He smiled complacently over his power of self-control in having allowed no hint of his absorbing pa.s.sion to escape him.

Acceptance of this money by Allis, the money which was the outcome of an isolated generous thought, would have given him a real advantage.

To have spoken, though never so briefly of his hopes for proprietary rights, would have accentuated the girl's sensitive alarm. He was too perfect a tactician to indulge in such poor sword play; he had really left the question open. A little thought, influenced by the desperate condition of Porter's fortunes, might make Allis amenable to what was evidently her best interest, should she be approached from a different quarter.

Crane had made the first move, and met checkmate; the second move would be through Allis's mother; he determined upon that course. All his old cunning must have surely departed from him if he could not win this girl. Fate was backing him up most strenuously. Diablo had been cast into his hands--thrust upon him by the good fortune that so steadily befriended him. He was not in the habit of attributing unlooked-for success to Providence; he rarely went beyond fate for a deity.

Unmistakably then it was fate that had cast the horoscope of his and Allis's life together. Never mind what means he might use to carry out this decree; once accomplished, he would more than make amends to the girl.

He drew most delightful pictures of the Utopian existence his wealth would make possible for Allis. For the father he would provide a racing stable that would bring profit in place of disaster. Crane smiled somewhat grimly as he thought that under those changed circ.u.mstances even Allis's mother might be brought to condone her husband's continuance in the nefarious profession. If for no other reason than the great success he had made in the Brooklyn Handicap with Diablo, his spirits were that evening impossible of the reception of even a foreshadowing of failure. A suppressed exhilaration rose-tinted every projected scheme. He would win Allis, and he would win the Brooklyn Derby with his good colt, The Dutchman.

He went to sleep in this happy glamour of a.s.sured success, and, by the inevitable contrariness of things, dreamed that he was falling over a steep precipice on The Dutchman's back, and that at the bottom Mortimer and Allis were holding a blanket to catch him in his fall. Even in his imaginative sleep, he was saved from a dependence upon this totally inadequate receptacle for a horse and rider, for he woke with a gasp after he had traveled with frightful velocity for an age through the air.

Crane was a man not given to superst.i.tious enthrallment; his convictions were usually founded on basic manifestations rather than fanciful visions; but somehow the night's dream fastened upon his mind as he lingered over a breakfast of coffee and rolls. Even three cups of coffee, ferociously strong, failed to drown the rehearsal of his uncomfortable night's gallop. Why had he linked Mortimer and Allis together? Had it been fate again, prompting him in his sleep, giving him warning of a rival that stood closer to the girl than he?

More than once he had thought of Mortimer as a possible rival. Mortimer was not handsome, but he was young, tall, and square-shouldered--even his somewhat plain face seemed to reflect a tall, square-shouldered character.

Subconsciously Crane turned his head and scanned critically the reflection of his own face in a somewhat disconsolate mirror that misdecorated a panel of the breakfast room. Old as the gla.s.s was, somewhat bereaved of its quicksilver lining at the edge, it had not got over its habit of telling the truth. Ordinarily little exception could have been taken to the mirrored face; it was intellectual; no sign-manual of cardinal sin had been placed upon it; it was neither low, nor brutal, nor wolfishly cunning in expression. Its pallor rather loaned an air of distingue, but--and the examination was being conducted for the benefit of a girl of twenty--it was the full-aged visage of a man of forty.

More than ever a conviction fixed itself in Crane's mind that, no matter how strong or disinterested his love for Allis might be, he would win her only by diplomacy. After all, he was better versed in that form of love-making, if it might be so called.

Crane was expecting Langdon at ten o'clock. He heard a step in the breakfast room, and, turning his head, saw that it was the Trainer.

Mechanically Crane pulled his watch from his pocket; he had thought it earlier; it was ten. Langdon was on time to a minute. Nominally what there was to discuss, though of large import, required little expression. With matters going so smoothly there was little but a.s.surances and congratulations to be exchanged. Diablo's showing in the big Handicap confirmed Langdon's opinion that both the Black and The Dutchman had given them a great trial; probably they would duplicate their success with The Dutchman in the Brooklyn Derby. It was only a matter of a few days, and the son of Hanover had steadily improved; he was in grand fettle.

Langdon's appreciation of Crane's cleverness had been enhanced by the successful termination of what he still believed was a brilliantly planned coup. He had never for an instant thought that Crane purchased the horse out of kindness to anyone. It was still a matter of mystery to him, however, why his princ.i.p.al should wish to keep dark just how he had learned Diablo's handicap qualities.

