Hard Pressed

CHAPTER XXI

THE EAVESDROPPERS

"I've found it," he said. "If I lean over the banisters I can jam the point of this stick into the eye of the burner, and put out the gas. They won't be able to light it again for a while. Is it safe?"

The sudden pop of a cork was heard.

"Sounds like it," Fielden whispered. "I think Foster carried in everything and they are at supper. Now is your time."

Phillips leant over the banisters, and at the second attempt thrust the sharpened end of the long strip of wood into the eye of the burner. There was a feeble flicker or two, and then the whole place was wrapped in darkness. He was only just in time, for almost on the same instant Foster came out of the dining-room. They heard him muttering that the gas had gone wrong, and watched him, faintly outlined by a match, strive in vain to light the gas once more. After the third attempt he abandoned the effort with an oath and went back to the dining-room. Straining their ears, the two men on the landing could hear Copley's reply.

"Choked up with dust, I suppose. But never mind so long as we are all right. Sit down and eat. I daresay those other fellows will be some time yet."

Phillips whispered in his companion's ear.

"I think we shall be safe. What do you say to creep away now we have the opportunity? Or would it be worth while to stay outside the dining-room and listen to what they're talking about? It is pitch dark, and we can slope at any moment."

Fielden was feeling reckless. It did not matter what happened. Without further ado they tiptoed into the hall where, by the aid of the intense stillness and a door ajar, they commanded all that was going on. Copley sat at one end of the table, facing Foster at the other. For some time the two men ate steadily with an appetite sharpened by their drive through the cold air. When the meal was finished Copley pushed his chair aside and strode over to the fireplace. Would Foster remove the supper things? He had begun to gather the plates and dishes together when Copley stopped him.

"Oh, never mind the things," he said impatiently. "Let the man remove them in the morning. He can finish up what is left. We have more important matters to attend to. Take a cigar and sit down by the fire. What is the next move?"

"We have had cruel bad luck," Foster replied. "Who would have expected to have two race-days ruined by snowstorms? A prophet could not have foreseen anything like this. I reckon we have lost twenty thousand pounds the last two days."

"It's a bad start," Copley answered. "We didn't have the luck, and we haven't made the money. I was on the roof yesterday and to-day, and I declare to you I couldn't see a single incident in the race. I've never seen two such blinding snow showers. It was simply maddening to stand there and feel a fortune supping through your fingers, all on account of the snow. And that's not the worst, Foster. It will be another month before there will be two days' racing at Mirst Park, and we can't count upon a single penny till then. I tell you frankly I don't know where to turn for ready cash. It's all very fine to have tradesmen breaking their necks to get my custom, but that doesn't fill my purse with the needful. It's very odd that a man in my position can procure almost any article of value he pleases, but when it comes to raising a bit of cash everybody's suspicions are aroused at once."

"Well, philosophy won't help us," Foster said. "We must annex some ready money to carry us over the next month, at any rate. The same ill luck can't happen at the next meeting. Such a coincidence couldn't happen twice. Don't forget that if we can manage to hang on for four weeks we shall make enough to carry us on to the Derby, and after the big race is run we shall be in clover. If you work your cards properly the Blenheim colt is bound to lose, and with this knowledge we can lay against the horse as long as anybody is fool enough to take our bets."

"I haven't forgotten that," Copley said. "Of course, I haven't spoken to Sir George about it yet, but I have asked him to dine with me on Sunday evening at Seton Manor, and I shall put on the screw then. He'll kick at first. He'll talk about the blood of his ancestors and the honour of his race and all that kind of rot, but he is bound to give in. If I asked him to-night he would say he would rather leave Haredale Park and beg his bread before he would do anything to be ashamed of. We have both heard people talk like that before now, but when it comes to the point Sir George will sing another tune. They all do."

"Provided the lady does not change her mind," Foster said with a grin, which caused Fielden, listening at the door, to clench his fists. "You mustn't lose sight of that fact, Copley. Miss Haredale dislikes and despises you. But though she vows that nothing in the world will induce her to marry you, circumstances alter cases, and when she knows she is no longer mistress of Haredale Park, it is possible her frowns may turn into smiles."

Copley laughed unpleasantly.

"I haven't lost sight of these things," he said. "Miss Haredale has the bad taste to dislike me exceedingly. I would give anything if I could induce her to change her mind. I believe I might even grow honest and lead a respectable life. Still, that would be beastly monotonous. Your plan is the best. I had better accept my dismissal and leave Miss Haredale to go her own way. Then I can put the screw on Sir George and compel him to find some excuse for scratching his colt. When he sees that I mean to have my money and discovers the sheriff in possession, he will not be long in inventing a reason why the Blenheim colt should not run that shall be consistent with his confounded dignity. You can leave that safely to me, Foster. My word, how cold it is! I wish you would shut that door. The draught is cutting my legs off. I daresay——"

What Copley was about to say was lost to the listeners in the hall by the closing of the door. They could hear nothing save a murmur of voices which conveyed nothing to their ears. Phillips touched his companion's shoulder.

"Here's our chance," he whispered. "The sooner we are off the better. We cannot learn anything more this evening; indeed, there cannot be much more to learn."

They stole cautiously along the hall, through the kitchen and outhouses, and were soon outside safe under cover of the darkness. It was black enough now that the moon had gone down, and they could move freely into the road and across the heath to the village.

"Well, what do you think of these precious rascals?" Phillips asked. "Don't you agree that we are deep in the secrets of a vile conspiracy? We can't leave it where it is."

"Most certainly not," Fielden said. "At present I am thinking more about Sir George Haredale than of anybody else. A year or two ago I should have scorned the idea of his doing anything dishonourable. But I have learnt worldly wisdom, and can imagine how it would be if Sir George were suddenly face to face with poverty. He is completely under Copley's thumb. If these two men bring off their coup, they will make an enormous fortune. But it must be prevented at all costs, Phillips. Think out some scheme of checkmate, and I shall be your debtor for the rest of my life."

