Hard Pressed

CHAPTER VII

A LEAF FROM THE PAST

"It was a near thing, Mr. Fielden, I beg pardon, Field. It wasn't the fault of those scoundrels, I can tell you. They left me for dead, and if I hadn't been picked up by some of the boys I should have died of starvation on the veldt. As it was, I had a very close shave, and so did Copley and Foster, for the matter of that. Our friends chased them all across the Colony and how they managed to escape was a mystery to me. Still, perhaps it is as well. There are more ways than one of taking revenge."

The little man's eyes gleamed as he spoke. He glanced meaningly at Fielden and jingled a few coppers in his pocket.

"Make them pay for it, you mean," Fielden smiled.

"That's it, sir, you've got it first time. Now, as you know perfectly well, there are a dozen or more people out yonder who would give a good round sum to have Copley on the end of a rope, or within reach of a revolver shot. They are not the sort to give information to the police, because that is not the way we used to do things. Still, if I like to open my mouth widely enough I could make it deuced hot for Copley & Co. I could have them conveyed to Cape Town, and it wouldn't take me long to find evidence enough to give those two chaps ten years on the Breakwater. Yes, sir, I'd have done it, too, but there's a better way than that. It took me the best part of a year or more to scrape enough money together to pay my passage home. I had heard some queer stories about Copley, and I wanted to find out if they were true. What do I see when I reach London? Why, Copley with a set of offices in the city—Copley with a suite of rooms at a palatial hotel—Copley with a place in the country and a string of race-horses. Oh, I tell you, Mr. Fielden—Field, I mean—I rubbed my hands when I heard of it. Thinks I to myself, 'This is a better game than handing Copley over to the South African police.' I don't quite know yet how Copley has managed it, but here he is ruffling it with the best, spending money like water, and going to marry the daughter of a baronet in these parts."

Fielden's face flushed angrily. He winced at this home thrust on Phillips' part. So already people were coupling May Haredale's name with Copley. It had not occurred to him that things had gone as far as that. However, Phillips could not be expected to know this. He was merely innocently repeating local gossip.

"I suppose you mean to have some of this money?" he asked.

"If you don't mind my using the expression, I am going to blackmail Copley. I am not afraid of the blackguard here. There is no chance of his trying on any of his murderous tricks in England. He knows I have come back, but as yet I have not waited upon him. I have had a hint to call from Foster, but I am not taking any of that, thank you. You don't catch me dropping into a police trap with a chance of being prosecuted and hustled out of the country before I know where I am. When I do strike it will be in a different way altogether. For the present, I have been looking around asking questions, because, you see, it will be of considerable advantage to me to find out where Copley is getting his money. That he is earning it honestly I don't believe. He couldn't do it if he wanted to. He is the sort of blackguard who would rather make five pounds dishonestly than a tenner by legitimate business."

"I suppose you never found those plans?" Fielden asked.

Phillips swore heartily.

"Never, sir," he said. "They were in my portmanteau, as you know. I had the portmanteau in my possession when those blackguards attacked me, and they had to levant without it, so closely were they pressed. But when I was well again I asked for my baggage and no one could tell me what had become of it. It vanished in a most mysterious manner. If you ask me, the portmanteau was stolen by one of those thievish Kaffre boys. It makes me wild when I think of it. Probably it is concealed in a Kaffre hut. In the old portmanteau is a scrap of paper which is worth hundreds of thousands to us. I say us, because it is yours just as much as it is mine. I don't belong to your class, Mr. Fielden, but you played the game and were always a white man. And if those papers ever do come to hand, I shall do the fair thing by you. It doesn't follow because I happen to be the son of a sporting publican that I don't know the difference between right and wrong. But what's the good of worrying about that? We shall never see those papers again, and as far as we are concerned that diamond mine might never have existed. But what are you doing here?"

"I used to live close by," Fielden explained. "Most of this was once my property. Sir George Haredale's trainer employs an old servant of mine and I came out this morning to see that trial. I might ask you the same question."

Phillips' blue eyes twinkled.

"Bit of a disappointment, wasn't it?" he asked.

"What do you know about it?" Fielden demanded.

"Oh, well, sir, we are not partners in this job, at any rate. If you like to keep your counsel, I am perfectly willing to keep mine. Old Raffle is as straight as they make 'em, but he is a downy old fox all the same, and pretty neatly he drew the feather over Copley's eye this morning. Oh, yes, I heard all those blackguards had to say; in fact, I followed them here. I am glad I came, because I heard something that confirmed my suspicions."

"You mean as to Copley's movements?"

"To be sure. I wanted to know where Copley is getting his money. I know he isn't paying his tradesmen, but that doesn't matter, for a man with a reputation for wealth can get as much credit as he likes. But Copley is flying at high game and must have the command of a good deal of ready cash. Now where does it come from? What sort of a swindle is on? Why were they so anxious to watch the trial of the Blenheim colt this morning? And, by the way, Mr. Fielden, you must give old Raffle a hint to keep his eye on the stable lads. Somebody has been betraying confidence. It doesn't matter this time, because Copley was fooled this morning as easily as if he had been a schoolboy. But I am getting a bit away from the point. I was going to tell you where Copley got his money. Well, it's a betting swindle, one of the biggest and most ingenious that has been attempted on the turf for many a long day. I just heard enough to put me on the track. But I've my work cut out before I reach the bottom of it. You have no occasion to love Copley——"

"Indeed, I haven't," Fielden said bitterly. "I have every reason for disliking the man, every reason for exposing him before Miss—well, before things have gone too far. If I can help you, I will do so cheerfully."

"That's right," Phillips said approvingly. "Now where can I see you for half an hour in the course of the afternoon? We mustn't stay talking here. There is old Raffle."

