Hard Pressed

CHAPTER XXVIII

HONOUR BRIGHT

It does not take long, especially with two or three generations of similar incapacity, seriously to embarrass even so fine an estate as Haredale Park. The day came at length when Sir George was under the painful necessity of facing the inevitable, when his worried lawyer told him a few plain truths, and he realized that his income was barely sufficient to live upon. Unfortunately, at this crisis, an occasional run of luck on the turf had relieved the pressure, and it occurred to Sir George as a brilliant idea that here was a source of permanent income. Then luck ran steadily against him, as it always does sooner or later, and at the time Sir George made the acquaintance of Copley he was literally at his wits' end to know what to do.

It was a misfortune, though a disguised one, that Copley in his headstrong way should fall in love with May Haredale. He had gone about his wooing in characteristic fashion, and had recognized that, unless he were in a position to force the pace, his suit was hopeless. Hence he had helped Sir George, although he needed every penny he had for himself. At that time Copley did not see his way to get it all back and a great deal more. But now he had the consolation of knowing that he would come out all right, whether May Haredale became his wife or not.

He was playing his game with wonted caution and cunning. In response to Sir George's note, he pleaded some excuse, and on one pretext or other kept clear of Haredale Park for the best part of a week. He knew how to play his fish. He knew that delay was in his favour, and was not going to spoil his triumph by undue haste.

Sir George was thoroughly frightened. The interview with Messrs. Absalom's manager came in the light of a revelation to him. He realized that he was in Copley's power, and that the latter could ruin him whenever he chose. Not that he expected anything of the kind. He was of far too sanguine a nature for that, and being a gentleman and a man of honour he naturally believed the story that Copley was temporarily hard put to it for the want of money. From that point of view, of course, Copley was behaving very well. He had not pressed Sir George, nor had he insisted that the money must be paid. In point of fact, he had not mentioned the matter at all.

But Messrs. Absalom's manager had been emphatic enough. There was something in his manner which Sir George did not like. He actually had no respect for the aristocracy, and spoke as if money were the only thing in the world that mattered.

"It comes to this, Sir George," he said. "We must ask you to make arrangements to clear this off in a week. It is business, pure and simple, and my people want the money. Things are not going well, and we must look to you to settle this claim."

"Within a week?" Sir George cried. "Impossible!"

The shrewd manager shrugged his shoulders.

"I am sorry to hear you say that, Sir George," he replied. "In that case, we must take matters into our own hands and sell you up, including your horses in training. We shall much regret this step, but necessity will compel us. The best thing you can do is to consult your solicitors and see if you can raise a loan. Otherwise—well, I think I have made myself plain."

The man withdrew, leaving Sir George to his own disturbed thoughts. With his sanguine disposition and lack of business knowledge he still clung to the idea that Copley would be able to put this matter right. But when Copley wrote that business called him elsewhere Sir George's vague sense of alarm began to develop into a perfect nightmare. At the expiration of a week the first blow fell. A man, shabbily dressed and dingy of aspect, called to see Sir George and would take no refusal. He stood in the hall grimly quiet, waiting for the master of the house, who appeared presently and demanded in his haughtiest manner what the intruder wanted.

"I am here on behalf of Absalom & Co.," the intruder said. "Fact is, I represent the sheriff. It is no use blaming me, Sir George. I am only doing my duty, and it's not so pleasant, at that. But I am here in possession, and here I am bound by law to stay until this money is paid. As soon as that is done I shall be only too pleased to go away."

Sir George began to understand the position. He had heard of these things before, but they had always appeared to be remote enough from him. This was what was called an execution, and Sir George's dignity disappeared accordingly.

"This is very awkward," he said. "I had not anticipated anything like this. How long will you have to stay here?"

"Well, it varies according to circumstances," the man explained. "It all depends upon what action the plaintiffs take. If they give you an extension of time I may be here for a month. Sometimes I have been in a house much longer."

"A month," Sir George exclaimed, "impossible!"

"It may be less than that," the man said. "If they don't give you any time at all I shall be gone in a week. In the ordinary course of things, at the expiration of seven days the sheriff will come in and sell everything."

"Seven days!" Sir George repeated the words over and over again, as if he were trying to grasp their meaning. He had barely a week to find this money, and, if it were not forthcoming, everything he had would be disposed of. He would have to face the world without a penny. He wondered if these people would take his horses. He wondered whether their action would injure him in the Derby. But misfortunes never came singly, and it was possible that the Blenheim colt might not start for the historic race at all. For the moment everything lay in the hands of Raymond Copley. Probably he had not the slightest idea that Absalom & Co. had gone to these lengths. No doubt he would devise a way out of this disgraceful situation. It was the only chance.

"If you wouldn't mind going away," Sir George said, "and coming back later in the day, I will see what I can do."

The man smiled broadly.

"Bless you! I couldn't do that," he said. "It would be as much as my place is worth. I might even get prosecuted, and I've a wife and family to think of. I dare not stir a step from here, Sir George; indeed, I dare not. If people treat me well I always try to give as little trouble as possible, and as yet nobody knows who I am and why I came. I daresay you can think of some excuse to account for my presence in the house."

