn't from your father he really stole it."

"I do know of this terrible thing," she answered. "I shook hands with him because I believe him innocent."

"You know more than we do?" It was not a sneer; if so, too delicately veiled for detection; the words were uttered in a tone of hopeful inquiry.

"Mr. Mortimer could not steal—it is impossible."

"Have you sufficient grounds for your faith—do you happen to know who took the money, for it was stolen?"

The girl did not answer at once. At first her stand had simply been one of implicit faith in the man she had conjured into a hero of all that was good and noble. She had not cast about for extenuating evidence; she had not asked herself who the guilty man was; her faith told her it was morally impossible for Mortimer to become a thief. Now Crane's questions, more material than the first deadening effects of Alan's accusation, started her mind on a train of thought dealing with motive possibilities.

She knitted her small brows, and tapping the jogging horse's quarter with the whip sat for many minutes silently absorbed.

Her companion waited for an answer with his usual well-bred patience. Perhaps the girl had not heard him. Perhaps she did not wish to answer a question so unanswerable. He waited.

Mortimer, being innocent, replaced the stolen money, Allis's mind tabulated—she tickled this thought off on the horse with her whip—it was to shield some one. Her heart told her, his eyes had told her, that he would have taken upon himself this great risk but for one person, her brother. Yes, Mortimer was a hero! The horse, lazily going, jumped a little in the traces; she had struck him a harder tap with the whip. Allis continued her mental summing up. Why did Mortimer go to Gravesend? It must have been to see Alan—the boy was there. If he had discovered that the money was missing, and thought Alan had taken it, he would do this; if he had suspected some other person he would have made the matter known to the cashier. He did not replace the money at once, because he hadn't it. She knew that Mortimer was poor. He had failed to find Alan until after Lauzanne's victory; her brother had told her this much, and that Mortimer had won a lot of money over the horse. Why he had bet on Lauzanne she knew not; perhaps Providence had guided, had helped him that much. But surely that was the money, his winnings, with which he had replaced the thousand dollars.

The girl's mind had worked methodically, following sequence of action to sequence, until finally the conviction that Mortimer had sought to shield her brother, and chance or Providence working through herself and Lauzanne had placed in his hands the necessary funds, came to her as fixedly as though the whole past panorama of events lay pictured before her eyes.

She saw all this mentally; but would it avail anything in actuality? If the boy disclaimed guilt, as he had; if Mortimer limited his defense to a simple denial, refusing to implicate her brother, what could she do except give her moral support? To her it seemed such a small reward for his heroism; her faith would not save him from the brand of felony, and to follow out her convictions publicly she must denounce her brother, cast upon him the odium of theft. Truly her position was one of extreme hopelessness. Two men she loved stood before her mentally, one accused of others as a thief, and one—her own brother—charged by her reason with the crime.

Under the continued silence Crane grew restless; the girl, almost oblivious of his presence, deep in the intricacies of the crime, gave no sign of a desire to pursue the discussion.

"Of course I am anxious to clear the young man if he is innocent," hazarded the banker, to draw her gently back into the influence that he felt must be of profit to himself. This assertion of Crane's was only assimilatively truthful. As president of the bank, naturally he should wish to punish none other than the guilty man; as a rival to Mortimer for the girl's affection, he could not but be pleased to see the younger man removed from his path, and in a way which would forever preclude his aspiring to Allis's hand. Believe in Mortimer as she might, he felt sure that she would not run counter to the inevitable wishes of her mother and marry a man who stood publicly branded as a thief.

Allis answered his observation—he distinctly felt the vibration of pain in her voice—with a startling depth of analytical discernment:—

"While I believe in Mortimer's innocence, and will always believe in it, I am afraid that he has drawn such a web of circumstantial evidence about him, trying to shield some one else, that—that—it is too terrible!" she broke off, passionately—"he is innocent. For God's sake, Mr. Crane"—she took the reins in her whip hand, and put her left on his arm, pleadingly—"for God's sake, for his mother's sake, save him. You can do it—you can believe that he is innocent, and stop everything. The money has been paid back."

"It isn't that, Miss Allis"—his voice was so cuttingly even after the erratic pump of her own—"in a bank one must not have a dishonest person. We must investigate to the end, and if Mortimer can clear himself by fastening the crime upon the perpetrator—"

"He will never do that; he cannot if he would."