Fielden thought it over for a moment or two. He was glad enough to meet this old South African comrade of his again. In several respects Phillips was anything but a desirable acquaintance. His upbringing had been none too strict, but, at the same time, he had a rough code of honour, and it was one of his proudest boasts that he never forgot a friend or a favour. Probably he had had his own reasons for leaving England suddenly, and no doubt those reasons had something to do with the turf. At any rate, he had a profound and intricate knowledge of racing matters, and there was no swindle or trick with which he was not familiar.

"You had better meet me at Heron's Dyke," Fielden said. "You can be outside in the road about a quarter to five. There is nobody on the premises. I have the key in my pocket, and I daresay I shall manage to get a light from somewhere."

Phillips disappeared amongst the high gorse. As Fielden stepped into the open he saw Raffle looking about for him. There was a shrewd smile on the old man's face, and he did not appear in the least disconcerted by the result of the trial.

"Well?" Fielden asked. "What about your Derby winner now?"

Raffle's eye contracted in a wink.

"It's all right, sir," he said. "The trial was a great success. Did you happen to see anybody in the gorse?"

"Yes," Fielden replied. "I saw Mr. Copley."

"And a friend," Raffle chuckled. "I know all about it. And between you and me, sir, I got this up for the benefit of Mr. Copley, who is about the greatest rascal unhanged, and that's saying a good deal. It was high time you came back."

CHAPTER VIII

ROGUES IN COUNCIL

"Quite right," Fielden said approvingly. "But what do you know about Mr. Copley? He is a stranger in these parts."

"That may be, sir, but he is no stranger to me. I never forget a face, and I've been on every racecourse in the country during the last five and twenty years. The first time I saw Mr. Copley, he was being shown round the stables by Sir George. I didn't like him, and I didn't like his manner, and thinks I to myself, 'I wonder where I've seen you before?' Suddenly there flashes into my mind a little incident that happened at Lincoln. I can see it as plain as I can see this book in my hand. And then I knew that Mr. Copley, the African millionaire, was one and the same with the welsher that I had seen half killed at Lincoln a good many years ago. Well, it wasn't for me to say anything about it, because I can find you a score of men to-day, rich and prosperous men, who started life amongst the scum of the racecourse. I have been making a few inquiries amongst my old pals, and it is just as I expected. Mr. Copley may be a rich man now, but he is just as big a scamp as ever he was, and Sir George ought to know it. I tell you, Mr. Harry, it fairly makes my blood boil to see that blackguard swaggering about here and hanging around Miss May as if she belonged to him. It fair spoils my enjoyment and my food, it does. But you see how difficult it is for a man in my position to interfere. But your case is different."

Fielden shook his head sadly. His case was very different indeed. More and more bitterly did he blame himself for the heedless, senseless folly which had brought him to his present pitch. How changed things might have been if he had only shown ordinary prudence! What would he gain if he went to Sir George with these vague stories about Copley? He could not doubt but that Sir George was deeply in Copley's debt, and that Copley had brought this about so that, when the time came, he could force May to marry him. These painful thoughts were uppermost in his mind as he strode back to the house. He could not shake them off, though May rallied him on his quietness and offered him the proverbial penny for his thoughts.

"I know what is the matter," she said gaily. "You are fretting because you have nothing to do. But that won't be for long. Do you know that we are dining with Mr. Copley to-night, and that you have been included in the invitation? Mr. Copley telephoned from London this morning, and you were especially mentioned by name. I am sure if I put in a word for you the post will be as good as yours. Before long you will be occupying an important place in the racing world, and the rest is in your own hands. You have the consolation, too, of knowing that no one has recognized you."

It was on the tip of Fielden's tongue to refuse. It was repugnant to his instincts to take service with a man like Copley. Yet, on the other hand, it was fair enough to fight this fellow with his own weapons. Through him Fielden had lost the chance of his lifetime. But for him and his rascally associates, Fielden and Phillips would have been rich men to-day. Moreover, if something were not done speedily, a fate which was worse than death awaited May Haredale. To turn his back upon a chance like this would be to precipitate the very calamity which he was most anxious to avert. Copley was the type of strong man who always gets his way. He was not the least scrupulous as to his methods, and Sir George Haredale was bound to him hand and foot. It would be far better to seize this coign of vantage, especially as Copley had not the smallest idea of the bitter enemy he was maintaining under his roof.

Meanwhile, Copley and his friend Foster had returned from town. They reached Copley's establishment, Seton Manor, just before dark. They had not lost any time. Apparently they had done their work fairly well, for, according to the late evening papers, the Blenheim colt had receded steadily in the betting. People were asking themselves what had happened. Most of the public knew and respected Sir George Haredale. Not the faintest shadow rested on his reputation, and this fact had had somewhat of a steady effect on the market. But though a certain division had rushed in at these improved prices to back their fancy, there seemed to be an unlimited amount of money ready to be laid against the horse. At any rate, Copley was fairly satisfied. He had invested several thousand pounds against the Blenheim colt, which, in his opinion, was already as good as out of the running altogether.

He came into what he called his library just before dinner and found Foster awaiting him. Both were in evening dress, both exceedingly shiny and glossy, and both carried more jewellery than was in accordance with good taste. The guests were not expected for half an hour, so Copley helped himself liberally to brandy and soda and lighted a fresh cigarette.

"Any letters?" he asked.

"Nothing of importance," Foster replied. "When I left you this morning I went round to see if I could see anything of Phillips. He wasn't at his lodgings, and they said he wasn't expected back till to-morrow. Now what are you going to do about that chap?"

"Oh, let him go to the devil!" Copley growled.

"My dear Copley, why do you always talk like that? Why do you think that every man is a fool except yourself? You appear to be very prosperous. Nobody can deny your courage. And because you are not afraid of Phillips you seem to think he isn't dangerous. I think he is. Suppose he goes to Scotland Yard and lays his information before the people there, and suppose they communicate with the authorities in Cape Town, the result will be an application for your arrest, and once you get out there you know what will happen. It will be all U.P."

"Thinking about your own skin," Copley sneered.

