"Then things are to go on as they are, Sir George?" he asked. "There has been a lot of mischief done, but it is not yet too late. But it is no use crying over spilt milk."

This was going rather too far and too fast. Sir George's fears were aroused again.

"Your instructions are not quite indefinite," he corrected. "We will let the matter stand over for a week. At the end of that time we will see the colt's condition. If there is no material change for the better, then I must scratch him."

With this perforce Mallow had to remain content and went out muttering to himself. He wanted to know what Sir George was driving at and what this new policy meant. The trainer had a shrewd idea, though he hardly dared to whisper it even to himself. Still, a week was a week, and much might be done in that time. Besides, if necessary, he knew Raffle had a great card to play. For some reason or other Sir George wanted the colt scratched and Mallow had no difficulty in laying this somewhat shady diplomacy on the shoulders of Raymond Copley.

Meanwhile, the week drifted on and things remained in much the same position at Haredale Park. Sir George had said nothing more to his daughter, neither had she alluded to the detestable topic. But she was ready to take a step which would have considerably alarmed her father had he known of it. Copley was away on business. He came back on Sat.u.r.day and made his way across to Haredale Park after dinner. In the drawing-room he was coldly informed that Sir George was in the library.

He appeared to take this curt dismissal in good part and went off in search of Sir George whom he found sitting moodily over the fire.

"Where have you been lately?" the Baronet asked.

"Oh, my dear sir," Copley explained, "you forget that I have my business to look after. I have been exceedingly busy. When things take a turn for the better that is the time to follow your fortune closely. During the last few days I have been making money with both hands."

It appeared to be no idle boast, for Copley was looking less gloomy than usual. Fortune was smiling upon him again. He and his confederates had had a rare haul over the Longhill Handicap. They were in funds, and unless things went very wrong indeed by the time the Derby was over they would be all rich men. But Sir George guessed nothing of this. He was only sorry to think that May should be so obstinate in refusing to take her share in the spending of these phenomenal riches.

"I am exceedingly glad to hear it," he said.

"Oh, thank you very much. You see, fortune cuts all round. What's good for me is good for you. In the first place, you can make your mind easy about that affair of Absalom & Co., because they won't trouble you any more. After the Derby we need not worry ourselves as to money matters.

That brings me to my reason for coming here this evening. I understand that the colt has broken down permanently. From what I see in the papers there is not the remotest chance of his winning a race as a three-year old."

"It looks like it," Sir George answered. "At the same time, Mallow doesn't share my opinion. He is very obstinate."

"Oh, what the devil does it matter what he says or thinks?" Copley said impatiently. "He is only a servant. Surely you can do what you like with your own. Besides, in this matter the opinion of the whole racing world will sustain you. At the worst people can only say that you have made an error in judgment. The Press recognizes that you have acted like a good fellow and a sportsman in running this risk simply with the object of taking the public into your confidence. They don't know, of course, that you don't want the horse to win, nor what a surprise the Mirst Park victory was to you. And on the top of that they tumble over one another to back the colt, and if he doesn't start at all they are to blame.

Still, it has been a good thing for me. I have laid against your animal thick and thin and after the Derby is over I shan't need to do any more work."

Sir George made no reply. He sat gazing dubiously into the fire. Looking back at the course of events, he could hardly see how he had got himself into this mess. He ought to have refused to listen to Copley, and should have supported the opinion of such a sound judge as Raffle. Besides, he had never won a Derby in his racing career, and it seemed to him that he was wasting a splendid chance. But it was too late to repent, too late to draw back, and all Sir George could hope was that no one would ever have an inkling of his shame. He did not know, neither did Copley, that May was standing in the doorway. She had come in for something she required. Her evening shoes had made no sound on the thick carpets, and she had heard every word that was said. Not that she intended to play the eavesdropper. But one remark of Copley's had fascinated her and she stood as if rooted to the spot.

She knew her ears did not deceive her. She had been brought up all her life in an atmosphere of racing. She knew almost as much about it as Raffle himself. The thing was plain and a wave of shame and humiliation rushed over the girl as she stood there drinking in every word.