"I think I can manage that," Phillips said. "I'll tell you what my plan is when we get back to my rooms."

CHAPTER XXII

A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE

For Major Carden always appeared to be in the best of health and spirits. Beyond his impecuniosity he had little to trouble him, and at the moment things appeared to be going very well indeed. He saw his way to make money out of Phillips, and had also been offered a roving commission on the Continent to purchase horses for the Army. This would entail his being away for three or four months, but his travelling allowance was liberal, he would put up at the best hotels, and enjoy himself in a manner consonant with his mission and dignity. He would tell his daughter that he was going abroad on some journalistic commission, for the Major, to do him justice, would have been loth for Alice to know all the expedients he resorted to in earning his precarious living.

His love for his daughter was the one wholesome spot in his otherwise shady existence. He had been a selfish man all his life, had spent his own fortune and his wife's, and had broken the heart of that unhappy woman in a gentlemanly way. There had been no violence, no open unkindness, but the refinement of neglect that undermines health and spirit. When the crash finally came the Major removed to London with his young daughter. He told her just as much as he considered necessary, with the consequence that she regarded him as one of the best and most self-denying of men. Alice had few friends, and none knew anything about the Major's means, so that the journalistic fiction remained unassailable, and Alice could speak freely of her father as adding high intellectual qualities to his other gifts. His frequent late absences from home were explained in this way, and if he never said anything definite about his work, his diffidence might be attributed to natural modesty.

In the circumstances, therefore, the Major was not sorry his daughter had had an invitation to spend a holiday at Haredale Park. He had thought of inviting himself also, but his new commission put that out of the question. After he had finished his breakfast he helped himself to a liberal dose of brandy and soda, and had just lighted his first cigar when his daughter came in.

"You are very late," she said with playful fondness. "I declare you grow worse and worse."

"Not my fault, my dear," the Major protested. "These things are inevitable amongst newspaper men. I thought I should be at home by eleven, but something important turned up at the last moment and they told me off to attend to it. They are good enough to say they can depend on me, Alice. That is one of the advantages of being steady. If anything goes wrong at the office the first thing they say is, 'Where is Carden?'"

Alice smiled affectionately. To her this was quite natural. For a girl who had spent so many years in London she was wonderfully simple.

"I suppose it can't be helped," she said. "How few men there are who would have endured your misfortunes and turned to and made a living as you are doing! I wish I were clever."

"Oh, so you are, my dear, so you are," the Major said magnanimously. "The great thing is pluck and perseverance. Without egotism, I think I am endowed with those qualities, and to some extent so are you, and you will make a name as an artist yet. Stick to it, my child, stick to it. At the same time, it is good to have an occasional change, and I am glad you are going to Haredale Park. I suppose you can manage to put your painting pupils off for a week or two? Probably you will find it lonely when I am away. I shall only be able to run over from the Continent occasionally."

"Oh, I shall miss you," Alice said. "But I shall be safe enough. The landlady is always motherly, and she will see I come to no harm."

The Major dismissed the subject with a flourish of his cigar. He had rather feared his daughter might give way to tears. He thought she might ask him to take her along with him and so put him to the pain of refusal. Possibly the girl was looking too eagerly forward to her visit to Haredale Park to think of anything else. She had not forgotten the days when Major Carden was a man of position and they occupied a fine house in the country, when she had her horse and plunged into the dear delights of country life. It was good to feel she was going back to it, even though it was only for a little time. She had already made her modest preparations. She only hoped there would not be too many visitors at Haredale Park. But May Haredale had assured her they lived very quietly and had not many friends.

"I am getting nervous about it," she said. "It will seem so different to the life I have been leading here. If I had only foreseen this I might have saved up and bought myself another dress or two. Still, I know I shall enjoy myself."

"Of course you will," the Major said heartily. "But you won't get much gaiety at Haredale. They don't go in for society much. You see, there are very few of the old families left. Times change, my dear, and we change with them. I don't suppose, plainly speaking, that Sir George is much better off than I am. I happen to know that much depends upon the Blenheim colt winning this year's Derby. I was in the Post Club yesterday with one or two of my——"

The Major coughed hastily as if his cigar smoke had gone the wrong way.

"What am I talking about?" he exclaimed. "Anybody would think I am still interested in sport. Do you know, beyond an occasional day at a small meeting, I have no time for that sort of thing. I was in the Post Club on business, purely on business. It is a very sad thing to see young men wasting so much of their time and money on horses. But I can't prevent them from talking and am bound to hear the gossip that goes on. That is how I came to know so much about Sir George's affairs. Every penny he can scrape together goes on the stables, so you'll probably find that Miss Haredale leads a very quiet existence."

"I am glad to hear it," Alice said. "I shall be happy with her. She was the greatest friend I had at school, and I can't understand how I ever managed to lose sight of her. Is it a nice place?"

"Very pleasant," the Major said critically. "It is a grand old house, full of works of art and furniture and that kind of thing. Of course, all these things go with the estate, so that Sir George could not dispose of them, which is a precious lucky thing for the heir, for there won't be too much for him when the time comes. The stables are very fine, too, and Sir George has some of the best cattle in the country. Oh, I have no doubt you will enjoy yourself. When do you go?"

"To-day," Alice said.

The Major appeared to be slightly embarrassed.

"Oh, yes," he said, "I had forgotten. It is a trifle awkward, because I have only a little money just now. The cashier at the office is so careless. He omitted to draw my cheque on Friday. Till to-morrow I am not sure whether I shall be able to spare money for your fare. Next week it would be quite different."

Alice Carden kissed the speaker affectionately.