"Well, and what if I am? I haven't got a sanguine temperament like yours. Of course, we could buy Phillips off; at least we could buy him off for the time being and keep his mouth shut till we devised some plan for getting rid of him altogether. But he is a cunning devil, is Aaron Phillips, and has learnt how to profit by past experience. It is no use asking him to come to your hotel. He isn't going to walk into a trap like that, and he isn't going to wait much longer, either. If we could give him a thousand pounds just to go on with, why——"

"A thousand devils," Copley exclaimed furiously. "Where am I going to get a thousand pounds? I mean, where am I going to get it just at this moment? I've got this place here, which isn't paid for. I managed to get the bank to advance the money till I could complete the purchase, and the furnishing was an easy matter. One can get as much credit as one likes in this country, provided one winks at extortionate charges. As I will never pay for the stuff at all, the West End tradesmen can charge what they please. But the fact remains that though people are tumbling over one another to get my custom I am fairly at my wits' end for ready cash. Of course, it will be all right when the flat season begins in earnest. With any luck there'll be a hatful of money to share between us before the October meeting at Newmarket. We ought to make over a thousand pounds at Mirst Park on Saturday week. I suppose you've got it all ready. Got the telephone in place? The worst of this game is that one has to take so many people into one's confidence."

"There's no doubt of that," Copley agreed. "Then there's nothing to settle now. Did you rehearse the bit in Covent Garden?"

"Oh, yes. I was in the office we have taken next door to the Post Club, and went through the whole thing with Radley, who was stationed outside. There wasn't a hitch anywhere. I don't see why we shouldn't clear a thousand pounds; indeed, we might make a great deal more. But perhaps it would be just as well to be on the safe side. It would be a fatal mistake to arouse the suspicions of the bookmakers at the beginning, and if this scheme breaks down we've got another one."

Copley smiled as he finished his brandy and soda. He threw the end of his cigarette into the grate as the door bell rang.

"Come along," he said. "Here are our guests. Let us go into the drawing-room and wait for them. We must assume respectability even if we have it not."

CHAPTER IX

IN THE TOILS

"Hadn't we better go back?" May suggested.

Copley turned an admiring glance upon the girl. There was no mistaking the expression of his face. May had more than her fair share of courage, but she was feeling a bit restless and nervous. She was wondering why she disliked this man so much. She had had nothing but kindness and courtesy at his hands. She knew that he had helped her father more than once. Yet her instinct told her that Copley was not to be trusted. There was a boldness about him that repelled her, something in his glittering eye from which she recoiled. Now she knew almost before the words were spoken what Copley was going to say.

"The others are not likely to miss us for a bit," he said. "Besides, there is something I have to talk to you about. To be perfectly candid, I asked you over here this evening on purpose. I wonder why it is that you avoid me so."

"I was not aware of it," May murmured.

"But, indeed, you do. I have noticed it more than once. Surely you must know why I come so frequently to Haredale Park. I am not much of a ladies' man, Miss May, and I never have been. I have led a rough kind of life. I know so little of the atmosphere of drawing-rooms. But every man recognizes, when the time comes, when he meets with the woman who is made for him alone, and that is the point I have reached. I think I could provide you all you need. You will have a fine house and a good position, and everything you want. I daresay this is a rough way of putting it, but it is none the less sincere for that."

It was sincere enough, as May had to admit. Copley's assurance had vanished. He was speaking from his heart. The man was rogue and scoundrel through and through, but had fallen deeply in love with May Haredale. He was prepared to go any lengths to make her his wife. It was the only piece of honesty and sincerity that he had ever displayed since he was old enough to know the distinction between right and wrong.

May stood silent and trembling. She was not insensible to the compliment Copley was paying her. She knew that he meant every word he said, and she knew, too, that there must be a hard fight before she could convince him that the thing he so ardently desired was impossible. She had an uneasy feeling, too, that Copley had not yet played all his cards. "I ought to thank you, I suppose," she said. "In a sense you are doing me an honour, and this is the first time that any man has asked me such a question, and naturally I feel disturbed. But what you ask of me is quite impossible."

"Why impossible?" Copley asked grimly. "Oh, I didn't expect you to jump at me; I know you are not that sort of girl. Perhaps that is one of the main reasons why I am so anxious to make you my wife. But if there is no one else——"

"There is no one else," May said with a sorrowful sincerity which was not lost upon her companion. "There is no one else, and there never will be. If it is any sort of consolation to you, Mr. Copley, I shall never marry."

"Never is a long day," Copley smiled. "At any rate, as long as there is nobody else in question I shall feel encouraged to go on. I am a very persistent man, and in the end I always get my own way. I'll ask you again in a week or two, and, perhaps, when you have had time to think it over——"

"No, no," May said firmly. "There must be no thinking it over. I could not marry you. I could not care for you enough for that and I would never marry a man to whom I could not give myself wholly and entirely. It is the same to-day, it will be the same next year. Mr. Copley, I ask you not to allude to this distressing topic again. If you do, I shall have no alternative but to treat you as a stranger."

There was no mistaking the sincerity of May's words. Her natural courage and resolution had come back to her. She met Copley's glance without flinching. Her little mouth was firmly set. Even Copley, with all his egotism and assurance, knew that the last words had been said.

A sudden blind rage clutched him. His thin veneer of gentility vanished. He stretched out a hand and laid it upon the girl's arm.

"So you mean to defy me," he said hoarsely.

"Defy you!" May cried, indignantly. "What do you mean? Have you forgotten that you are a gentleman? Anybody would think to look at you and hear you speak that you were playing the villain in some sensational melodrama. You have paid me the compliment of asking me to be your wife, and I have done my best to decline in such a manner as to give you as little pain as possible. You will be good enough to take me back to the billiard-room and not to allude to this matter again."