She could not blind herself to the truth. She could not get away from the fact that her father was a conscious partic.i.p.ant in a disgraceful action. It mattered little that her father was in Copley's hands, or that Copley had suggested the whole thing. The shock was none the less painful. It seemed incredible that a man in Sir George's position should stoop so low as this. These plots had happened before and no one had spoken of them with greater contempt than had Sir George. Now was he self-confessed as a princ.i.p.al in one of the shadiest of them all.

May stole away. For a moment she had been on the point of an outburst.

But perhaps it would be better to wait and speak to her father quietly later, to try to find some means of averting this dreadful dishonour.

"I cannot stay here," she murmured. "The atmosphere poisons me. I must get away, I must get away."

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

FIELDEN INTERVENES

May went quietly back to the drawing-room. There was nothing in her face to indicate what she was suffering. For a time she sat gazing into the fire, watching Alice Carden who sat opposite her engrossed in a book. At the end of half an hour May had made up her mind what to do, and when Alice laid her volume aside, she began to speak.

"How long is your father likely to be away?" she asked.

"Oh, for two months, I suppose," Alice said. "But I may find him at home when I go back next week."

"I hope not," May answered, "because I have a plan to suggest to you. I wonder if you would mind my coming with you? I suppose you could get me a bedroom in your house. I should like to pay for myself. Could it be managed, do you think?"

"It would be delightful," Alice cried. "But why do you want to leave this beautiful house? What will Sir George say when he hears of it?"

"He mustn't hear it," May whispered. "We have always been very good friends, Alice, and you can help me now if you will. I am going to confide in you and you must not whisper a word of it to a soul. So long as your father is away I shall be safe with you, and as he may not be back for some weeks I will have time to turn round. I must go away, I cannot stay here any longer. Something has happened which compels me to get my own living."

"Oh, impossible!" Alice cried.

"My dear, don't you know that it is the unexpected that happens? Well, in my case, it has. If anybody had told me this a couple of months ago I should have laughed the idea to scorn. It would have been incredible that my father should threaten to turn me out of the house. Hitherto we have been the best of friends, and I have regarded him as one of the most upright and most honourable of men. I have always prided myself upon the fact that nothing could rob us of our good name; but I was mistaken, Alice. Actually this place does not belong to us at all. My father is a mere lodger, dependent upon the good will of Mr. Raymond Copley, who can turn us out at any moment. Moreover, he has compelled my father to do a thing that I blush to mention. Do you know why Mr. Copley has brought all this about?"

"I think I can guess," Alice said. "He is anxious to marry you. Am I not right?"

"You have guessed it," May exclaimed. "You have saved me the humiliation of telling you that. Mr. Copley can't say he has bought me. But he has bought my father, and it comes to this, that unless I consent to be Raymond Copley's wife I am to consider this my home no longer. These were my father's very words. I suppose he chose them because they sounded best. But it is as if he had told me to go. I couldn't marry that man; nothing would induce me to do so. There is worse behind--there is a conspiracy on foot which I overheard in the library just now. You must not ask me to tell you what it is. My tongue would refuse to tell it. Well, it is the last straw. I couldn't be more miserable than I have been the last week or so. I cannot stay any longer. I have little or no money, but I have my mother's jewels which ought to fetch at least a thousand pounds. I propose to go to London and look about for something to do. I want to come to you because we are such friends, and because I know you will sympathize with me. We can live very cheaply together and I will pay you for all I have, and before your father returns I shall probably have found work. You won't refuse, will you?"

"How can you think such a thing?" Alice said reproachfully. "There is nothing I would not do for you, and I know we shall be perfectly happy together. It would be worse than death to marry a man like Mr. Copley.

I don't know why it is, but from the very first moment I saw him I hated him. I think he has such a cruel face. His mouth is so hard and his eyes are dreadful. But when do you want to go? When will you be ready to start?"

"Didn't you say you must be back in town on Tuesday? Didn't you say something about your pupils? Well, suppose you go up on that day and I follow you on Wednesday. It would arouse suspicion for us both to go at the same time, and indeed I would ask you to stay longer only I can't breathe here. Knowing what I do, it is hateful to have to sit down to the same table with my father. I daresay I shall come to forgive him in time, but for the present it is beyond my strength. Mr. Copley is always about the house. Do try to make it Tuesday if you can. It seems so horrid of me----"

Alice rose from her seat and kissed the speaker affectionately.