"What can I do then, Miss Allis? But why shouldn't he?"

"Can't you see—don't you understand the man? He commenced by shielding some one, and he will carry it through to the bitter end."

"I am afraid there was no one to shield but himself—everything points to this conclusion. The money was locked up, he had the keys, no one touched them—except your brother, and that but for a minute—but if any suspicion could attach to your brother it is all dissipated by Mortimer's subsequent actions. It's unpleasant to even hint at such a contingency, but if Mortimer is innocent, then your brother must be the guilty one."

He expected the girl to denounce indignantly such a possibility; he was surprised that she remained silent. Her non-refutation of this deduction told him as conclusively as though she had uttered the accusation that she thought Alan had taken the money and Mortimer was shielding him. It was but a phase of blind love; it was the faith women place in men they love, of which he had read and scoffed at.

Against all evidence she was holding this man honest, believing her brother the thief.

Surely a love like that was worth winning; no price was too great to pay. Her very faith in Mortimer, through which she sought to save him by inspiring Crane, determined the latter to crush utterly the man who stood between him and this great love. Intensity of hate, or love, or cupidity, never drew Crane out of his inherent diplomacy; he took refuge behind the brother of Allis.

"You see," he said, and his voice was modulated with kindness, "I can't save Mortimer except at the expense of Alan; you would not have me do that. Besides, it is impossible—the evidence shines as clear as noonday."

"If you bring this home to Mr. Mortimer you will punish him, arrest him?"

"That would be the usual course."

She had taken her hand off his arm; now she replaced it, and he could feel the strong fingers press as though she would hold him to her wishes.

"You will not do this," she said, "for my sake you will not."

"You ask this of me, and it is for your sake?"

"Yes, if there is no other way; if Mr. Mortimer, innocent, must take upon himself this crime, then for my sake you will not punish him."

The gray eyes were violet-black in their intensity.

"If I promise—" He had been going to ask for reward, but she broke in, saying: "You will keep your word, and I will bless you."

"Nothing more—is that all?"

The magnetism of the intense eyes broke down his reserve; he slipped back twenty years in a second. Love touched him with a fire-wand, and his soul ignited. Cold, passionless Philip Crane spoke in a tongue, unfamiliar as it was to him, that carried conviction to the girl—just the conviction that he was in earnest, that he was possessed of a humanizing love. She listened patiently while he pleaded his cause with much mastery. It was beyond her understanding, that, though Mortimer through all time had spoken not at all of love to her—at least not in the passionate words that came from this man's lips—yet she now heard as though it were his voice and not Crane's. Love was a glorious thing—with Mortimer.

Crane's intensity availed nothing. When he asked why she held faith to a man who must be known for all time as a thief, her soul answered, "It is nothing—because he is innocent."

Because of her Crane would do anything; the matter should be dropped as though it were all a hideous mistake. Mortimer might remain in the bank; his employer would even try to believe him innocent, taking the girl's protestation m conclusive proof. Her mother, her father, everyone would demand of her, however, that she give the dishonest one up as a possibility. Even in his vehemence he lost no delicacy of touch. Why should she chain herself to an impossibility? It would but ruin the man she professed to regard.

The banker made no threat, but Allis shuddered. She knew. The narrow-lidded eyes had closed perceptibly when their owner talked of the alternative. He, Crane, loved her—she felt that was true. He was rich; for her father, for her brother, for herself, even for Mortimer, he would use his wealth. He pleaded his cause like a strong man, and when he spoke of failure because of her preference for Mortimer, an acridity crept into his voice that meant relentless prosecution.

She could not hold this full power over Crane without feeling its value. To pledge herself to him as wife was impossible; she could not do it; she would not. Fate played into his hands without doubt, but Fate was not Providence. A decree of this sort, iniquitous, was not a higher command, else she would not feel utter abhorrence of the alliance. Paradoxically the more vehemently Crane's love obtruded itself the more obnoxious it became; it was something quite distinct from the man's own personality. She did not detest him individually, for the honesty of his love impressed her; mentally she separated Crane from his affection, anal while rejecting his love absolutely as a compelling factor, appealed to him as a man having regard for her, a woman he believed in.