Copley laughed derisively. He had forgotten himself. The love and passion in his heart had died away to a sullen anger. Never since he had known May Haredale had he felt such a wild longing to possess her. Well, if the girl would have it, then he must speak openly and freely. She must be made to understand that here was her master, whose lightest wish she must learn to obey.

"You don't understand," he said. "I suppose you think you have only to raise your hand and pick and choose. Ah, you are mistaken, my dear young lady. If you don't believe me, ask Sir George. He promised to speak to you on my behalf, but I see he hasn't done so. Probably he shirked it. Now I shall have to tell you myself. Do you know that at the present moment I am master of Haredale Park? I don't imagine you are acquainted with business, but you know that your father is not a rich man. Has that fact escaped you?"

"I am aware of it," May said coldly.

"Very well, then. Where do you suppose he has found the money to pay his racing debts? Do you suppose it dropped from the clouds? During the last twelve months, your father has had from me something like thirty thousand pounds. Even a rich man can't always put his hand on large sums of money like that. And I should have refused to part with the money if it had not been for your sake. But when a man is in love, he is guilty of all sorts of follies and extravagances and when a man like me is in love he does not stick at trifles. Now try to realize my position. Try to realize that if I say the word there is an end to Haredale Park as far as you are concerned. I am not boasting. I could turn you both out to-morrow if I chose, and what would become of you then? Ask yourself the question. You needn't answer it now; you can take time to do so."

May Haredale trembled from head to foot. She had half-dreaded, half-expected this, but the blow was no less crushing now that it had fallen, and she could see from the grim expression on Copley's face that he meant every word he said. She had read of similar situations in novels, but they had sounded cold and unconvincing, and little like the real thing now that she was face to face with it.

"You would never do it," she faltered.

"By Heaven, I would!" Copley cried. "Ah, you do not know what manner of man I am. Why, when you look at me like that, instead of melting I grow all the harder. I must make you my wife. You little know the sacrifices I have made to bring this about. I never thought that I could be a fool for the sake of a woman. I could almost laugh at my own folly, but it has become part and parcel of my very existence, the only object in the world that is worth attaining. Well, it is no use talking, for I could go on in the same strain all night. It is for you to decide. You can please yourself whether your father is turned out of house and home, or whether your prosperous and happy future——"

"Prosperous and happy future," May echoed scornfully. "The words on your lips sound like blasphemy. It seems almost incredible that a man with any sort of pride should stoop to such a trick as this to force a woman to marry him, when, from the bottom of her heart, she loathes and detests him."

Copley jeered.

"Oh, go on," he said. "Let it come out. Treat me as if I were dirt under your feet. But you will think better of it before a week has passed. Tell your father what I have been saying to-night, and talk it over with him. Perhaps he will be able to persuade you better than I can. Let us go back to the billiard-room."

May turned coldly away, but her eyes were dim, and all the world seemed slipping away from beneath her feet.

CHAPTER X

CONFESSION

There was no longer room for hesitation in Fielden's mind. There was a conspiracy between Sir George and Copley against May Haredale's happiness. Fielden was boiling. It seemed incredible that a man like Sir George could deliberately become a party to such a scheme as this. And so the game went on, with two people at least not taking the faintest interest in it. Then the door opened and May Haredale entered.

Fielden shot a swift glance in her direction. He saw how pale her face was, how rigidly haughty and set were her features. There were traces of tears in her eyes, but so far as Fielden could see he had no cause to despair. Whatever had been said or done, Copley had not gained much. His face showed that. Defeat was written all over it. He was not the man to put up with disaster without showing it, and Fielden knew in that moment that so far, at any rate, things had not gone well with his host. Sir George saw it, too, for his jaw dropped, and he turned almost a guilty face towards Copley. For a moment there was an awkward silence.

"It is getting very late," May said. "Don't you think we had better be going?"

Haredale looked at Copley as if waiting for a lesson.

"It is not so very late," he remarked.

"Well, it seems so to me," May said. "Besides I am very tired. I am sure Mr. Copley will excuse me."

Copley murmured something more or less appropriate. He was not used to taking the trouble to disguise his humiliation.

"If you must go, you must," he said. "I'll come round after breakfast and see you to-morrow morning, Sir George. I have something important to say to you. Perhaps you will be there, too, Mr. Fielden. I fancy I can put something in your way. I want some one to take a general superintendence of my stables. Sir George tells me you are thoroughly up to the work, and that I can place every confidence in you. You seem to be the sort of man I am looking for, and, though I am interested in racing, I have very little time to spare to look into the details."

"Surely, there is nothing you have to say to me to-night," he said. "It will keep till to-morrow."

Without reply May turned towards the drawing-room and Sir George followed. He closed the door carefully behind him. She crossed to the fireplace and stood facing her father. Her face was firm, though her lips trembled slightly, and the task before her was by no means a pleasant one.

"I hardly know how to begin," she said. "It is so difficult for me in my unfortunate position. I have never ceased to regret the death of my mother, but I cannot remember feeling the want of her so much as I do now. I suppose you can guess what happened to-night. You know what Mr. Copley said to me."

Sir George shook his head. His attempt to appear unconcerned was so grotesque a failure that, in spite of her unhappiness, May could not repress a smile.

"You are very transparent," she cried. "You make a bad conspirator, father. You know perfectly well what happened to-night. You know why we were asked to dine with Mr. Copley. He has done me the honour to ask me to be his wife. Now don't pretend to be surprised, because Mr. Copley had your full sanction; in fact, he told me he had discussed the matter with you more than once."

"And you accepted him?" Sir George asked eagerly.

"We will come to that presently. Now let me ask you a question. Suppose that your position was as good as it was twenty years ago, that there were no mortgages on the estate. In that case, what would you have said to Mr. Copley if he had expressed a wish to become your son-in-law? You wouldn't have turned him out of the house, because we don't do things like that. But your reply would have been no less unmistakable. You would have made Mr. Copley feel the absurdity of his ambition. He would never have been asked to come here again. Now isn't that so?"