"How thoughtful you are!" she said. "You are always thinking about other people. But please don't worry about that. I have saved a little, and shall have enough to keep me for the next two or three weeks and bring me home again."

The Major expressed his gratification. For once at least he was sincere. It was most unfortunate, he said, that he should be in temporary need of cash. He laid strict injunctions upon Alice to spend what she had freely and not for one moment to forget that she was a Carden; if she wanted more money she was to write to him without hesitation. He saw her off at Waterloo presently. He paid for the cab in the most lordly fashion, and insisted on his daughter travelling first class, though he had not the money to pay for the ticket. But Alice was looking forward too eagerly to her holiday to notice these things.

"Good-bye," she cried. "You will have left for the Continent before I come back. But don't let the thought of my being alone in London interfere with your pleasure. I should like to feel you were not troubling about me."

"I'll try, my dear," the Major said. "Good-bye."

CHAPTER XXIII

A CHANGE OF AIR

"What the deuce does it mean?" he soliloquized irritably. "And who are these people, Absalom & Co.? I never had any dealings with them. According to their note-paper they call themselves financial agents, but the whole thing looks more like a communication from money-lenders. Yet I don't see how I owe them anything. They write to remind me that in virtue of an assignment made by Mr. Raymond Copley of a certain date I am in their debt to the extent of more than forty thousand pounds. What the dickens is an assignment? And what does Copley mean by doing a thing of this sort without consulting me? These people hope I shall make arrangements to liquidate the debt in the course of the next fourteen days. Why, they might just as well ask me to find as many millions. But I daresay there is nothing really alarming about the thing if I only understood it. I wish I had a head for figures. I wish my father had given me a business training. Still, Copley will put it right. Perhaps he is annoyed at the way that May has been behaving. But I hardly think he will visit her folly upon me. However, I must say the thing is alarming."

Sir George shuffled the letter into his pocket as the door opened and May entered. She was dressed for going out and was buttoning her driving gloves round her wrists. Outside on the gravel stood a smart cob in a Whitechapel cart.

"Where are you going?" Sir George asked.

"To the station to meet Alice Carden. She will be here for lunch."

"I had forgotten her," Sir George murmured. "To tell you the truth, my dear, I am rather sorry you asked her."

"But I was always fond of Alice."

"Yes, of course, why not? The girl is all right. But, between ourselves, Carden is a bit of a bad egg. He comes of an old family, and I recollect when his position was as good as ours. But he muddled his money away. He always affected the society of those sportsmen who are ready to do anybody. He made the mistake of regarding everybody as a fool except himself, and naturally he came to grief. Those fellows always do."

"But he belongs to one or two good clubs," May protested.

"Oh, I know that. He was never actually found out. He was mixed up in one or two very queer transactions, but contrived to keep clear of trouble himself. There are scores of men who meet him on familiar terms, but precious few ask him to their houses. Still, the girl is coming here, and we must make the best of it. But I wouldn't ask her again if I were you. You can easily drop the acquaintance after the next week or so."

May discreetly refrained from discussing the matter further. There was a strong vein of loyalty in her nature. She liked Alice Carden, and was not disposed to visit any of the father's shortcomings on the daughter. She had almost forgotten what Sir George said during her drive to the station. It was a crisp day, and a frosty sun was shining. There was an exhilaration in the air almost like champagne. Before the station was reached May put her troubles behind her, not a very difficult matter for a girl in her twentieth year who boasts of a fine constitution and a perfect flow of animal spirits. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes sparkling, as she advanced to meet Alice Carden.

"I thought I would come for you myself," she said. "I brought a cart which I am driving. Now if you will pick out your boxes we'll get a porter to put them in the trap for you."

"My boxes," Alice laughed. "Behold my humble belongings. I have come down here with one dress-basket which contains all the finery I have. I hope you haven't many dinner parties and that kind of thing, for, positively, I have only one evening dress, and I am afraid that that is hopelessly out of date. Still, if you have any special functions, it will be easy to plead a convenient headache."

May laughed as she took up the reins.

"Calm yourself," she said. "I assure you there will be nothing of that sort. We have dropped out of gaieties. For one thing, most of our old friends have left the neighbourhood, and my father doesn't care for new people. We three will probably dine alone every night of your stay, and we can ride and drive, and I can give you a day or two with the hounds if you like."

Alice Carden protested sincerely that she wanted nothing better. It was pleasant to find herself once more driving down the country roads behind a good horse. It was like old times when she came to Haredale Park and surveyed the room which had been appropriated to her use. It was exactly as her father had described. Here was the old oak, the long rambling passages, the china and pictures and ancient furniture, all in the setting where they had been fixed the best part of two centuries ago. Here was the open landscape in front of the mullioned windows. Here were the woods and fields and lawns, and in the distance the stables where Sir George Haredale's stud led its luxurious existence.

It was pleasant to sit in the dining-room before a well-appointed lunch with the fine silver on the table, the vases of flowers, and the beautiful glass. Whatever Sir George's feelings on the subject of his daughter's guest were, there was nothing in his manner to which the girl could take exception. He was natural, courtly and charming, as he always was, and appeared to take the keenest pleasure in Alice Carden's arrival. So far as she could see, there was no sign of trouble, no grim shadow to forecast the ruin hanging over the house. The butler and a footman or two moved about the room. The sunshine poured through the painted windows. Altogether it was a household to be envied. Alice's spirits rose accordingly. She meant thoroughly to enjoy herself, and when lunch was over professed herself willing to fall in with any plan May had to suggest.

"Well, let us have a ride," the latter said. "We will go over the Downs towards the sea and come back by Seton Manor. Now run away and get your habit on. I will have a horse saddled for you which is not too fresh. You used to be a daring rider at one time, but it is as well to begin cautiously. In a day or two you shall have a hunter after your own heart."