It was very humiliating, but there was nothing for it but a mild conspiracy between the master of Haredale and this grubby representative of the majesty of the law. Sir George led the way into the library.

"You had better stay here," he said. "I can say you've come down from London on some business in connexion with the stable. By the way, it is just as well I should know your name. Oh, Brown, is it? Well, you had better remain here till I come back, and I can arrange for you to have your meals in the kitchen. I suppose you won't object to that?"

"I shan't, if the servants don't," Brown said.

"Very good. I am going to see a friend, and shall return as soon as possible. I suppose if you had a telegram from Absalom calling you back to London, you would disappear without any trouble."

"Certainly, sir, and very glad to go. I have never been in a big house like this before, and it makes all the difference. But I'll do my best to save your servants from knowing who I am and what I am doing at Haredale Park."

Possibly the speaker had some hope that this complacency would not leave him poorer than it found him, and, in his sanguine way, Sir George was already settling in his mind the size of the tip he would give this fellow after he had seen Copley and made arrangements to get rid of him. Nevertheless the master of Haredale was really distressed and alarmed as he made his way across the fields to Seton Manor. Perhaps Copley might not be back from London till dinner-time. But Copley was there. He was in the stable-yard talking to Foster as Sir George approached.

"Here he comes," said Foster with a grin. "I thought he wouldn't be very long. It is any odds that Absalom's man is in possession already. Our friend looks rather dejected, doesn't he? Now is your time to clinch the business."

Copley smiled his assent. "I don't think we are likely to have much trouble with Sir George."

CHAPTER XXIX

ACTING THE FRIEND

"I think I've a pretty fair idea of it," Sir George said, as he shook hands. "You have been good enough to advise me once or twice, and I thought I would come over this morning and consult you about a worry of my own. I came on the off-chance, and esteem myself fortunate to find you at home."

"Oh, not at all, not at all," Copley said breezily. "In fact, I was coming to see you. My conscience has been pricking me, and I feel I have been very rude. But come into the library and tell me all about it. I'll help you if I can."

"You are exceedingly good," Sir George said gratefully. "I have had a most unpleasant shock this morning. It has to do with those people, Absalom & Co. They tell me you have transferred my debt to them. I can't understand it."

Copley shook his head as he motioned his visitor to a chair. He passed over the cigars to Sir George, and sat down to listen in an attitude of respectful attention.

"No, you wouldn't understand these things," he explained. "It is only the man of hard business training and instinct that can follow the ramifications of modern finance. Finance is a fascinating sport with substantial gains for the successful man, but Heaven help him who fails. He is bound to go to the wall, and no one has the slightest mercy for him. It is almost a truism to say that we are at war with one another. Though outwardly on good terms, we really are the bitterest enemies. It is part of the game. I go and stay with other financiers, and they come and stay with me. We drink each other's wine and smoke each other's cigars. We share grouse moors and yachts, we even marry each other's daughters. But, at the same time, it is everybody for himself. That is one of the recognized rules, and if you go under you may become a clerk or something of that kind, unless you prefer to blow out your brains. It is all the same in the City. I tell you this, so that you may understand what a lot of enemies one makes when one embarks in a new venture. It is a mistake to imagine that all the money the successful man makes comes from the public. Every time I make a quarter of a million, some of my friends must suffer. I have a very big thing on at present, and thought I had guarded myself at all points. But man is only human, and it is impossible to foresee everything. Two of my cleverest friends spotted the weak point in my armour, and were not slow to take their opportunity. They squeezed me to such an extent that, about a fortnight ago, they very nearly crushed the life out of me altogether. I was compelled to find forty thousand pounds at a few hours' notice. The only people I could think of were Absalom & Co., and I transferred your debt to them. My dear fellow, if I hadn't done so I should have been in the Bankruptcy Court to-day. Absalom & Co., in their turn, are being squeezed, and that is why they are putting pressure upon you."

"Then you can't help me?" Sir George said blankly.

"My dear Sir George, I am afraid not. It is with great regret I say this. In two or three weeks I shall be in funds, and if you will wait till then, why I shall give you my cheque with pleasure. At the moment I have nothing. In a month's time I shall have a fortune at my disposal. But probably these people won't wait."

"Then I am ruined," Sir George exclaimed.

Copley murmured that it looked very much like it. He made no suggestion at all. He merely appeared to be duly sympathetic. He was waiting for Sir George Haredale to realize his position. That done, it would be easy to play his game successfully.

For a time Sir George paced up and down the library. He cursed himself and his bad fortune, blamed Chance, bemoaned his cruel ill luck; in fact, like the weak man he was, he blamed everything except the headlong folly and short-sighted blindness which had brought all this about. In the meantime, Copley sat letting his fish play until his strength was exhausted and he could readily be drawn to land. It was a one-sided battle.

"Is there nothing you can suggest?" Sir George cried despairingly. "Is there no way of getting delay?"

Copley made no reply for a time. When at length he spoke he dropped his voice to a persuasive whisper.