Sir George shuffled about uneasily.

"Other times, other methods," he answered. "You see the condition of things is quite altered. Really, some of our best women marry rich men who have nothing particular to boast of in the way of pedigree. I can call a dozen cases to mind."

"Yes," May retorted. "And I can call a dozen cases to mind where you have expressed the strongest indignation with parents who have encouraged marriages of that sort. You have stigmatized the thing as a sale. Why, you refused to shake hands with Lord Middlebourne when he told you that his daughter was going to marry young Blackley. Yet, in the face of all this, you entered into a conspiracy with Mr. Copley, a conspiracy which you must know would be fatal to my happiness."

"You, you didn't refuse him?" Sir George gasped.

"Refuse him! Of course I did. I hope I did not say too much. But I let him know that the thing was impossible. I told him that in no circumstances could I become his wife. I have felt that this was coming for some time, and I blame myself for permitting things to go so far. Mr. Copley took it very badly. He lost his temper. He threatened me. He even went so far as to say that, unless I thought better of my reply, he would turn us out of Haredale Park."

Sir George turned a white and anxious face towards his daughter.

"Did he say that?" he asked hoarsely.

"I have already told you so. But, of course, this is ridiculous. You would never have been so foolish as to place yourself in the power of a man like Mr. Copley. It is very well to know such people, and I daresay you have found him useful in business. But as to the rest—— Why do you look at me like that? You don't mean to say that his story is actually true?"

Sir George seemed to have some difficulty in speaking. When at length the words came they were free enough.

"It is true," he said. "My dear child, you must not blame me unduly. I have been terribly unfortunate of late. Everything I have touched has gone wrong. I am almost afraid to look at my betting book, and if the Blenheim colt does not win the Derby, then I shall be something worse than a pauper. You don't know what hopes I build upon this. If it comes off all right we shall be rich and prosperous. But it has been an awful struggle to keep my head above water so far, and when Copley offered to help me in an open-handed way, I dared not refuse. Of course, I had not the least idea then that he had given you even more than a passing thought. It never occurred to me that he was lending me this money merely to have a hold upon me, and I thought it possible you might care for him. There is always the chance——"

"Oh, you didn't. I cannot believe you would ever think so meanly of me as that."

"Well, I don't know," Sir George said, stung into retort. "Anyhow, it is unfortunate that Harry Fielden should come back just now."

The hot blood flamed into May's face.

"That is unjust and ungenerous," she cried. "In any case, my reply would be just the same. I never did care for anybody but Harry Fielden, and I never will. You know that. There is not the slightest chance of his ever being in a position to keep a wife. But we are talking in a circle. I am more than sorry to hear what you say, but if the worst comes to the worst we shall have to dispose of everything and leave Haredale Park. For nothing shall induce me to marry Raymond Copley."

"Well, there's an end of it all," Sir George said. "This makes a beggar of me. But don't decide like that. Think it over and give me your final answer in the morning."

CHAPTER XI

ON THE EDGE

"Oh, there's nothing whatever the matter with me," May said in her candid way. "I am only worried, that's all. You have been here quite long enough to see that things are not going with us as they should. It will be a terrible thing if our colt fails to win the Derby. Indeed, I don't know how we shall be able to carry on till the end of May in any case. What a wretched business it all is! How foolish people are to risk their happiness on the speed of a horse! But the Haredales have always been gamblers. I suppose it is in the blood. Put on your hat and take me for a walk across the Downs. I need something to blow the cobwebs away."

Fielden was eager. For some time he walked in silence by the girl's side, waiting for her to speak. He had a feeling that, sooner or later, May would confide in him. She stopped suddenly and raised her eyes to his.

"I am going to ask you a question," she said. "I want you to put yourself in my place for a moment. Suppose that the honour and fortune of the family rested in my hands, and it was for me to say whether the Haredales were to leave this old place in poverty and disgrace, or whether they were to stay on occupying the old position, what would you do?"

"It depends on circumstances," Fielden said.

"Of course it does, my dear boy. I didn't expect you to make such a tame reply as that. Surely you must know what I mean. It is for me to decide. I have the opportunity of bringing into the family the necessary money to set everything right. But at a price."

"As usual," Fielden, said sadly. "The price happens to be yourself."

"You have guessed it. The price is myself. I suppose it would be no news to you if I told you who the man was."

"Not after last night," Fielden said between his teeth. "So Raymond Copley has asked you to marry him. I suppose it is the old story which one has read in books and newspapers a thousand times. Copley has got your father under his thumb and has threatened to ruin him, unless you consent to be his wife. I am not a very shrewd person, but I felt sure of this when we came home last night. You refused Copley, of course, and he took his refusal in the way such a cad would. He threatened you and said he had your father on his side. And now you are hesitating what to do. You have said that no power on earth shall force you to consent, that you cannot save the family honour at such a price. You are right, May. It is a vile thing to ask of a girl. It is so mean and dishonourable. Heaven knows, I care for your welfare. I never knew how much I did care till we met in London the other night. Then I realized for the first time the price I am paying for my folly. If I hadn't been a fool, you would be my wife to-day, and it would have been my pleasure and privilege to help Sir George out of his trouble. Can you ever forgive me?"

May turned a tearful face towards Fielden. Impulsively she held out her hands to him, and he caught them almost fiercely. They were alone on the wide stretch of Downs. Not a soul was in sight. Neither knew how it happened, but a moment later Fielden's arms were about the girl, and she was crying unrestrainedly upon his shoulder. There was only one thing for it, and that was to kiss the tears away and bring the smiles back to May's lips.

"Now we have done it," Fielden said ruefully. "I am a nice fellow to talk about other men being dishonourable. I ought to be well thrashed for giving way to temptation like this. Fancy a man in my position daring to make love to any girl. But you knew what my feelings were."

"I was sure," May whispered.