They rode out in the keen sunshine and broke across the wide expanse of Downs, and Alice Carden gave herself up to the exquisite enjoyment of the hour. It was good to feel the elastic movement of the cob, to listen to the thud of his hoofs on the turf and catch the breeze streaming in her face. They turned presently as the sun was setting, and jogged more quietly homewards. A little later, as they came to Seton Manor, a string of horses clothed and hooded were turning into the stables. Alice pulled up.

"Who lives there?" she asked.

Some colour crept into May Haredale's cheeks.

"Our neighbour, Mr. Copley," she explained. "He is a newcomer and a great lover of horses; he is very rich, having made a large fortune in South Africa, and I suppose this is one way of getting rid of his income. Like most beginners at the game, he has hardly any good horses, but that is probably because he hasn't time to look after them himself."

"Is he a friend of yours?" Alice asked.

"Oh, well, he comes over to Haredale Park pretty frequently. My father has struck up a sort of intimacy with him. Between ourselves, I detest the man. He goes everywhere in virtue of his money, but he is not a gentleman, as anybody can see. I am going to tell you a secret, Alice, which you must not tell to a soul. Mr. Copley is anxious to marry me. Needless to say, I have given him very little encouragement."

"Of course, you wouldn't," Alice said. "You haven't forgotten what you used to tell me at school. Don't you remember how you confided in me about Harry Fielden, and how you used to read part of his letters? I never knew what became of him."

"No, I never told you. Well, perhaps I will to-night before we go to bed. It was a very unfortunate business altogether. There was nothing wrong about Harry. He was merely very reckless and extravagant, and got rid of his money and went abroad. He hadn't a single penny left, and there was an end of my romance. It sounds very commonplace, but it is just as serious to me as if it were one of those pretty stories we read in books. So now Harry has nothing and I have nothing, and some day or other I shall end, I suppose, in marrying a man for the sake of a home. But you may be certain it won't be Mr. Raymond Copley."

"How very sad!" Alice said sympathetically. "Do you ever see Mr. Fielden?"

"Oh, yes," May laughed unsteadily. "In fact, he is coming towards us now."

CHAPTER XXIV

A STRANGE VISITOR

"I am not sure I meant to tell you so much," she whispered. "I spoke on the spur of the moment. Harry came back to England unexpectedly a little time ago, and I met him by accident in London. It was a bit romantic in its way, but I'll tell you about that later. He came down here to his old home to get some of his belongings, and, to his surprise, nobody recognized him. I was the only person who knew him, excepting an old stud-groom who had been in the employ of the Fieldens for the last fifty years. When he found that no one knew him, he thought he might procure some congenial occupation in his own neighbourhood. It was part of the same romance that he should obtain this employment at the hands of Mr. Copley. But, of course, he does not pass in his own name. Please to recollect that he is Mr. Field. Now, my dear, you have the whole story in a nutshell. It is like the plot of a novel. I am the beautiful heroine, beloved by the rich bounder, while my heart is given to the handsome penniless young man of good family who is in the villain's employ. Don't think me heartless because I speak so lightly of it, and don't forget to behave as if I had not told you this story. Mr. Field is an old friend of ours, and that's the only thing you have to remember."

Alice Carden promised to act discreetly. There was no time to say more, for Fielden was beside them, and Alice found herself bowing to him as if he were a new acquaintance.

"You have not been here before?" he asked.

"This is my first visit to Haredale," Alice said. "But I have seen you before, Mr. Field. Don't you remember you were with my father and Sir George at Mirst Park a day or two ago? We were not introduced then."

"Oh, I have not forgotten it," Fielden laughed. "I understand you are an old friend of May's, I mean Miss Haredale's. Would you mind if I came over to-night after dinner?"

May flashed a glance at the speaker.

"We shall be delighted," she said. "I fancy my father told me he expected Mr. Copley, too."

Fielden said nothing for a moment or two; then it suddenly occurred to him that he had forgotten an important matter which would detain him that evening. He understood what May had hinted to him. He knew it was hardly prudent for him to be much at Haredale Park whilst Copley was in the neighbourhood. By way of turning the conversation, he suggested that the girls should dismount and inspect the stables.

"Nothing I should like better," Alice cried.

"Then come on," Fielden said eagerly. "Let me help you down. You will find the stables everything to be desired. They are modern, luxurious, and nothing appears to have been overlooked. From first to last they must have cost about twice as much as the house. We have a dozen helpers more than are necessary; indeed, things are conducted on a most lavish scale."

"And the horses?" Alice asked. "Are they——"

"Well, as to the horses, the less said about them the better. They are a pretty moderate lot. Perhaps later we may weed them out a bit. But come and see for yourself."

It was growing dusk by the time the inspection was over. Then the two girls walked back towards the archway which led into the wide stable-yard. Outside the gate two of the stable helps were engaged in an altercation with a seedy-looking tramp in an advanced state of intoxication.

"Excuse me for a moment," Fielden said, "I must see what is wrong. Now, my man, what are you doing here?"

It was easy for the girls to notice what was going on and to hear every word that was said. At the tones of authority in Fielden's voice the tramp looked up and made a ludicrous effort to pull himself together. Over his right eye there was a fresh cut, from which the blood was trickling. The helpers, too, showed signs of punishment, and a desire to fling out the stranger, but they dropped back as Fielden appeared.

"I came to see Mr. Copley," the tramp said.

"Mr. Copley isn't here," Fielden said curtly. "Still, if you want him, it would be as well to ask for him in a proper manner. What do you mean by pushing yourself forward in this fashion?"

"I didn't," the tramp said sulkily. "I never said nothing to these men till they ordered me out, and one of them shoved up against me. I don't stand that from any one, guv'nor, and so I tell you. If you don't believe me, try it on yourself."