"Well, there is one method," he said. "Absalom is a sportsman, and he takes a great interest in racing matters. Between ourselves, he finances some of the swell bookmakers, and I understand has a grip upon some of the large commission firms. If you could show him a way to make thirty or forty thousand pounds on a race like the Derby, you might induce him to withdraw his execution for a month. Though he is in a corner, or he wouldn't have dropped on you, the suggestion I speak of would be worth a sacrifice."

"I don't follow you," Sir George said.

"No? Then I must speak more plainly. At the present moment you own a colt which looks like winning the Derby. I know the colt has been coughing lately, but your man Raffle is very sanguine and knows what he is talking about. I see the colt has come back in the betting to eight to one, and the public never seem to be tired of backing him. That, however, is the public's look-out and is no concern of yours. In the colt's present condition you will be justified in putting a pen through his name and nobody could blame you. Owners don't raise horses for the benefit of the public, and if the public choose to come in and forestall the market and the horse is scratched, then they must take the consequences. It has been done over and over again, and I don't see why you shouldn't do it yourself. You needn't do it to-day, or to-morrow, or even next week, but if I can assure Absalom that this is going to happen, why, in that case, I feel certain these proceedings will be withdrawn, and perhaps such terms arranged as will wipe the debt out altogether. Do you follow me?"

Sir George sat white and rigid. He seemed trying dimly to comprehend what Copley was driving at. All the time Copley was speaking he did not meet the eye of his victim. But Sir George's face was no index of his feelings. He was quivering from head to foot with a nameless indignation and, though Copley did not know it, was within an ace of inflicting personal punishment on the financier.

"You can't be in earnest," Sir George said with difficulty. "Surely, you were joking when you asked me to do this thing? Why, it would be contemptible, dishonourable to the last degree. I expect to win a fortune with the Blenheim colt, but I backed him at a very long price, and if he breaks down the loss will not be so great. It would be bad enough to lose a fortune which I regarded as as good as in my pocket, but deliberately to scratch the horse, to wait for a fortnight whilst these friends of yours are laying against the colt, is an insult which I did not dream any man would put upon me."

"You will pardon me if I don't see it in that light," Copley said coolly. "You have a right to do what you like with your own. You are justified in scratching the horse and, indeed, you have every excuse for doing so. I don't see that it matters much whether it is done to-day or in a fortnight's time. You may lose the few thousands pounds you put on the colt, but that seems probable in any case. And, on the other hand, you have it in your power to wipe out your debt to me—that is, to benefit to the extent of forty thousand pounds."

Sir George's indignation began to ebb. He no longer felt a disposition to smite Copley hip and thigh; he was thinking of his own position and future.

"And if I refuse?"

Copley shrugged his shoulders eloquently.

"In that case, there is no more to be said or done," he answered. "I would help you if I could, but I am powerless just now. But perhaps you will think better of it. I am sure you will be tired of that man in possession by the end of a week."

CHAPTER XXX

AN ULTIMATUM

But, like the weak man he was, when the pinch came he did neither of these things. It would never have occurred to him to assert that he was a man of honour. All the world had taken it for granted, and in this opinion Sir George shared. But, on the other hand, he was face to face with disgrace, and in a few days would be homeless and penniless, a mark for the finger of scorn, and the object of pity of those whom he had looked down upon from a lofty standpoint. But was there, after all, any great harm in what Copley suggested? Scores of owners of horses had done such things before, and he had a genuine excuse for drawing the pen through the name of the Blenheim colt, since it had fallen ill. If other people benefited by the knowledge, it was no concern of his. If the colt were no better at the end of a fortnight, he could be scratched and things go on as they were. Besides, the colt was a good one, and in the autumn there would be every chance of winning the St. Leger with him. This reasoning was all very specious and wrong, but it wasn't long before Sir George had justified himself, as Copley felt sure he would do.

"Wait a little," Sir George said. "You can't expect me to make up my mind at once. I must have time to think it over. But I can't do anything as long as that man is at Haredale Park. If you can get rid of him for me——"

"Oh, I think I can do that," Copley interrupted. "But if I telephone to Absalom & Co. from here they will want some guarantee from you that—well, you know what I mean. They won't want any writing, your word will be good enough for that."

Sir George expanded at this suggestion. It never struck him that a mere negotiation on this point from Copley's view would be as good as a written document.

"I think I can give it," he said.

"Very well," Copley said briskly. "I am glad to hear you talk like that. It is a commonsense view of the situation. Sit down and smoke your cigar in peace and don't worry any more about the matter. I'll go into my office and ring up Absalom & Co., and in an hour's time you will be free from your trouble."

For three-quarters of an hour Sir George sat immersed in gloomy thoughts. Manipulate the transaction as he might, deceive himself as he pleased, there was no getting away from the fact that he was contemplating a shameful thing, and the knowledge that he was saving himself did not mend matters. The best part of an hour had passed before Copley returned with a cheerful face.