"But what are we to do? It would be another matter, I suppose, if it were three months later and the Blenheim colt had won the Derby. Then, perhaps, Sir George would forgive me and make the best of it for your sake. As it is, I have only succeeded in complicating matters. You are resolved, of course, that nothing will induce you to change your mind so far as Copley is concerned. But will you have strength enough to do it, May? I don't think you realize the pressure which would be put upon you when you find that Haredale Park will have to go, when you find yourself in lodgings——"

"Never," May cried passionately. "I refuse even to discuss it. The idea is unthinkable."

Fielden pressed the point no longer. He really had not the heart to do so. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof. But it was with mixed feelings that an hour or so later he walked across the fields to Seton Manor. Copley was waiting to receive him. The latter was in his hardest and most businesslike mood. There was something repellent about the expression of his face. The library reeked strongly of tobacco and spirits. From the ruddy tinge on Copley's face he had partaken of more than one brandy and soda already.

Fielden hoped there was nothing in the expression of his face which in any way betrayed his thoughts. Fancy a man like this married to a girl like May Haredale! Copley was braggart and bully to his finger-tips—a man without heart, or conscience, or feeling. Nay, he was worse than this, as Fielden very well knew. For the moment, it was on the tip of Harry's tongue to say he had thought the matter over and had decided to decline Copley's offer. But more prudent thoughts prevailed. It would be as well to be as near Copley as possible, to be on the spot, to act when disaster threatened. Besides, Fielden, to some extent, was in league with Aaron Phillips, and if there was anything in the way of rascality afoot, it might be possible to detect it. It would be a fine thing to go to Copley with the evidence of his rascality in plain black and white, and agree to silence on the condition that this persecution of Miss Haredale ceased.

"Ah! you have come," Copley said in his blunt way. "Well, I have arranged everything for you. I want you to take over the entire management of my stable. The last man had four hundred a year and the run of the house, and I am prepared to offer you the same terms. Everything will be left in your hands. As I told you last night, my racing stable is only a side-show, and I don't want to be bothered with it. You can make a start next week at Mirst Park. I have horses running in races both days, and I shall probably run down myself. But you know the ropes well enough."

"I think you can leave it to me," Fielden remarked.

"Very well, then, that's settled. You can ask the housekeeper to give you a room. You can have all the meals you want, and the horses will be yours to handle as you like. I must wish you good morning, for I have a score of things to occupy my attention before I motor to town at six o'clock. I think that will do. Good day."

Fielden took his leave, hardly knowing whether to be pleased or not. He spent the next hour or so in the stables, interviewing the stud groom and the helpers, who seemed to know all about the new arrangement. He said little or nothing about it, but was somewhat surprised to find what a poor set of horses Copley owned. For the most part they were little better than platers. There might be a racer or two amongst them, but only for small meetings. The groom was quite open in his comments, and to these Fielden listened discreetly. He was free, presently, to go over to Haredale Park and get his belongings together. He strode across the Downs and passed the wide stretch of turf where the trial of the Blenheim colt had taken place. He was hurrying down the slope when he came face to face with Aaron Phillips.

"I was looking for you," the latter said. "I haven't been letting the grass grow under my feet since we met last. I am beginning to get a hold of the game. We shall be able to make those fellows sit up before long. I suppose you couldn't manage to get away on Friday and Saturday next for the two days' racing at Mirst Park? If you can, I shall show you something that will open your eyes."

"As it happens," Fielden explained, "I am going there. I have just been appointed a kind of general manager to Mr. Copley. I have to thank Sir George Haredale for this. As you can imagine, Phillips, it is not a congenial occupation. But there are urgent reasons why I ought to accept it. We have a horse or two entered for the Mirst Park meeting, and I shall go with them. Now, then, what is it?"

Aaron Phillips' face lightened.

"What a stroke of luck!" he exclaimed. "In that case, I need not detain you now. But I'll contrive to see you on the course, and then I think it will be our turn."

CHAPTER XII

A LION IN THE PATH

Foster came in a moment or two later. His usual smile had deserted him, and he looked troubled and anxious.

"I wanted to see you," said Copley. "I can't for the life of me understand this betting. Here's the Blenheim colt backed for a ton of money again. Why, in the face of the commission we have put on the market, he ought to be fairly knocked out."

"Oh, I've seen it," Foster replied. "I've sent for the boy. I wonder if that young rascal played us false. But, no, I don't think he would dare do that. Besides, he stands to win a pot of money himself. At any rate, I have sent for him, and if there was anything about the trial that was not fair we shall know it in half an hour."

For the next hour or so the two conspirators sat discussing the matter. Then there came to them a diminutive youth, shrunken and clean-shaven, with the air of one who has passed all his life in the atmosphere of a stable. His little wizened face was white with agitation, and he stood, with his eyes cast to the ground, waiting for Copley to speak.

"What is it?" the latter asked roughly.

"I don't know, sir," the boy said humbly. "I don't know how it was done. Ah, that there Raffle is a deep 'un. I made sure as the trial the other morning was all open and above board, and now I find as how it wasn't the Blenheim colt we saw at all. It is no use asking me to explain, gentlemen, and it is no use bullying me, for the more you do that the more muddled I get. It is only a word or two I 'eard between Raffle and the 'ead lad that put me on the scent. We've got two or three 'osses in the stable as like the Blenheim colt as two peas. They are nearly all the same blood, you know. What old Raffle is a-driving at, I dunno. But it looks as if one colt was changed for another at the last moment, and nobody would have been any the wiser if I hadn't 'eard that little conversation this blessed morning."