Fielden was conscious that the blood was mounting into his cheeks. He returned for a moment to where the two girls were standing and walked with them into the road.

"I think you had better leave us," he said. "I must give that fellow a lesson, and this is no place for either of you."

"I hope you won't get hurt," Alice Carden said. "It is curious, but I know that man quite well by sight. He used to be in my father's regiment; in fact, he was his servant. He comes to our rooms in London occasionally and my father helps him with a few coppers and some clothes now and again. I am afraid it is another case of degradation caused by drink."

"It looks like it," Fielden said. "This man was probably one of the Major's racing-touts, one of those broken-down creatures occasionally employed on more or less shady jobs. But he must be taught decent manners. I don't think you need be afraid for me. I'll try to come over to lunch to-morrow."

Fielden saluted the two girls and returned to the spot where the tramp was swaying about defiantly.

"Now what do you want?" he demanded once more.

"What do I want?" the fellow sneered. "Well, I want a sovereign, and I am not going till I get it. If Mr. Copley was here I could have ten sovereigns. Yes, and he would be glad to pay me, too. You think, because I have been unfortunate that I can't get any money. You are wrong, young man, you are wrong."

"Well, you won't get any here," Fielden said. "If you have anything to say to Mr. Copley you had better wait. He will be here at five o'clock, but you must wait outside."

"Me wait outside! Who are you talking to? I don't wait for no man, not even for Raymond Copley. I have got to get back to London to-night anyhow. You just give me a sovereign or two and tell Mr. Copley you've done it. Tell him if I have any more of this sort of thing he had best look for somebody else to play building houses with fruit baskets in Covent Garden. Tell him that. If I have any more of this to put up with he can get somebody else to monkey with his fruit baskets. You needn't say more than that."

In spite of the man's intoxication he knew what he was talking about, and was plainly desirous of conveying something definite. There was a malignant look in his eye which Fielden did not fail to notice.

"Oh, be off," he said impatiently. "I won't have any row here. Are you going, or shall I turn you out?"

The intruder answered with a furious oath. He was anxious, he said, to see any man on the face of the earth who could do a job like that. He lurched violently at Fielden, and the next moment was sprawling on his back with the haziest knowledge of what had happened. Then, at a sign from Fielden, the two helpers took him by the shoulders and legs and carried him into the road. He rose muttering and threatening. He shook his fist towards the stables and lurched off until he was swallowed up by the darkness. Quite unconscious that his knuckles were cut and bleeding Fielden went about his work. It was only when Copley himself appeared and asked what had happened that Fielden looked at his damaged hand.

"Oh, that's nothing," he laughed. "A tramp came here not long since asking for you and demanding a sovereign or two as if you were his banker. The fellow was insolent, and I had to knock him down, but I had no idea my knuckles were cut. Needless to say the man didn't get his sovereign, though he did leave a queer message for you. It is astonishing what strange things men say when they are in liquor."

"And what did this one say?" Copley asked.

"Oh, he said if he could see you he would get as many pounds as he liked. He went on to remark that if he had to put up with any more of this you could find somebody else to monkey with your fruit baskets at Covent Garden. Idiotic, wasn't it?"

Fielden spoke carelessly, but he kept an eye upon Copley. He saw the latter start, remarked the queer look on his face, and how his eyes gleamed with anger.

"Absurd," he said. "I suppose the fellow thinks I am interested in Covent Garden. But there is no accounting for the vagaries of a drunken man. Anyway, it's not worth thinking about. Anything fresh to report?"

CHAPTER XXV

THE DERELICT

Now here was a fresh cause of annoyance which he had not anticipated. Unfortunately for the ultimate success of Copley's schemes, they necessitated the employment of more than one subordinate, and these subordinates had to be paid. Moreover, they were drawn unavoidably from the refuse of the population, so that they were a standing source of danger, for it is hazardous to depend upon people who are usually ready to sell their services to the highest bidder. One of them had been so audacious as to turn up at the very gates of Seton Manor and demand money. Luckily, he had not said enough to rouse suspicions. His remarks to Fielden might easily be ignored as the ravings of a drunken wretch. Certainly they did not convey much intelligence. So far all was safe.

But it was a warning, and a warning that Copley did not care to disregard. Happily, he thought, Fielden was not a curious man, or he might have inquired farther into the incident. He might even have been disposed to speculate a sovereign or two, and the tramp might have been in a sufficiently reckless mood to sell information at that price. The thing must be looked into at once.

Foster sprawled in the library with a copy of the Sportsman in his hand and a cigarette in his mouth. He looked up carelessly at his employer, but seeing there was something amiss put down the paper and waited for Copley to speak.

"What has gone wrong?" he asked.

"Oh, everything," Copley said savagely. "Has a single thing gone straight since the Mirst Park meeting? Here am I in a big house, furnished regardless of expense, with scores of tradesmen tumbling over one another to serve me, and yet I haven't a ten-pound note to call my own. As if that was not bad enough, that blackguard Chaffey has turned up here."

"I suppose he wants money," Foster asked.

"Well, that was the idea, no doubt. I didn't see him myself, but I understand he was drunk and objectionable, and Field turned him out. They had a bit of a scrimmage, and I hope Field gave the fellow a lesson. At any rate, he went off quietly in the end."

"Then why worry?" Foster said.

"Why worry? What a question! I forgot to tell you the worst. Chaffey came here demanding money. He said if I had been at home he could have got as much as he wanted. Imagine what Field must have thought. He would conclude that I was under obligations to the scamp, but, as you know, I haven't exchanged a dozen words with him. Everything has been done through you, and I must say I can't congratulate you on your choice."