"I won't hear another word," she said. "It is not in the least horrid of you. I will gladly do all I can to help you."

Tuesday came at length and Alice Carden went away, leaving May to her own melancholy thoughts. She had not seen Harry Fielden for a few days and was thankful he had not been near her. It would be hard parting from him. It would be difficult to say good-bye without betraying herself or giving him some inkling of what had happened. After lunch on Wednesday she stole out of the house and walked to the station. She had sent on her luggage by Alice Carden the day before, so that when she left for London it might seem that she was only going for a casual visit. She would not mind the new life, so she thought, and she hardened her heart as she looked out of the carriage window. But, all the same, she was glad to find herself alone, for the tears would come and the old familiar landscape grew dim and blurred.

What would they say, she wondered, when they knew. What would Harry Fielden think? But, at that very moment, Harry Fielden had something else to occupy his attention. He was walking across the Downs towards Haredale Park with Raffle, and the latter was speaking his mind very freely.

"I won't be quiet, sir, and I won't keep my mouth shut," he said. "I tell you, Mr. Harry, it is a foul conspiracy and there are no two ways about it. Sir George gave Mallow a week to try to pull the colt round, and he says, says he, 'Mallow, if he's no better by that time, he's to be scratched.' Those were the instructions and Sir George confirmed them this morning. Now I am not going to say that the colt is much better, but I am prepared to pledge my reputation, and it is worth something, that I'll get him fit in a month. The whole thing has been arranged between Sir George and that man Copley, so that the horse can be scratched for the Derby. The public are to believe that Sir George has been unfortunate, but has played the game like a gentleman and a sportsman. Well, you may have what opinion you like, but I know better.

Mind you, if I didn't know what I know I should have to put up with it and hold my tongue, because I am only a servant and no one can blame me for obeying my orders. But I have been making inquiries, and I find that Copley and his gang have been laying thick and thin against the colt for the past week. Do you mean to tell me they could know the colt would be scratched if they hadn't got Sir George in their power?"

"What do you want me to do?" Fielden asked.

A bitter smile crossed the old man's face.

"I shouldn't have thought you'd ask what you were to do, sir," he said.

"But I'm not going to stand it. I'm not going to sit down quietly and see this game going on. I daresay you think it will be bad for Miss May if this thing comes out. But bless you! if you go the right way to work nothing will leak out. The colt mustn't be scratched. You leave him where he is and he's certain to win the Derby. You are the very man to step in and stop the game. Let Sir George know what your power is. Let Copley see that he's got a gentleman to deal with. It will ruin Copley and his mob, but that doesn't matter. They are a fine set of thieves, if you ask me, sir, and I shouldn't mind telling Copley so. Now I would like to hear your opinion."

Fielden had no particular opinion to offer. At the same time, he had information in his possession which would have astonished Raffle if he could only have seen into the mind of his old master. Pressing as the matter was, it was not possible to act on the spur of the moment, and Fielden contented himself by saying he would think over the matter.

"But you can't do it, sir," Raffle protested. "There's no time to waste like that. The colt has to be scratched and maybe a telegram's already gone to London to that effect. The mischief may be done."

"By Jove, I hadn't thought of that," Fielden exclaimed. "All right, Joe, it will be a most unpleasant piece of business, but I see now that it must not be put off any longer. I'll go straight over to Haredale Park and see Sir George at once."

Sir George was in his library. He had given instructions to the butler to deny him to every one. In fact, he was seated by the library fire reading a letter which May had left for him. She had not minced matters.

She had gone away for reasons well known to him, she said, and her address mattered nothing to anybody. Sir George was looking particularly old and grey and troubled as Fielden thrust his way past the butler and entered the library. Sir George's manner was not encouraging, and he curtly demanded to know the meaning of this intrusion.

"I am sorry," Fielden said, "but my business would not wait. Am I to understand that you have struck the Blenheim colt out of the Derby? Is it done?"