Copley and Foster exchanged glances. It was no use to scarify the boy, for the conspiracy was none of his making, and he was obviously telling the truth; indeed, he had been well paid to bring information to Copley and had nothing to gain by further deception. But what was the meaning of it all? Why had Raffle chosen to bring off a mock trial? So far as Copley knew, Raffle had no reason to suspect the honesty of the stable boy. He could not know that he was in Copley's pay, nor could he have known, either, that Copley and Foster would witness that early morning trial. Could it be that there was some one else in the field whom Raffle wished to deceive? At any rate, whether that was so or not, Joe Raffle had put both Copley and his accomplice in a hole. After witnessing the trial they had laid against the colt to an enormous amount, and, after all, Sir George Haredale's horse might win the Derby. They dismissed the boy with strict injunctions to keep his eyes open and let them know the latest developments. Then they talked the matter over to see if they could find some way out of the trouble.

"It's a bit of a facer," Copley muttered. "I am bound to confess I never expected anything like this. I wonder what that old fox Raffle was driving at? Whom is he trying to deceive? I'd give something to know."

"What does it matter?" Foster asked impatiently. "Wilfully or not, he has deceived us. As I figure it out, we stand to lose something like five thousand pounds. If that horse starts fit and well for the Derby we shall be in a rare mess. And there's nothing to beat the colt. It would be maddening to be done at the beginning of the season. Fancy having to upset all our plans because of a misfortune like this!"

"Unless we could stop the colt," Copley suggested.

Foster looked keenly across the table at his companion.

"That's not a bad idea," he said thoughtfully. "If the Blenheim colt lost the Derby we should win ten thousand pounds at least. At the price the horse stands in the betting to-day, we could lay another twenty thousand pounds without knocking him altogether out of the betting. I don't call to mind a case in which the public have been more infatuated about a horse. Why, our commission never shook him at all. Suppose, without anybody knowing it, we could guarantee that the horse didn't start. In that case, we could lay a hundred thousand pounds against him, with the absolute knowledge that it would be only a question of time before we scooped up the money. Our Mirst Park scheme is a mere fleabite to it."

Copley's sombre eyes lighted a little.

"Yes, if we could only do it," he sneered. "But the age for that game is past. There is no chance of hocussing a horse, or laming him, or bribing a stable boy, or squaring a jockey. That was all very well in the old days, when meetings were few and far between, and we hadn't got an enlightened Press that watches everything as a cat watches a mouse. It's no use wasting time over idle dreams of that sort, Foster. Poor as he is, Sir George wouldn't even hear of such a thing."

"Think not?" Foster asked. "Well, I believe myself that every man has his price. I have never found anything to the contrary. I thought you were a fool to come down here at all. I thought you were a fool to allow yourself to be fascinated by that girl, but now I begin to see a way of turning it to account. I don't suppose she'll marry you. I never thought she would."

The big veins on Copley's temples thickened.

"Stow that," he said hoarsely. "You are going too far. I'll not listen to a word of it. It is no business of yours. If you have anything good to suggest, I shall be glad to listen to it, but I'll thank you to leave Miss Haredale's name out of the discussion."

"Oh, very well," Foster said sulkily. "But, in this case, one thing leads to another. To gain Miss Haredale you found money for her father when we could have done with it ourselves—indeed, we wanted it pretty badly. Now is your chance to get it back, and more. Sir George can't pay you. He could as easily repay a million. He will find, too, that it is impossible to coerce Miss Haredale into marrying you. Don't get wild. I don't want to introduce the young lady's name more than I can help, but I am bound to speak of her. You will find that she will hold out to the end, and that, if need be, she won't object to leaving Haredale Park. But Sir George will cut up rough when the time comes. He is chockful of family pride. He is the sort of chap who is wedded to the family home, and when the pinch comes you'll find him ready for anything. Of course, he will make a fuss. He will ask you how you dare suggest such a thing to him, but it will come right in the end."

Copley glanced contemptuously at the speaker.

"What are you talking about?" he exclaimed. "What are you driving at? Do you take Sir George for an utter fool? Do you suppose that he is likely to scratch a horse he has backed to win or lose everything he has?"

"Well, why not? He backed the colt at a very long price, and I don't suppose he has put down more than a thousand altogether. On the other hand, he owes you at least forty. Suppose you ask him to pay that back at once. Suppose you let him know that if he doesn't you will turn him out of his house a mere beggar. Suppose, if he consent, you offer to wipe out his debt and give him, say ten thousand pounds, the day after the colt is scratched. You needn't do it now; you can wait a month. Then you can put the screw on at once. He'll kick, jib, order you out of the house, but he will knuckle under in the long run. If he doesn't, then I'm a fool and know nothing about human nature. Why, the thing is so easy and perfectly safe not a soul will know anything about it. The colt pulls up lame one day at exercise, he is reported to be coughing, and before the fools who back horses know what has happened the pen has been put through the name of the favourite. You've got the game entirely in your hands. Then we can get our commissions out all over the country and make a fortune without a penn'orth of risk. By Jove! it makes me tremble only to think of it. If the thing is properly worked, we should divide half a million between us. Now, what have you got to say to that? Doesn't it sound right?"

Copley brought his fist down upon the table.

"By gad," he exclaimed, "I'll do it, Foster!"

CHAPTER XIII

"AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN"

In all likelihood Phillips would have resented the imputation that he was not a sportsman, and have declared emphatically that he was nothing else. He had been connected with racing ever since he could recollect, but had never been across a horse in his life, and would have found it impossible to pick out the good points of an animal. But he was fond of horses in his way. He had heard them talked about for years, and most of the frequenters of his father's public-house were either followers of racing or indirectly mixed up with the "sport of kings." He had been born, too, in the vicinity of a classic course and had always taken the greatest interest in the dramatic side of the turf. There was not an ingenious swindle but he had the details of it by heart.