"I thought I could manage," he exclaimed. "I felt sure there would be little difficulty, if we only convinced Absalom & Co. that there was a good thing for them here. But, mind you, I had to give them my word. They wouldn't accept anything in the least vague. Nothing is to be done for a fortnight; in fact, not till after the next meeting at Mirst Park, and at the end of that time the Blenheim colt is to be scratched. You have only to keep him short of exercise, and the public will conclude that something serious is amiss with the colt. I had to promise this before I could move these people at all. Of course, if you don't want to go as far as that I can ring them up again. It would be a pity to do so, however, seeing that by this time Absalom's have taken steps to withdraw their action, and in a few minutes the man at Haredale Park will receive a telegram calling him back to London at once. You had better think the matter over. Don't say that I persuaded you, for, if you wish to break off negotiations, it is not too late to do so."

Copley's voice was gentle, but there was nothing persuasive about him. He meant to leave the matter entirely in Sir George's hands. But, as he had confidently expected, Sir George did not repudiate the bargain. On the contrary, he thanked Copley for what he had done, and when they left the library a few minutes later the arrangement was ratified. As they made for the stable-yard Copley paused as if something had suddenly occurred to him.

"There is one other matter," he said. "I didn't like to mention it before for fear you should imagine I was forcing your hand. Now I can speak freely. It relates to your daughter. When I lent you that money I expected to have the privilege of calling myself your son-in-law. I have not yet had anything definite from Miss Haredale; in fact, I am afraid she dislikes me. But things can't go on like this, and you promised to put in a good word for me. I daresay you will think it strange, but I have set my heart on this marriage. It will be well, perhaps, to let your daughter know how things stand. I fear she doesn't comprehend the position. Tell her yourself."

There was no mistaking the ring of command in the last words.

"Certainly," Sir George promised. "I will do so without delay. I can't for the life of me understand May's hesitancy. Almost every girl in the county would jump at the chance of being Mrs. Raymond Copley. Besides, May must marry a rich man. But leave it to me, Copley. Come over after dinner this evening and see if we can't fix this thing up once and for all."

Sir George returned to Haredale trying to feel on good terms with himself and elated with the turn things had taken. But he could not disguise that he had done wrong. He could not still the voice of conscience. However, he was relieved to hear from his butler of the departure of Brown on receipt of a telegram. The man had made certain promises. He would call again later in the day, but had left his address in case Sir George wanted to write to him. It was very correct and discreet, no one was any the wiser, nobody had guessed about this black disgrace, and in the fullness of his heart Sir George wrote a short note to Brown enclosing a cheque. He was sealing up the envelope and putting on the stamp when May entered.

She was fresh from her ride. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks glowed. There was something in her gay abandon and her clear light of innocence that jarred upon Sir George. Why should she have none of this trouble? Why should she be outside of it all? To some extent, she was the cause of the mischief. But for her Copley would never have lent Sir George any money; but for her he would never have found himself in the clutches of Absalom & Co. This was as specious as his other moralizing, and he never imagined that he had fallen into a trap set by Copley. What he wanted was some one to vent his anger upon.

"Where have you been?" he asked irritably. "I have been looking for you everywhere. I have just been having a conversation about you with Mr. Copley. He wants to know——"

"He already does know," May said coldly. "I thought I had made that quite clear. I shall be glad if you will not allude to this again. It is most distasteful to me."

Sir George brought his fist with a bang on the table.

"You are a fool," he cried. "I beg pardon, but I can't think of any other word. You don't seem to realize what obligations we are under to Mr. Copley. Do you know that if he liked he could turn us out of the house to-morrow? Do you know that even this morning he has saved us from a great disgrace? And he has done all this out of affection for you. I can assure you that Mr. Raymond Copley is not the man to be played with."

"My dear father," May protested, "why this violence? I don't in the least want to play with Mr. Copley."

"Oh, this is no joking matter. You ought to be proud to think that a man like that is ready to lay his wealth at your feet. Now, I want you to understand that if you treat him in this way he will very likely teach you a lesson. It is no use beating about the bush. We are in his hands. And, therefore, you must marry him."

"Must, my dear father. Surely——"

"Oh, I am not going to listen to any more. I won't argue with you. You are either going to marry Mr. Copley or I wash my hands of you altogether. I will not be ruined for the mere whim of a girl. Now you quite understand me? If this thing isn't settled to-morrow, Haredale will be no place for you."

CHAPTER XXXI

A POINT-BLANK REFUSAL

IT was a cruel shock to the girl. She had never heard her father speak like that before; indeed, she would not have deemed him capable of such harshness. For many years May and her father had been the best of friends; indeed, their relationship had been more like brother and sister than anything else. She had shared in Sir George's pleasures, she had known most of his troubles, and generally had been allowed to do exactly as she pleased. And if she had a proper sense of pride, it was Sir George who was mainly responsible for it. He had never forgotten that he was the master of Haredale Park, and that the family had lived there three centuries and more. He had always spoken his mind freely to May on the subject of new-comers and interlopers. He had declared that no matter what his neighbours might do, not one of them should ever cross his threshold; he had apparently despised these new rich from the bottom of his heart. It seemed only the other day that Sir George had spoken most contemptuously about Raymond Copley. A few months before and he would have laughed to scorn any suggestion on Copley's part to become one of the family.

