Crane remained tantalizingly silent for a full minute; evidently his thoughts had drifted away to some other subject.

"Yes," said Faust, speaking again to break the trying quiet, "some one's nibblin' at Diablo in the books. I wonder if it's Porter; did he think him a good horse?"

"It can't be Porter, nor any one else who knows Diablo. It's some foolish outsider, tempted by the long odds. I suppose, however, it doesn't matter; in fact, it's all the better. You took that five thousand to fifty for me, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, just lay it off. You can do so now at a profit."

"You don't want to back Diablo, then? Shall I lay against him further?"

"If you like--in your own book. I don't want to have anything to do with him, one way or the other. I always thought he was a bad horse, and--and--well, never mind, just lay that bet off. I shall probably want to back The Dutchman again shortly."

When Faust had gone, Crane opened the little drawer which held his betting book, took it out, and drew a pencil through the entry he had made opposite Allis's name.

"That's off for a few days, thanks to Mr. Faust," he thought. Then he ran his eye back over several other entries. "Ah, that's the man--Hummel; he'll do."

Next he consulted his telephone book; tracing his finger down the "H"

column he came to "Ike Hummel, commission broker, Madison 71184."

Over the 'phone he made an appointment for the next day at eleven o'clock with Hummel; and the result of that interview was that Crane backed Diablo to win him a matter of seventy-five thousand dollars at the liberal odds of seventy-five to one; for Jakey Faust, feeling that he had made a mistake in backing the Black, had laid off all his own bets and sent the horse back in the market to the longer odds. Crane had completely thrown him of his guard.

No sooner had Faust congratulated himself upon having slipped out of his Diablo bets than he heard that a big commission had been most skillfully worked on this outsider for the Brooklyn. In his new dilemma he went to Crane, feeling very much at sea.

"They're backin' your horse again, sir," he said.

"Are they?"

"Yes; heavy."

"If he's worth backing at all I suppose he's worth backing heavily."

This aphorism seemed to merit a new cigar on Crane's part, so he lighted one.

"He's travelin' up and down in the market," continues Faust. "He dropped to thirty, then went back to seventy-five; now he's at twenty; I can't make it out."

"I shouldn't try," advised Crane, soothingly. "Too much knowledge is even as great a danger as a lesser amount sometimes."

Faust started guiltily and looked with quick inquiry at the speaker, but, as usual, there was nothing in his presence beyond the words to hang a conjecture on.

"I thought for your sake that I'd better find out."

"Oh, don't worry about me; that is, too much, you know. I go down to Gravesend once in a while myself, and no doubt know all that's doing."

A great fear fell upon Faust. Evidently this was an intimation to him to keep away from the stables. How did Crane know--who had split on him?

Was it Langdon, or Shandy, or Colley? Some one had evidently aroused Crane's suspicion, and this man of a great cleverness had put him away while he worked a big commission through some one else. The thought was none the less bitter to Faust that it was all his own fault; his super-cleverness.

"An' you don't want me to work a commission for you on Diablo?" he asked, desperately.

"No; I sha'n't bet on him at present. And say, Faust, in future when I want you to do any betting on my horses, on my account, you know, I'll tell you. Understand? You needn't worry, that is--other people. I'll tell you myself."

"I didn't mean--" Faust had started to try a plausible explanation, but Crane stopped him.

"Never mind; the matter is closed out now."

"But, sir," persisted Faust, "if you've got your money all on, can I take a bit now? Is it good business? We've worked together a good deal without misunderstanding before."

"Yes, we have," commented Crane.

"Yes; an' I'd like to be in on this now. I didn't mean to forestall you."

Crane raised his hand in an att.i.tude of supplication for the other man to desist, but Faust was not to be stopped.

"I made a mistake, an' I'm sorry; an' if you will tell me whether Diablo's good business for the Brooklyn, I'll back him now at the shorter price. There's no use of us bein' bad friends."

"I think Diablo's a fairly good bet," said Crane, quietly, entirely ignoring the question of friendship.

"It won't be poachin' if I have a bet, then?" asked the Cherub, more solicitous than he had appeared at an earlier stage of the game.

"Poachers don't worry me," remarked Diablo's owner. "I'm my own game keeper, and they usually get the worst of it. But you go ahead and have your bet."