It was a most delicate cleavage, yet unerringly she attained to its utmost point of discrimination. Perhaps it was the strength of her love for Mortimer that enabled her to view so calmly this passionate declaration. A year before, unsophisticated as she had been, it would have thrown her into an agitated confusion, but she was developing rapidly; responsibility had tempered fine the great will power which was hers in such a marked degree.

"I am sorry, Mr. Crane," she began, conventionally enough, "I am, sorry; I couldn't marry a man without loving him. What you have just told me must win regard for you, because I know that you feel strongly, and I think any woman should take an offer of honest love as the greatest of all compliments."

"But I don't even ask for your love now," he interrupted.

"Ah, but you should. You shouldn't marry a woman unless she loves you. At any rate I feel that way about it. Of course, if there were a chance of my coming to care for you in that way we could wait, but it would be deceiving you to give hope."

"Is it because you care for—Mortimer?" he asked.

"I think it is. I suppose if I am to help him I must be quite honest with you. I do not want to talk about it—it seems too sacred. I have even spoken less to Mr. Mortimer of love," she added, with a painful attempt at a smile. "You have said that you care for me, Mr. Crane, and I believe you; you have been generous to my father, also. Now won't you promise me something, just for the sake of this regard? I suppose it is impossible to prove Mr. Mortimer's innocence"—she felt her own helplessness, and who else could or would care to accomplish it "but it is in your power to lessen the evil. Won't you take my word that he is innocent and stop everything? As you say, either he or Alan must be suspected, and if it were brought home to my brother it would crush me, and my mother and father."

"What can I do?—"

"Just nothing. I know Mr. Mortimer has determined to accept the disgrace, and he will go away. You can make his load as light as possible, for my sake."

The small hand on his arm was drawing him to acquiesence. He did not answer at once, but sat moodily diagnosing his position. If he refused and prosecuted Mortimer, the girl, more determined than many men, would change from a state of possibility, from simply not loving him, to a vigorous hate. If he hushed the matter up Mortimer would go away under a cloud, and his removal from the presence of Allis might effect a change in her regard. He would accelerate this wished-for elision of love by procuring absolutely indisputable proof of Mortimer's dishonesty. He saw his opening to that end; he could do it under the guise of clearing the innocent one of the suspected two; for Allis alone this would be. To him there was not the slightest ground for supposing Alan had taken the money, but blinded by her love, evidently Allis thought Mortimer was shielding her brother. Though it was to Crane's best interests, he pretended to consent out of pure chivalry. "What you ask," he said, "is very little; I would do a thousand times more for you. There is nothing you could ask of me that would not give me more pleasure than anything else in my barren life. But I could not bear to see you wedded to Mortimer; he is not worthy—you are too good for him. I don't say this because he is more fortunate, but I love you and want to see you happy."

The girl was like a slim poplar. The strong wind of Crane's clever pleading and seeming generosity swayed her from her rigid attitude only to spring back again, to stand straight and beautiful, true to her love and faith in Mortimer.

"You are kind to me," she said, simply; "I wish I could repay you."

"Perhaps some day I may get a reward out of all proportion to this small service."

She looked fair into his eyes, and on her lips hovered a weak, plaintive, wistful smile, as though she were wishing he could accept the inevitable and take her regard, her gratitude, her good opinion of him and not wed himself to a chimera which would bring only weariness of spirit in return for his goodness.

"You will be repaid some day," she answered, "for I feel that Mr. Mortimer's name will be cleared, and you will be glad that you acted generously."

"Well, this will give him a better chance," he said, evasively; "it's not good to crush a man when he's down. I will see that no one connected with the bank shows him the slightest disrespect. Of course he'll have to go, he couldn't remain under the circumstances—he wouldn't."

The horse had jogged slowly. Allis had purposely allowed the old Bay to take his time. Unused to such a tolerance he had scandalously abused the privilege; once or twice he had even cast longing glances at a succulent bunch of grass growing by the roadside, as though it were a pure waste of opportunity to neglect the delicacy for work when he had to do with such indifferent overseers. But now Ringwood was in sight, and there was still the matter of the money that had been paid on her father's note to speak of. She asked Crane where it had come from.

"You won it over Diablo in the Brooklyn Handicap," he answered, bluntly.

"You won it," she corrected him; "I refused to accept it."