"We need not envy them, my dear," Sir George had said over and over again. "After all, money is not everything. Of course, one has to be agreeable to these people in the hunting-field and when one meets them at neighbouring houses, but, thank goodness, we need not go farther than that. You won't have much when I die, but so long as you marry the right sort of man I shall be quite content with your choice. I can trust you, I know."

These recollections crowded into May's mind as she stood face to face with her father. It struck her almost with painful force that she was making his acquaintance for the first time. This was another Sir George Haredale, of whom she had not the slightest knowledge. He looked hard and sullen, and met her eye with difficulty. May hoped he would have the grace to be ashamed of himself, that this was an outburst for which he would apologize presently.

"Do you really know what you are saying?" she murmured. "I hope I have not mistaken you, father."

"You have not mistaken me at all," Sir George said sullenly.

"Then I am to understand that it is your wish that I should become the wife of Mr. Raymond Copley?"

"I thought I had made it quite plain."

"You are so set upon this match that unless I marry this man I am no longer to consider Haredale Park as my home."

Sir George nodded. He had not the courage to put it as plainly as that.

"I will try to be calm," May went on. "But this has been a terrible blow to me. Even now I can hardly believe my ears. Do you mean to say that if I refuse Mr. Copley I am to be turned out of house and home?"

"Don't be dramatic," Sir George interrupted.

"I didn't know that I was. I only want to have a clear understanding. Oh, the thing is monstrous. You cannot realize what you are saying. If you have no sort of feeling for yourself or me, just try to imagine what our friends will say. We know many people who would decline to be on visiting terms with Mr. Copley. There are lots of houses where he could not go. Even if I were fond of the man and could meet your wishes, it would be a long time before certain of our neighbours forgave me. What will you say when you meet them racing, or hunting, or shooting? Do you suppose this thing can be kept quiet? Do you suppose everybody won't know why I left home? Do you believe for a moment that common gossip will not say that you turned your daughter out because she refused to marry a man whom you declined to call upon for months after he came here? I know such things happen in the case of boys, but I never yet heard of a father in your position who sent his daughter away because she refused to sell herself to a person whom she both disliked and despised."

Sir George listened uncomfortably. He was violating all his best feelings. He knew what a sorry figure he must be cutting in the eyes of his daughter. Moreover, every word she said was true. This thing would get out. It would be a dainty morsel in the mouths of all the gossips, and, though he could rely upon May to be silent, other tongues would not be bridled. But he comforted himself with the assurance that things would never go as far as that, for when May saw that he was in earnest she would yield. There might be tears and reproaches, but in the end she would bow to his wishes, and though Copley was not popular, yet he would be accepted in time on the strength of being Sir George Haredale's son-in-law.

"There are reasons why this must be," he said. "I am under obligations to Copley, under great obligations. Besides, he is paying you the greatest compliment in his power. There are many girls——"

"Oh, what have the majority of girls to do with me? I am not like them. I have not been trained in the same school. I know lots of my friends regard matrimony as a matter of business. They are too idle and selfish to think of anything but themselves. They would deem it a fine thing to have the spending of Mr. Copley's money. But I detest the man too much for that. He is not a gentleman, his manners are not good, and I am sure he is neither honest nor straightforward. I would do anything in my power to help you, but if it comes to this, that Haredale Park can only be preserved to us by this hateful marriage, then I decline. It is too great a sacrifice to ask of your daughter. Oh, how can you even make the suggestion?"

"You will think better of it," Sir George said.

"Never! I have said the last word. I will not allude to it again, and, unless you take back what you have said, I will accept you at your word and go out into the world and earn my own living. Don't mention it again."

Sir George looked uneasily at his daughter. Her austere sternness disturbed him. He said that Copley was coming over later in the evening to hear what May had to say on the matter.

"Very well," she answered, "I am rather glad of that. I shall be able to settle this thing for ever."

She turned and swept from the room. She was glad she had kept the tears out of her eyes. She was glad Sir George little knew how terribly he had wounded her. For the rest of the day May went about the house as though nothing had happened. She had a smile and a pleasant word for her visitor, so that even Sir George took heart of grace and deluded himself with the idea that his firmness had not been misplaced. It was only when Copley came that he found out how mistaken he was. Copley had no difficulty in getting May to himself, for Alice Carden was deeply engrossed in a book, and Sir George was sitting over his cigar in the library. At the very first hint of the reason for his visit May turned to him.

"I think I know what you are going to say," she observed. "I shall be glad to have this matter finally settled. Oh, no, I don't mean what you do at all. Will you be good enough to come to the library with me, because I should like my father to hear what passes between us? I won't detain you more than a few minutes, and it is the best way."

The self-satisfied smile died from Copley's lips. He had not expected a reception like this, and it surprised him, too, to see this uncompromising dignity in May's manner. Perhaps she had never been more alluring or more attractive in his eyes than she was at that moment, and he knew, too, without any words from her, that he was on the eve of defeat.

"Very well," he said, "though I don't see why we shouldn't settle it between us. It is our affair."