Accustomed to reading Langdon's mind, Crane surmised from the Trainer's manner that the latter had something that he had not yet broached. Their talk had been somewhat desultory, much like the conversation of men who have striven and succeeded and are flushed with the full enjoyment of their success. Suddenly the Trainer drew himself together, as if for a plunge, and said: "Did you notice Porter's mare in the Brooklyn, sir?"

"Yes; she ran a pretty good race for a three-year-old."

"She did, an' I suppose they'll start her in the Derby. Do you happen to know, sir?"

"I fancy they will," answered Crane, carelessly.

"She stopped bad yesterday; but I've heard somethin'."

Crane remembered his own suspicion as to Lucretia's rider, but he only said, "Well?"

"After the race yesterday the jockey, Redpath, was talkin'--to the Porter gal--"

Crane started. It jarred him to hear this horseman refer to Allis as "the Porter gal."

"Redpath told her," proceeded Langdon, "that when he saw he couldn't quite win he pulled his mount off to keep her dark for the Derby."

"How do you know this?"

"A boy in my stable happened to be in the stall an' heard 'em."

"Who's the boy? Can you believe him?"

"It's Shandy. He used to be with the Porters."

Like a flash it came to Crane that the spy must be the one who had written him the note about Faust and the change of saddles.

"Well, that doesn't affect us, that I can see," commented Crane. "I'm not backing their mare."

"It means," declared Langdon, with great earnestness, "that if Lucretia could have beat all the others but Diablo, she has a rosy chance for the Derby; that's what it means. The Black got away with a flyin' start, and she wore him down, almost beat him; I doubt if The Dutchman could do that much. She was givin' him a little weight, too."

"Well, we can't help it. I've backed The Dutchman to win a small fortune, and I'm going to stand by it. You're in it to the extent of ten thousand, as you know, and we've just got to try and beat her with our colt; that's all there is to it."

"I don't like it," muttered Langdon, surlily. "She's a mighty good three-year-old to put up a race like that."

"She may go off before Derby day," suggested Crane; "mares are uncertain at this time of year."

"That's just it; if she would go off we'd feel pretty sure then. I think the race is between them."

"Well, we'll know race day; if she goes to the post, judging from what you say, it'll be a pretty tight fit."

"She didn't cut much figure last year when Lauzanne beat her." Langdon said this with a drawling significance; it was a direct intimation that if Lucretia's present jockey could be got at, as her last year's rider had been--well, an important rival would be removed.

Crane had not been responsible for the bribing of Lucretia's jockey, though he was well aware what had occurred; had even profited by it.

"There'll be no crooked work this time," he said; "n.o.body will interfere with the mare's rider, I hope," and he looked significantly at Langdon.

"I don't think they will," and the Trainer gave a disagreeable laugh.

"From what Shandy tells me, I fancy it would be a bad game. The truth of the matter is that gosling Redpath is stuck on the gal."

Crane's pale face flushed hot.

"I believe that Shandy you speak of is a lying little scoundrel. I have an idea that he wrote me a note, a wretched scrawl, once. Wait, I've got it in my pocket; I meant to speak to you about it before."

Crane drew from the inner pocket of his coat a leather case, and after a search found Shandy's unsigned letter, and pa.s.sed it over to the Trainer.

"It's dollars to doughnuts Shandy wrote it. Let me keep this, sir."

"You're welcome to it," answered Crane; "you can settle with him. But about the Derby, I have reasons for wishing to win that race, reasons other than the money. I want to win it, bad. Do you understand?"

"I think I do. When you say you want to win a race, you generally want to win it."

"Yes, I do. But see here, Langdon, just leave their jockey to take orders from his own master, see?"

"I wasn't goin' to put up no game with him, sir."

"Of course not, of course not. It wouldn't do. He's a straight boy, I think, and just leave him to ride the best he knows how. We've got a better jockey in Westley. Besides, the Brooklyn Handicap has taken a lot out of their mare; they may find that she'll go back after it. I think you'd better get rid of that Shandy serpent; he seems ripe for any deviltry. You can't tell but what he might get at The Dutchman if somebody paid him. If I'm any judge of outlawed human nature, he'd do it. I've got to run down to Brookfield on a matter of business, but shall be back again in a day or so. Just keep an eye on The Dutchman--but I needn't tell you that, of course."

"That two-year-old I bought at Morris Park is coughin' an' runnin'

at the nose; I blistered his throat last night; he's got influenza,"

volunteered the Trainer.

"Keep him away from The Dutchman, then."