For some years before his departure for South Africa he had followed racing from one course to another. Though he had never done anything deliberately dishonest, he was up to every dodge, always seemed to have money in his pocket, and was invariably well dressed. The fact that his mother had belonged to one of the leading Romany tribes Phillips found greatly to his advantage. He was never above passing the time of day with such nomads as he encountered, and more than once had benefited by this politeness. Had he ever wanted a useful and faithful tool, something uncommonly smart in the way of a human ferret, he knew where to put his hand on such a person. Strange as it may seem, there was never a great fraud connected with the turf that was not freely whispered amongst its humble followers long before it reached the ears of the authorities. More than once Phillips had listened to the outline of a story which would have astonished the magnates of the Jockey Club if they could have heard it. And it was by such means that he had managed to pick up the threads of a plot which, before long, seemed likely to promise sensational disclosures. It was an additional satisfaction to Phillips to know that the main persons in this plot were his old enemies Raymond Copley and Foster. He had followed up the clues in his patient way, and at last had something really definite to go upon.

It might be inferred that Phillips already had these two in the hollow of his hand. But he had learnt patience in the hard school of adversity, and had no intention of throwing away the chance of making money for the mere sake of revenge. At any moment he might have pricked the glittering bubble which Copley had blown, and laid both scoundrels by the heels in gaol, but that would have entailed loss of time and a considerable sojourn in South Africa, without any material return beyond that of triumph over his enemies. Now he was beginning to see a way to crush both Copley and Foster, and fill his own pockets at the same time.

He was not without his peculiar code of honour. Harry Fielden had defended him at one time and he was not going to forget it. Fielden would have been astonished to learn how much Phillips knew about his affairs. He knew, for instance, all about May Haredale. He knew that Copley was infatuated with the girl and was prepared to go any lengths to make her his wife. He knew too, pretty well what was in old Raffle's mind, and chuckled as he thought of it. And now the time had come to fire the first shot.

He turned out of his lodgings on a sunny Friday in February, and made his way to Russell Square. He was more carefully dressed than usual and wore a dark, quiet-looking suit, with a grey overcoat and felt hat. His gloves were neat, his boots well polished, and, save the horseshoe pin in his white cravat, there was no suggestion of the racing man about him. He turned presently into Kelly Street, and, knocking at the door of a certain house, asked for Major Carden. The Major, he was informed, was just finishing breakfast, but would see Mr. Phillips.

It was the usual room in a lodging-house—shabby Axminster carpet, dingy horsehair furniture, with the inevitable lustres on the mantelpiece. The tablecloth was none too clean, though on it was a vase or two of flowers, tastefully arranged. At one end of the table sat a stout pink-faced person with a carefully-trimmed grey moustache. He was a typical specimen of the retired military man, bluff and hearty in manner, with a pair of faded grey eyes faintly tinged with pink. Evidently, too, he had been accustomed to mix with the best people, as he would have phrased it himself. Probably, he still belonged to a good club, and no doubt found it exceedingly difficult to make both ends meet.

The second person at the breakfast table was an exceedingly pretty girl, who looked none the less refined and attractive because her black dress was of the plainest. She was chattering gaily as Phillips came in. She appeared to have a proper respect and affection for her father, whose words she seemed to hang upon. The Major looked up from the table and nodded genially.

"You are punctual, Phillips," he said. "I am afraid I am a little late this morning. Alice, my dear, this is Mr. Phillips. He is the distinguished journalist I was telling you about last night. We are both connected with the same papers."

As the Major spoke, he winked swiftly at Phillips, and the latter smiled. What the Major was driving at he hadn't the remotest idea.

"Oh, yes," he murmured. "The Major and I are old friends."

The girl smiled pleasantly. She appeared a trifle shy, and gave Phillips the impression that she had no friends, and that her young life was, for the most part, a constant sacrifice for her selfish and dissipated father. She rose presently, and with an excuse left the two men together. Immediately she was gone the Major crossed the room and produced a bottle of brandy, from which he helped himself liberally. Phillips curtly refused.

"I met some old friends last night," the Major said. "I am afraid I was just a little—well, you know how it is."

"I do," Phillips said shortly. "But what did you tell that lie for? What have we got to do with journalism?"

"My dear sir, there are times when one must dissemble. I know I am a bit of an old scamp, but, you see, my daughter doesn't know it. I wouldn't for worlds like her to know the life I am leading. She is a good girl and believes in me, and I have managed to give her a fine education. She is the only thing I have in the world to care for. She is the only thing that has kept me from going headlong to the dogs. I daresay when I am done with, some of my relations will look after her. Meanwhile, they take precious good care to keep me at arm's length. I don't blame them, either. I hit upon the journalistic dodge to account for my late hours. I was afraid you might give me away. I am bound to tell you this, and I hope you will respect my confidence. Well, now, what do you want me for? Sit down a minute."

"I have come to put a little money in your way," Phillips replied. "I gave you a hint of what I was after the night before last. They tell me you are a member of the Post Club."

"Oh, yes," Carden replied. "I have managed, somehow or other, to keep myself on the club books. Not that I go to the Post very much, because I can't afford it. If I meet a young friend occasionally who is anxious to see life, I take him there to lunch, on the strict understanding, of course, that he repays me."

"Then I want you to take me there. I would like to lunch there to-day, and I wish you to introduce me to Mr. Rickerby, the commission agent. It is a very simple matter. If you can bring this about and get me half an hour's conversation with Rickerby after lunch, I'll give you a tenner and pay for the lunch besides. There's no risk and no responsibility as far as you are concerned."

The Major pondered the matter.

"What are you up to?" he asked presently.

"That," Phillips said, "is no business of yours. But I assure you that I am up to nothing wrong. Nothing I can say or do will get you into trouble. I don't mind telling you there is a big swindle on foot to rob the leading bookmakers and commission agents and I am trying to expose it. If I do, there will be a good round sum of money for me, and if I fail, I shall be none the worse off. Now, are you game?"

The Major smiled. At that moment ten-pound notes were scarce, and Phillips' offer came in the nature of a windfall. But it was not part of his diplomacy to accept the suggestion too eagerly.

"I think so," he said. "I don't see why I shouldn't accommodate you. Perhaps, later, you might have something else to put in my way."

"Very well, then," Phillips replied. "I need not detain you now. I'll meet you at the club at half-past one."