May made no reply. She walked into the library, followed by Copley. Sir George turned eagerly as they entered.

"Ah, well?" he said with an uneasy attempt at playfulness. "I see you have come to an understanding."

"I trust so," May said quietly, "though I don't think it is the understanding you anticipate. This is a very hateful position for me, and I would give a good deal to be out of it. But it would be cowardly if I tried to shirk my duty. Mr. Copley has already asked me to be his wife, and I refused him. I do not wish to give him any pain, but I had to put the matter plainly because he is a persistent man and not inclined to take 'No' for an answer. I understand he has come here to-night to renew his offer. Now, Mr. Copley, I have to tell you before my father that what you ask is impossible. I am old-fashioned enough to prefer happiness to money, and I could not marry a man whom I did not love. I have never liked you, I never could like you, in fact, I hope you won't think me rude when I say that I dislike you exceedingly. Besides, there is something unmanly and cowardly in pursuing a defenceless girl in this way. If you have one spark of proper feeling you will never allude to this topic again. I don't want to appeal to your pride. I think I have said enough."

Copley said nothing at the moment. He was struggling to obtain the mastery of himself. His face flushed angrily. There was a nasty glitter in his eyes.

"Does she understand?" he asked.

"It is not my fault if she doesn't," Sir George muttered.

"It is because I do understand," May said, "that I am all the more determined in my refusal."

CHAPTER XXXII

AN EASY FALL

"Oh, I have thought it over. I have had all day to think it over. I see you mean to force me to speak more plainly still. You have a hold over my father. He is deeply in your debt. You have lent him a large sum of money, not out of any feeling of friendship or generosity, but simply because you thought you could force me to marry you. Did any one ever hear of such a situation except on the stage? I know that if I do not change my mind you will visit your displeasure upon my father, you will make it impossible for us to remain at Haredale Park any longer. It seems a strange thing that a man should be so lost to all sense of decency as to use weapons like these to compel a girl to marry him. But it hasn't stopped there. My father has told me quite plainly, even brutally, that unless I make this sacrifice I am no longer to consider myself as his daughter. I must go out as if I were a mere underling to earn my own living. Very well; I am ready to do so. No, I don't want words from either of you. My mind is made up, and there is no more to be said."

May turned away, and left the library with her head held high and a bright colour burning her cheeks. She was very near to tears, but was grateful for the pride which had carried her through this trying interview without the semblance of a breakdown. When they were alone Sir George turned to his companion.

"I wouldn't have believed it," he said apologetically. "I never expected that May would be so disobedient. But you must make allowance for her. I daresay in time——"

"Never," Copley said emphatically. "She means every word she says. If you had half the pluck and grit she has you would never have found yourself in your present position. We have made a mistake, Haredale; we have gone the wrong way to work. I don't blame you any more than myself, but you may depend upon it that your daughter will never be my wife. She will keep her word; she will go out into the world, if necessary, to earn her own living, and I shouldn't wonder if she made a very good one. I must put up with my disappointment, I suppose. I would give half I possess to be able to say that your daughter was my wife. But there must be none of these harsh measures, Haredale. Just think what people would say! We should both be boycotted. The thing would get into the papers and your life wouldn't be worth living. We must find some other way out. Now let us change the subject."

Sir George was perfectly willing. Despite his selfish obstinacy the interview had been a trial to him, and he was exceedingly glad to get it over.

"What else have you in your mind?" he asked.

"Oh, business, of course. About the Blenheim colt? I am taking it for granted that you will scratch him. I don't see very well how you can back out. I have made the arrangements with Absalom & Co., and as they have withdrawn their action they will expect you to do your part. Now what do you say to letting the colt have a run in the Champion Stakes next week at Mirst Park? I thought it would be a very good way of getting out. To begin with, the public will be glad to see whether or not their fears are justified, and if the horse cuts up badly, why, then, you can scratch him at once. It would appear absolutely fair and above board; in fact, it will be. Or, if you like, you can let it be understood that the horse is not quite fit and that you still have hopes of getting him in fettle for the Derby. Either seems a good scheme."

"I see," Sir George said thoughtfully. "Yes, on the whole, that isn't a bad idea of yours. I shall be glad to get it over, too. I hadn't the slightest intention of sending the colt to Mirst Park, but Raffle reports that he is much fitter to-day, so that there is no reason why I should not adopt your suggestion. There is the chance that people will blame me for taking the risk, but, at the outside, that will be the worst of it. I will talk it over with Raffle in the morning, and let you know definitely."

Shortly after breakfast next morning Mallow came into the library to hear what his employer had to say. The trainer would hardly believe his ears when Sir George unfolded his plan. He had a score of practical objections to make, but Haredale put them all impatiently aside.

"Does the colt belong to you or to me?" he asked. "I have the very best of reasons for what I am going to do. It has always been my policy to take the public into my confidence. I want them to see at Mirst Park exactly what the horse can do. If they like to go on backing him after that it will be their own look-out."

"But that isn't the point, Sir George," Mallow insisted. "The colt is coming on splendidly again. It would be madness to extend him just now, and if he breaks down badly, don't blame me. I'll do my best between now and the day of the race, not because I want to, but because you are my employer and I must obey orders."