"I remember that eccentricity," he replied. "I'm a busy man, and having the money thrown back on my hands, as it was not mine, caused me considerable inconvenience. I deposited three thousand of it against the note to save both your father and myself needless worry. There are still some hundreds due you, and I wish you would please tell me what I am to do with it."

"I'd rather pay you back the three thousand now."

"I can't accept it. I have enough money of my own to worry along on."

"Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair. When father gets stronger he must settle it."

They had turned into the drive to Ringwood House.

"We are home now," she added, "and I want to say again that I'll never forget your kind promise. I know you will not repent of your goodness."

Mrs. Porter saw Allis and Crane together in the buggy; it pleased the good woman vastly. Allis's success with Lauzanne had taken a load from her spirits. She was not mercenary, but there had been so much at stake. Now in one day Providence had averted disaster, and she had awakened from a terrible nightmare of debt. The sunshine of success had warmed her husband's being into hopeful activity, a brightness was over his spirits that had not been there for months. It was like an augury of completed desire that Crane should come the day of their good fortune with Allis. If she would but marry him there would be little left to worry about. So it was that Crane, perplexed by his recent love check, and Allis, mired in gloom over her hero's misfortune, stepped into a radiancy of exotic cheerfulness.

The girl bravely sought to shake off her gloom, chiding her heavy heart for its unfilial lack of response. Crane, accustomed to mental athletics, tutored his mind into a seeming exuberance, and playfully alluded to his own defeat at the hands of Allis and the erratic Lausanne. There was no word of the bank episode, nothing but a paean of victory.

Crane's statement to Allis that he was going out to Ringwood to see her father was only an excuse. He soon took his departure, a stableboy driving him back to the village. There he had a talk with the cashier. Mortimer was to be asked to resign his position as soon as his place in the bank could be filled. No further prosecution was to be taken against him unless Crane decided upon such a course, "In the meantime you can investigate cautiously," he said, "and keep quite to yourself any new evidence that may turn up. So far as Mr. Mortimer is concerned, the matter is quite closed."

The cashier had always considered his employer a hard man, and, in truth, who hadn't? He could scarcely understand this leniency; he had expected a vigorous prosecution of Mortimer; had almost dreaded its severity. Personally he had no taste for it; still, he would feel insecure if the suspected man, undeniably guilty, were to remain permanently in the bank. His dismissal from the staff was a wise move, tempered by unexpected clemency. If there were not something behind it all—this contingency always attached itself to Crane's acts—his employer had acted with fine, wise discrimination.



XLII

Crane returned to New York, his mind working smoothly to the hum of the busy wheels beneath his coach.

This degrading humiliation of his rival must certainly be turned to account. With Allis Porter still believing in Mortimer's innocence the gain to him was very little; he must bring the crime absolutely home to the accused man, but in a manner not savoring of persecution, else the girl's present friendly regard would be turned into abhorrence. In addition to this motive he felt an inclination to probe the matter to its utmost depths. It was not his nature to leave anything to conjecture; in all his transactions each link in the chain of preparation for execution was welded whole. He felt that it would be but a matter of manipulation to environ Mortimer completely with the elements of his folly. He firmly believed him guilty; Allis, misled by her infatuation, mentally attributed the peculation to her brother.

The Banker would go quietly to work and settle this point beyond dispute. He might have hesitated, leaving well enough alone, had he been possessed of any doubts as to the ultimate results of his investigation, but he wasn't. He reasoned that Mortimer had taken the thousand-dollar note thinking to win three or four thousand at least over his horse, The Dutchman, and then replace the abstracted money. Crane was aware that Alan Porter had told Mortimer of The Dutchman's almost certain prospect of winning; in fact, the boy had suggested that Mortimer had taken it for this purpose. Mortimer would not have changed the note; would have taken it straight to the race course. He must have lost it to some bookmaker over The Dutchman. Crane knew the number of the stolen note. The three one-thousand-dollar bills were new, running in consecutive numbers, B 67,482-83-84; he had noticed that quite by chance at the time; it was the middle one, B 67,483, that was missing. So he had a possible means of identifying the man who had taken the money. Mentally he followed Mortimer during the day at Gravesend. From Alan he knew of his winnings over Lauzanne.