"You never do when things go wrong," Foster retorted. "Would you have had me employ a gentleman? Did you want a man of intelligence, who would have asked many questions of himself. Chaffey is the man for us. But you are making a great fuss about nothing."

"Well, what do you think of this? Chaffey told Field that if he had any more of this sort of thing I could get somebody else to monkey with my fruit baskets in Covent Garden. Ah, I thought you would change your tune. Imagine a remark like that in a sporting public-house! Scores of people would smell a rat instantly. They would get on the track of money-making, especially if Chaffey happened to mention my name in connexion with the affair. If they only found him with money and plied him with drink, he would tell them all he knew."

"Which is precious little," Foster said coolly, as he lighted a fresh cigarette. "Chaffey doesn't really know anything. Still, we must make him understand that we won't stand this kind of thing. What do you propose to do?"

"Why, follow him, of course. He can't be far away. He is sure to have gone to some pothouse. He went down the London Road, and the best thing is to go after him at once. Let us take the car and make excuses that we shan't be back in time for dinner. You think I am making much ado about nothing. But my nerves are not what they used to be. Come along."

Foster made no objection. In truth he was almost as uneasy as his employer. By and by they were rolling along the road in a car, stopping under some pretext or other at every public-house. They came presently to a small place where they heard news of the man they were after. He had left a short time before; in fact, he had been violently ejected, because he had no money to pay for the drink he had consumed. Half a mile farther on the motorists espied a shadowy outline staggering down the middle of the road and lurching from side to side, singing as he went.

"That's the man," Foster whispered. "Stop the car and I'll get out and tackle him."

The tramp paused when he found himself within the radius of the powerful lights. He stood trying to collect his scattered senses, until, finally, he got some hazy idea of whom he was talking to. His face grew hard and sullen, and he looked none the better for a swollen eye and a cut forehead.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" he said. "This is a nice way to treat a gentleman. Here am I, miles away from my happy home and not a penny in my pocket."

"What are you doing here?" Foster asked.

"That, sir," said the tramp with great dignity, "is my business. I have private occupations of which you know nothing. You are taking advantage of my poverty. Don't forget that I was in as good a position as yourself at one time."

"You might easily be better," Foster said contemptuously. "Still, you haven't told me what brings you here, and why you made a disturbance at Seton Manor."

"I was at the Lington Meeting," Chaffey answered. "I lost all I had and was tramping back to London when I recollected that Mr. Copley lived close by. I thought I would borrow a pound or two from him, and that's why I called. It would have been all right but for those stable men. Would you care to be treated like a dog? I lost my temper. You'd have lost yours if you had been in my place. And that's all about it. I don't want to make any trouble if you treat me properly. Give me a few pounds and I'll go back to London the first thing in the morning."

"I'll give you money if you return to-night," Foster said curtly. "Get in the car and we'll drive you as far as Maley Junction. Come on."

"I will not come on," Chaffey said with an assumption of his old dignity. "You give me the money and I'll go to town early in the morning. I can't go before, because I have heard something. There's a trial coming off here to-morrow morning, and I am bound to see it. You don't suppose I live on what I get from you. If the trial turns out as I hope it will, it will put a lump in my pocket. Now what is the good of standing frowning at me like that? I tell you I'm not going back to London to-night. I won't go till eight o'clock to-morrow morning. If you don't help me, I know a man who will give me a tenner cheerfully to hear how I monkey with the fruit baskets in Covent Garden. But do as you please. I don't mind lying in a ditch till morning, and I don't mind tramping to town to-morrow. It wouldn't be the first time I've done both. Not that I want to quarrel with you, Mr. Foster; if you do the fair thing by me, I'll do the fair thing by you. Give me a quid or two so that I can get some supper and a bed, and I'll promise not to come near Seton Manor again. What's more, if the trial turns out all right, I'll send a message to Mr. Copley."

"Oh, give him money and let him have his way," Copley cried impatiently. "There isn't much chance of drumming sense into him to-night."

A whispered conversation between Copley and Foster followed, then three sovereigns changed hands and Chaffey departed along the road with the air of a man who has an object in life.

"You have done the right thing," he said. "I knew you would, when you came to think of it, and I'll let Mr. Copley know all about the trial. Good-night, gentlemen, and good luck to you."

So Chaffey vanished into the darkness.

CHAPTER XXVI

A SECOND TRIAL

But in the light of the past few days everything looked different. Raffle was by no means blind to what was going on around him. There was plenty of gossip in the stables, for some degree of friendship between the lads at Haredale Park and those at Seton Manor was inevitable, and it was an open secret that there might possibly be an alliance between the two houses. It was plain to Raffle's keen eyes that May Haredale disliked Raymond Copley intensely and that Sir George was doing all he could to remove this objection. Raffle guessed, too, pretty accurately what was the state of Harry Fielden's feelings, and saw that if this marriage took place his little scheme would be worse than useless. If Fielden had not turned up again it would not have mattered. But as it was the large fortune which Sir George was about to annex seemed likely to go into the pockets of Raymond Copley.

Joe hated Raymond Copley with all the contempt that an old sportsman has for an ignorant dabbler in the great game. He knew that Copley cared nothing for racing for its own sake, that he kept his stable only to give himself importance in the eyes of his neighbours. Raffle was not aware that the Seton Manor stud was a blind to cover the conspiracies hatched between Copley and Foster, but he knew enough to set his teeth on edge and to make him determined to stop this hateful marriage if he could. It was gall and wormwood to feel that after all he had been working and planning for the advantage of Copley. He knew that Harry Fielden would have some delicacy in interfering and believed it likely that, if May consented to become Copley's wife, he would forbid Raffle to say a word about the real ownership of the Blenheim colt.