Mallow refused to say more. He closed his mouth obstinately and went back to the stables in a peculiar frame of mind. He had had twenty years of turf experience. There was no cunning wile or deep-laid plot that was not familiar to him and he was wondering what dodge Sir George was up to. Hitherto he had found Sir George Haredale the soul of honour and integrity, but it was one of Mallow's theories that every man had his limits. Besides, no one knew better how critical Sir George's financial affairs were. Of late, too, Sir George had been hand in glove with Raymond Copley, and Mallow hated Copley from the bottom of his heart. In his own phraseology, Copley was a wrong 'un.

Raffle was past all words when, in the fullness of his heart. Mallow confided in him. Raffle was a keen judge of such matters. He sought an opportunity later in the afternoon of seeing Fielden and telling him what had happened.

"Is Sir George mad?" Fielden asked.

"I don't think so, sir," Raffle replied. "I don't like it at all. Depend upon it, Sir George has got into a mess over his money matters and has thought out some scheme for putting himself right. Call me a fool if that there Copley isn't at the bottom of the whole thing. He and Sir George have been as thick as thieves lately. They say you can't touch pitch without being defiled. And since those two have been so friendly, Sir George is quite another man. However, unless you like to interfere, I must act upon instructions. I am bound to do as I am told."

"How could I interfere?" Fielden asked.

"Well, sir, the colt rightfully belongs to you. He is as much yours as the coat on your back. I can't see why you should stand quietly by and watch the ruin of one of the finest horses that ever trod the turf."

"I had forgotten that," Fielden said. "Perhaps, later, I may have something to say, but for the present that must be our secret, Joe. Mallow must carry out his instructions. By the way, what are they?"

Something like a grin crossed Raffle's face.

"Oh, we've got to run him, sir," he said. "We've got to run him and do our best. That there is the faintest chance of his winning Sir George does not believe for a moment. Still, if you refuse to take a hand, I must do as I am told, that's all. Perhaps you will be at Mirst Park yourself on the first day."

"Of course. I am taking one or two of our crocks there. But I must be off, Joe."

The conversation haunted Fielden. It was with him night and day till the first day of the Mirst Park meeting arrived. He had seen little or nothing of Phillips for some time, but that morning he had received a telegram asking him to meet Phillips in London early in the afternoon. He gathered from the message that Phillips had something important to say and so he decided to go to town. It would be easy to get back in time to see the end of the afternoon's sport. None of the Haredale Park party was over. Nor had Copley put in an appearance, and Fielden had his time almost to himself. He ran against Raffle in the paddock half an hour or so before the race for the Champion Stakes. There was a queer grin on the old man's face as he suggested that Fielden should go and have a look at the horse. They found the Blenheim colt in his stable looking in much better condition than Fielden had expected.

"He looks splendid," he said.

"Ah, he is a bonny colt," Raffle exclaimed with a look of affection in his eyes. "I never saw a better-tempered horse or a more genuine trier. He'll go every inch of the way, and I shouldn't be surprised if—but we won't talk about that."

Raffle refused to say more. Moreover, he had the colt to look to, for the race was close at hand; so Fielden made his way into the stand, where he could command a good view. Not that he had any interest in the race. It was a foregone conclusion that the Blenheim colt would be beaten and in only one or two instances did he carry any public money. A moment or two later Raffle took up a position by Fielden's side.

"The colt moves well," said Fielden, looking through his glasses, "and I don't see much signs of staleness, either. Upon my word, if I had any money to spare I'd back him for a trifle myself."

"You might do worse," Raffle chuckled.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE FIVE BASKETS

Fielden asked no questions. Whatever suspicions Raffle had he kept to himself. Fielden glanced at his watch and saw he would just have time to catch a train to town and join Phillips at the rendezvous in Covent Garden. He hurried away from the course and caught his train by sheer good luck.

He wasn't at all easy in his mind. He was inclined to agree with Raffle that there was more than met the eye in this affair and that Sir George had little consideration for the public when he decided to run the colt at Mirst Park. On the face of it, it was a mad thing to do and the fact that the horse had won rendered Sir George's policy all the more inexplicable. There was something sinister, too, in the close friendship which had sprung up between Haredale and Copley. That Copley was an unscrupulous blackguard Fielden knew very well. Possibly this knowledge was not shared by Sir George, but there was no getting over the fact that Haredale's money matters were in a critical state. Better men than Sir George had yielded to temptation.

Fielden was still debating the matter when he reached town. He turned up at the hotel in Covent Garden where Phillips was awaiting him, it wanting then just ten minutes to three. Phillips was relieved when Fielden came in.

"I thought you were going to fail me," he said. "I began to think that you had missed your train."

"I very nearly lost it," Fielden laughed. "But why do you want me?"

"We shall see that in good time, sir," Phillips said. "In about ten minutes from now we shall begin operations. There is just time to smoke a cigarette before we start. What is the best news from Mirst Park? I haven't seen a paper yet. Was the Blenheim colt beaten very disgracefully?"