Crane reasoned that Mortimer, having risked the thousand on his horse, had been told that Lauzanne might win. This had perhaps frightened him, and being unfamiliar with the folly of such a course had backed two horses in the same race—had put a hundred on Lauzanne at ten to one to cover his risk on The Dutchman, feeling this made him more secure. He would either win a considerable stake or have sufficient in hand to cover up his defalcation. The first thing to do was to find the note if possible. Faust would be the man for this commission.

Immediately upon his arrival in New York, Crane telephoned for Faust, asking him to bring his betting sheet for the second last day of the Brooklyn Meet. When Faust arrived at Crane's quarters the latter said, "I want to trace a thousand-dollar note, number B 67,483. I think it was betted on the Brooklyn Derby, probably on my horse."

Faust consulted his betting sheet, Crane looking over his shoulder. "I didn't have no thousand in one bet on that race," he said.

"What are those flgures," asked the other, pointing to two consecutive numbers of one thousand each.

"That was the other way about," answered the Bookmaker; "that was pay. A thousand to one hundred twice over Lauzanne. I think it must have been stable money, for one of the guys was like a big kid; he didn't know 'nough to pick a winner in a thousand years."

The coincidence of this amount with the win attributed to Mortimer, appealed to Crane's fancy. "You remember the man who made this bet, then?" he asked.

"Yes, sure thing. There was two of 'em, as you see. I remember him because it took some explainin' to get the bet through his noddle. He was a soft mark for a bunco steerer. I've seen some fresh kids playin' the horses, but he had 'em all beat to a standstill. It must abeen first-time luck with him, for he cashed."

"Can you describe him?"

The Cherub drew an ornate verbal picture, florid in its descriptive phraseology, but cognate enough to convince Crane it was Mortimer who had made one of the bets. His preconceived plan of the suspected man's operations was working out.

"Now find this thousand-dollar note for me," he said; "take trouble over it; get help if necessary; go to every bookmaker that was in line that day. If you find the note, exchange other money for it and bring it to me."

"There may be a chance," commented Faust, scratching his fat poll meditatively; "the fellows like to keep these big bills, they're easier in the pocket than a whole bundle of flimsies. The next day was getaway-day, an' they wouldn't be payin' out much. I'll make a play fer it."

The next afternoon Faust reported at Crane's rooms with the rescued note in his possession. He had been successful. "I give a dozen of 'em a turn," he said, "before I run again' Jimmie Farrell. He had it snuggled away next his chest among a lot of yellow-backs, good Dutchman money."

"Does he know who bet it?"

"Not his name—some stranger; he'd know him if he saw him, he says."

Crane grasped this new idea with avidity, the scent was indeed getting hot. Why not take Farrell down to Brookfield to identify Mortimer. He had expected the searching for evidence would be a tedious matter; his fortunate star was guiding him straight and with rapidity to the goal he sought.

"I'm much obliged to you," he said to Faust. "I won't trouble you further; I'll see Farrell myself. Give me his address."

That evening the Banker saw Farrell. "There was a little crooked work over that thousand Faust got from you," he said, "an' if you could find time to go with me for an hour's run into the country, I think you could identify the guilty party."

"I can go with you," Farrell answered, "but it's just a chance in a thousand. I should be on the block down at Sheepshead, but, to tell you the truth, the hot pace the backers set me at Brooklyn knocked me out a bit. I'm goin' to take a breather for a few days an' lay again' 'em next week. Yes, I'll go with you, Mr. Crane."

In the morning the two journeyed to Brookfield.

"I won't go to the bank with you," Crane said; "I wish you would go in alone. You may make any excuse you like, or none at all. Just see if the man you got this note from is behind the rail. I'll wait at the hotel."

In fifteen minutes he was rejoined by Farrell.

"Well?" he asked.

"He's there, right enough."

"A short dark little chap?" questioned Crane, hesitatingly, putting Alan Porter forward as a feeler.

"No. A tall fellow with a mustache."

"You are sure?"

"Dead sure, unless he's got a double, or a twin brother."

Crane felt that at last he had got indisputable proof; evidence that would satisfy even Allis Porter. He experienced little exhilaration over the discovery—he had been so sure before—yet his hand was strengthened vastly. Whatever might be the result of his suit with Allis, this must convince her that Mortimer was guilty, and unworthy of her love. There was also satisfaction in the thought that it quite cleared Alan of his sister's suspicion.