This was bad, but worse was to follow. For the last two or three days the colt had been off his feed, and Raffle thought he was developing symptoms of staleness. To settle this point, he arranged for another early morning trial. He had confided his intention to a couple of his trusty helpers, who fondly imagined that no one knew of it but themselves. But these things leak out in stables, and in some mysterious way the projected trial reached the ears of Chaffey, who, when he chose to tear himself away from his beloved bars, was one of the cleverest touts that ever worried a stable. After parting from Copley and Foster, he staggered along cheerfully till he came to a roadside public-house, where he obtained a shakedown for the night. The thirst for drink was upon him—indeed, it was seldom or never absent—but he managed to put a check upon himself, and retired to bed with strict injunctions to be called at daybreak. In the morning he rose a trembling wreck, his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, his nerves were a-quiver, but, by a supreme effort, he kept himself from the drink which called to him so strongly. The smell of it in the dingy public-house appealed to him mockingly, but he thrust the fierce desire aside and stole off to the Downs with splitting head and aching brows. He resolved to make up for his sufferings later. With luck he would be in London soon after nine o'clock. An hour later he would have sold his valuable information, and then—well, then, he would enjoy himself after the manner of his kind.

Having concealed himself in a patch of gorse, he waited with what patience he could for the trial. It was a long and weary vigil, but presently he heard the muffled tramp of horses and the sound of voices. Cautiously Chaffey raised himself and peeped out. He knew he was hiding just behind the winning-post. The solitary figure standing there was familiar to him. With a grin he recognized Fielden.

In the distance he could see two horses flashing along, and as they drew nearer he made out the fine dashing outline of the Blenheim colt. He had never seen that noble animal before, but his keen instinct told him he was not mistaken. He forgot his aches, pains, and everything else in the excitement of the moment. He saw the Blenheim colt holding his own, sailing along with a free and easy stride, and then suddenly, within a hundred yards or so of the gorse bushes, the other horse came away and finished many lengths ahead. The colt had a peculiar action that Chaffey did not fail to notice.

"They are right," he said, "the colt's queer. My word! it was well I came here this morning. This will be five and twenty pounds in my pocket. And if I have any luck that bloomin' Copley can get somebody else to look after his fruit baskets. I've had enough of it."

Chaffey dropped down as he saw Raffle coming up to the winning-post. The horses had been led away, and nobody could hear what Fielden and his companion and Mallow had to say.

"This is a bad business," Harry observed.

"Looks like it, sir," Raffle said gloomily. "I can't make out what's wrong with the colt. I thought I knew all about horses, but this puzzles me. He seemed quite right a day or two ago, and I can't see now what's wrong."

"Oh, there's plenty of time," Fielden said cheerfully. "I daresay you'll manage to make him fit for the Guineas. It is a good thing I didn't take your advice and back him. I am glad the money I got for the library is still in the bank."

The stud-groom shook his head obstinately.

"I don't think you are right, sir," he said. "I still believe in the colt and, as you say, there is heaps of time between now and the Guineas. Of course, I must tell Sir George, and a fine state he'll be in, I expect. Just think what a difference that colt will make if he wins. And yet you refuse, sir, to benefit by so much as a penny."

"Why should I?" Fielden asked. "Practically the horse doesn't belong to me. Legally, I suppose, he does, and I have no doubt I could put in a successful claim. But the colt was only a yearling when I went away. He has been trained in Mallow's stable and by Sir George's man."

"I never call myself that, sir," Raffle muttered.

"Ah, but you are, Joe, morally speaking. You have accepted service under him, and you take his money. I know you have behaved exceedingly well to me. I know you have meant everything for the best, and I thank you for it. But I cannot interfere. Can't you see that I am in honour bound——"

"In honour bound to stand by and see Mr. Copley marry Miss Haredale?" Raffle asked indignantly. "I am sure I beg your pardon. I forgot myself. I had no business to speak like that to you. But that is what it is coming to. Here have I been working and scheming and keeping my mouth shut to put a matter of a hundred thousand pounds into Mr. Copley's pockets."

"If the colt wins," Fielden suggested.

"Oh, he'll be all right, sir. It is only a matter of a few days, but if this thing gets talked about, why, the colt will go bang down in the betting and we shall all make fortunes with the outlay of a few pounds. There is another thing I must tell you. You see, it is like this——"

Raffle turned away as he spoke, and Fielden followed him, so that the figure eagerly listening behind the gorse bush could hear no more. Though, on the whole, he had had an exceedingly fortunate morning, he bitterly regretted that the deeply-interesting conversation had been cut short just at the point when he might have picked up information that might have made his fortune.

"I wonder what they're talking about?" he muttered, as he limped painfully and slowly across the Downs towards Seton Manor. "I suppose I had better give Mr. Copley a tip. I can send it to him from one of these pubs. He doesn't deserve any consideration from me, but it will be worth a fiver later. Now for breakfast and just one drink—only one before I get back to London and draw my money. There will be plenty of time for fun this evening. What a fool I've been! If I could only have kept off that accursed liquor I should have had a stud of my own by this time."

With this philosophy on his lips Chaffey turned into the bar of the nearest public-house.

CHAPTER XXVII

DRIVING IT HOME

"Dear sir," it ran, "I was on the Downs this morning and saw the trial I was speaking to you about last night. Sir George's head man thought it a dead secret, but I had had it from a sure quarter, and I saw the race between the Blenheim colt and another at half-past seven. The colt was quite stale, and, if I am any judge of such matters, I think it will take all their time to wind him up for the Guineas. I thought you would like to know this, because, properly handled, there is money in it. Perhaps it may be worth a five-pound note to me the next time we meet."

There was no signature to this document, but Copley guessed where it came from. He rose from the table and stood for a while thinking this over. There was money in the tidings, but not in the way hinted at by Chaffey.

"Anything fresh?" Foster asked, as he attacked his breakfast with zest. "You look rather pleased about something."