"He wasn't beaten at all," Fielden said. "In fact, he won with considerable ease. There was very little trace of staleness about him. But it is early to talk about that. We must wait and see what old Raffle says to-morrow. I should not be surprised if the colt has done himself some serious injury to-day."

Phillips burst into a hearty laugh.

"What a joke!" he cried. "And what a sell it will be for Sir George! Oh, I know a thing or two, Mr. Fielden. I haven't been moving about with my eyes shut lately. It is very good of your old friend to pull out his horse in public, for the benefit of backers generally, but the man who will be most surprised and most disappointed at the result of to-day's race will be Sir George himself. If there is another man madder than Sir George it will be that scoundrel Copley."

"What do you mean?" Fielden asked.

"Never mind, sir. The least said soonest mended. But if I had ten thousand pounds I'd cheerfully back my opinion to the last penny that Sir George never hoped for and never expected a victory for the colt. I'll explain all in very good time. Now the sooner we are off the better. We are going to meet a gentleman named Chaffey whom I expect to see in a few minutes not very far from the Post Club on the other side of the street. You remember telling me how Chaffey turned up at Seton Manor, and what he said when he was drunk. I am glad you overheard that, because it solved a point that has been puzzling me for some time. I couldn't for the life of me make out how it was that Jolly & Co. managed to signal the result of the three o'clock race at Mirst Park into the smoking-room of the Post Club. I doubt if I ever should have found out had not Chaffey gone down to Seton Manor and hinted that if he couldn't get what he wanted somebody else might have his job of playing with the fruit baskets in Covent Garden. I saw at once that this was connected with the swindle, but for the life of me I couldn't place it. After thinking over it for the best part of a week, I took a stroll through Covent Garden market and finally stood in front of the Post Club trying to piece the puzzle together in my mind. There were a good many men about loading and unloading baskets, and I saw that most of them carried them on their heads. Why, some of these porters can carry as many as eight or nine bushel baskets on their heads. While I stood watching them an idea flashed into my mind. Look at this copy of to-day's Sportsman. Turn to the probable starters in the three o'clock race, and you will see for yourself that there is a number by the side of every horse. Now most racing men carry a Sportsman. There would be nothing suspicious in a backer pulling the Sportsman out of his pocket and consulting it at any moment. He might do it in a railway carriage, or on the course, or in a smoking-room, and it wouldn't attract any attention. Unless I am greatly mistaken, I have found the clue to the means by which Copley & Co.'s confederate has the result of a race at Mirst Park conveyed to him into the smoking-room of the Post Club practically before the horses are past the post. Then, of course, he can make what bets he likes. He is perfectly safe, because he can't lose. But, come along, it is past three and I don't want to lose this chance of verifying my conclusions. Only we must be careful. We must not rouse Chaffey's suspicions. He must not know that we are even watching him. Close to the Post Club there is a shop where we can procure some cigars and cigarettes and keep our eye upon what is going on. Are you ready?"

Fielden was ready and willing, for his curiosity was aflame. When he and his companion reached Covent Garden, they turned into a cigar shop in the same block of buildings in which the Post Club was situated. A good many customers had to be attended to, so that it was excusable to stand inside the door way and watch what was taking place on the other side of the road.

The market was practically empty. Business had been finished for the day, and there were only two or three casual porters loafing about waiting on the off-chance for an hour's work. One of them standing by a pile of baskets with hands plunged deeply in his pockets and a pipe in his mouth was Chaffey.

"No mistake about him?" Phillips asked.

"That's the man," Fielden whispered. "I could swear to that expression of his anywhere. But what is he doing there? He doesn't seem to be particularly busy."

"He is getting well paid for his job, anyway," Phillips chuckled. "As it is not likely to last long he'll be gone in a few moments. Have you the right time about you? What do you make it? Five minutes past three by post office time? The result ought to be here at any moment. Ah, I thought so. Just keep your eye closely upon Chaffey."

In his excitement Phillips bent over and grasped his companion's arm. Fielden saw Chaffey suddenly pull himself up and moisten his hands. He touched his ragged cap as if in response to a distant call, then he proceeded to fling five baskets one on the top of the other and balance them on his head. With this pyramid thus arranged he walked slowly across the market and disappeared down one of the corridors, where he was lost to sight.

"What on earth does it mean?" Fielden asked.

"Oh, that's the signal," Phillips explained. "The result has just come into the office of Jolly & Co. on the private telephone wire from The Nook at Mirst Park. The supposed Mr. Jolly stands near the window with the telephone receiver to his ear ready to flash the signal across the street. Now you understand why the flex of the telephone is so long. Before the horse is past the post the man on the top of the house at Mirst Park sends the number, and Jolly & Co. signal it to Chaffey. Then Chaffey simply puts five or other number of baskets on his head, and the confederate in the Post Club has the result. Mind you, this could be done within five seconds of the race being settled. Now take this Sportsman and I'll eat my hat if the winner of the three o'clock race at Mirst Park isn't number five on the programme."

When the result was published Phillips proved to be correct.

CHAPTER XXXIV

NO. 5