"Thank you, there won't be no more bad breaks made by me; but I didn't mean to give you none the worst of it. Good day, sir," and he was gone.

"Faust has had his lesson," thought Crane, as he took from a drawer the stable-boy's ill-favored note.

"I wonder who sent me this scrawl? It gave me a pointer, though. I suppose the writer will turn up for his reward; but the devil of it is he'll sell information of this sort to anyone who'll buy. Must weed him out when I've discovered the imp. At any rate Faust will go straight, now he's been scorched. I'll just re-enter that bet to the Little Woman while I think of it. 'Three thousand seven hundred and fifty to fifty, Diablo for the Brooklyn, laid to Miss Allis Porter.'" Then he dated it. "She loses by this transaction, but that won't matter; it will be a pretty good win if it comes off. She may even refuse this, though she shouldn't, for it's a part of the bargain that I was to have a bet on for her, a small bet, of course. Yes, yes; I remember, a small bet.

But this is a small bet. There was nothing said about the size of the winnings. She was probably thinking of gloves. Jingo, she has a lovely hand, I've noticed it; long slim fingers, even the palm is long; sinewy I'll warrant; nothing pudgy about that hand. Hey, Crane, you're silly!"

he cried, half audibly, taking himself to task; "doing business in big moneys--a cool seventy-five thousand, if it materializes, perhaps even more--and then slipping off into a mooney dream, vaporing about a girl's slim hand. I suppose that's the love symptom. But at forty! it's hardly my normal condition, I fancy."

The slim hand beckoned him off into a disjointed reverie. Was he the better for it? What would the end be? Before the new emotion he could look back upon his past struggles with sordid satisfaction. Men in battle were not given to uneasy qualms of compunction, nor questionings as to the method that had led to victory. His life had been one long-drawn-out battle; the financial soldiers that had fallen by the wayside because of his sword play did not interest him; they were dead; being dead, their memory harra.s.sed him not at all. If there were commercial blood stains upon his hand, they were hidden by the glove of success. After a manner he had had peace; now all was disquiet; the turmoil of an awakened gentler feeling clashing with the polemics of self-satisfying selfishness. And all because of a girl! To him that was the peculiar feature of the disturbance in his nature. He, Philip Crane, the strong man of strong men, to be shorn of his indifference to everything but success by a girl unskilled in managing anything but a horse.

"It's all very fine to argue it out with one's self," he thought, "but I simply can't help it." He was astonished to find that he was pacing up and down the floor of his apartment. Undoubtedly he was possessed of a tremendous regard for the girl Allis. But why not put it from him; why not conquer himself as he had always done? To let it master him meant the giving up of things that were almost second nature. He could not love the girl as a good woman should be loved, and--and--well, the gray eyes that had their strength because of supreme honesty would surely bring him disquietude. It would indeed be difficult to change his nature much; his habits were almost like leopard's spots; they were grown into the woof of his existence. Even if he won her it must be almost entirely because of a superior diplomacy. Everything told him that his love was not returned. It seemed almost impossible that it should be; there was not more disparity in their years than in their two selves. "All very fine again," he muttered, somewhat savagely; "I want her, I want her, not because of anything but love. What she is, or what I am counts for nothing; love is all compelling; my first master, I salute thee," this in sarcastic sincerity.

In his strength he relied upon his power to bring forth an answering love, at least regard, should he win Allis. Yes, it would surely come.

He had not even a young rival to combat. Yes, he would win, first Allis, and afterward her love.

"I'm quite silly," he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed; "but I can't help it. But I can go out and get some fresh air, and I will."

XXII

It was the middle of May. Down in the earth the strong heart of reawakened nature throbbed with a pulsating force that sent new life forth on its errand of rejuvenation. The apple trees had peeped out with pink eyes, and seeing the summer maiden stalking through the land, had thrown off their timid coyness and shaken loose a drapery of white, all rose-tinted and green-shaded, that turned their broad-acred homes into fairy ball rooms. And for music the bees, and the birds, and shrill fife-playing frogs volunteered out of sheer joyousness of life.

Tiny shavings of green wag, the gentle spring gra.s.s, lay strewn about the ballroom floor, and glistened in the warm light that was of one high-hung chandelier, the sun.