"Well, I am," Copley said, with a sinister smile he found it hard to conceal. "I've got something here that looks like good business if we can only hold on a bit longer. As you know, we don't quite agree as to how Sir George Haredale is to be handled. If I went to him boldly and told him that he must scratch the Blenheim colt, do you think he would consent if he saw I was in earnest? My opinion is he would kick me out of the house. But there is another way of working it, and for the hint I have to thank Chaffey, of all people in the world. Here is a note from him."

"Wants more money," Foster said with his mouth full.

"Not for the moment, at any rate. He thinks his information is worth a prospective fiver. As a matter of fact, it is invaluable. You know he told us last night that he wasn't going away till he witnessed a trial this morning. He has seen it, and this letter gives me the result. The trial was that of the Blenheim colt. Chaffey says it will take them all their time to get him fit for the Guineas, even if they can manage it. Chaffey is probably in town by now, and has no doubt sold his information to some smart bookmaker. By this time to-morrow the Blenheim colt will be knocked out of the betting, and one will be able to get any price one likes. When this becomes public property Sir George will be justified in scratching the colt. He could say he had no hopes now of winning the Derby, and has taken this step solely on behalf of the public. Everybody will believe him. No questions will be asked, and his conduct will be regarded as most sportsmanlike. Do you see what I am driving at?"

"By Jove!" Foster exclaimed. "That is really smart of you. As Sir George backed his colt at long prices the money loss will be small. You can arrange as to the money Sir George owes you, and directly the pen is put through the colt's name we shall be masters of a hundred thousand pounds. It isn't so much as we expected, but we shall be able to draw the money during the next few days, and then be in a position to carry on a war against the bookmakers till we have made as much as we like. Things are entirely in your hands. You have only to put it plainly to Sir George and offer to cancel his mortgages, and the thing is done. He'll fall in with your suggestion readily. He only wants the excuse to get out. You'll want to handle him carefully, of course. But every man has his price, and I don't believe Haredale is any exception to the rule."

"I'll do it to-day," Copley muttered.

"That's right," Foster said approvingly, "there's nothing like striking while the iron is hot. But if I were you I'd run up to town first and give Absalom & Co. a hint to put the screw on without delay. What you have to do is thoroughly to frighten Sir George, who will probably send for you, and see if he can't arrange terms. We had better motor to London at once. It might be as well to get Absalom's people to send a man down this afternoon to let Sir George know that business is meant. By the time we get back this evening there will be a note from Sir George asking you to go over and see him. If not, I am no prophet."

On the best of terms with themselves the conspirators started for town half an hour later, and before eleven o'clock Copley was closeted with the principal of the well-known financial house of Absalom & Co. Apparently the interview was to his satisfaction, for he soon made his way to the Post Club. Foster joined him at lunch, and up to four o'clock they amused themselves by making small wagers on the day's racing. Soon after five one of the waiters came into the smoking-room and informed Copley that a gentleman was waiting to see him.

He went downstairs to find Mr. Absalom in the ante-room. The latter smiled as he heard the clicking of the machines.

"Do you do anything in that way?" Copley asked.

"Not I," the visitor laughed. "I leave that to the fools who have more money than sense. If there were no such thing as a horse or a bet I should be deprived of nine-tenths of my clients, and instead of being a rich man, I should be hard put to it to obtain a living. So the sport has all my sympathy. But I didn't come here to discuss racing. I want to speak to you about Sir George Haredale. I sent my manager down to see him."

"Yes, yes," Copley said impatiently.

"Oh, I won't detain you longer than I can help. My manager saw Sir George and had a long conversation with him. He was inclined to be high and mighty at first, but we soon changed all that. He was very anxious to know why you had transferred your debt to us, and we told him, of course, that you were engaged in very big speculations which called for all the ready capital you could lay your hands upon. We also hinted that we were finding money tight, and gave him to know that unless the cash was paid within a week, we should have to avail ourselves of our rights and place a man in possession at Haredale Park. That rather knocked the old gentleman off his balance. My manager said he was quite civil after that, and intimated his intention to do everything he could. But, at the same time, he appears to be very much annoyed with you. He thinks you have not treated him fairly, and seems to hope that when he has seen you he can arrange matters. Of course, he hasn't the least idea that we are merely dummies, so if you change your mind you can telephone to us and we will sit tight. He said he expected to see you this evening."

Copley nodded approvingly. There was no need for hurry, for he knew that the longer Sir George Haredale thought over the matter, the more likely he was to yield in the end. After thanking Absalom, who went his way, he sent for Foster.

"It's all right," he said when the latter came downstairs. "Absalom's people have seen Sir George, and have left him in a state of blue funk. I think the best thing we can do is to let him think it over for a day or two, because the longer he dwells upon the prospect before him the more likely he will be to listen to any terms I choose to offer. But we can talk this over after dinner. Let's get back to Seton Manor. By the way, I suppose you have dealt with those commissions. Did you manage to lay any money against the Blenheim colt to advantage? Has the trial leaked out yet?"

"I managed to get a good lump on," Foster explained. "I fancy the story is getting known. According to one of the papers, the Blenheim colt has gone back to six to one. I think we have done as much as we can. At any rate, the money is as good as in our pockets."

At Seton Manor Copley and his accomplice sat down to dinner in higher spirits and with better appetite than they had displayed for some time. There was nothing to trouble them. They had netted a huge sum of money without the slightest risk, and, what was more to the point, they would be in a position to handle it in the course of a few days. There was a good deal of flavour in Copley's cigar as he lay back in his seat sipping his coffee. A moment or two later a footman came in with a note on a tray. Copley smiled as he tore open the envelope, and intimated to the servant that he need not wait.

"From the Baronet?" Foster grinned.

"You've guessed it," Copley replied. "He wants me to go over at once on most important business."