"At it again, Mr. Bunco. I'll take care of him," he continued, turning to Mortimer. "He's a tout. Out you go," this to the other man. Then, tickled in the ribs by the end of the policeman's baton, the tout was driven from the enclosure; the spectators merged into a larger crowd, and Mortimer was left once more to pursue his fruitless search.

As he emerged into the open of the lawn he saw a gentleman standing somewhat listlessly, self-absorbed, as though he were not a party to the incessant turmoil of the others, who were as men mad.

With a faith born of limited experience, Mortimer risked another hazard. He would ask this complacent one for guidance. What he had to do justified all chances of rebuke.

"Pardon me, sir," he began, "I am looking for a young friend of mine whose people own race horses. Where would I be likely to find him?"

"If he's an owner he'll probably be in the paddock," replied the composed one.

"Could you tell me where the paddock is?"

"To the right," and sweeping his arm in that direction the stranger sank back into his inner consciousness, and blinked his eyes languidly, as though the unusual exertion of answering his inquisitor's questions had decidedly bored him.

"That man is one in a thousand; yea, forty thousand, for he is a stranger to excitement," Mortimer said to himself, as he strode rapidly across the gra.s.s to a gate which opened in the direction the other had indicated. His eagerness had almost carried him through the gateway when a strong arm thrown across his chest, none too gently, barred his further progress.

"Show your badge, please," cried a voice.

Mortimer exposed the pasteboard he had acquired on his entry to the stand.

"You can't pa.s.s in here," said the guardian; "that's only good for the stand."

"But," began Mortimer.

"Stand aside--make room, please!" from the gatekeeper, cut short his conversation.

Others were waiting to pa.s.s through. In despair he gave up his untenable place, and once more was swallowed in the maelstrom of humanity that eddied about the stand enclosure.

As he was heading for his rock of locality, the stairway, hurrying somewhat recklessly, he ran with disturbing violence full tilt into a man who had erratically turned to his left, when according to all laws of the road he should have kept straight on.

"I beg pardon--" began Mortimer; then stared in blank amazement, cutting short his apology. The victim of his a.s.sault was Mr. Crane. The latter's close-lidded eyes had rounded open perceptibly in a look of surprise.

"Mr. Mortimer!" he exclaimed, "You here? May I ask who's running the bank?"

Anxious about the stolen money the sudden advent of Crane on his immediate horizon threw the young man into momentary confusion. "My mother was ill--I got leave--I had to see Alan Porter--I've come here to find him. They'll manage all right at the bank without me."

He fired his volley of explanation at his employer with the rapidity of a Maxim gun. Truth and what he considered excusable falsehood came forth with equal volubility. Crane, somewhat mollified, and feeling that at first he had spoken rather sharply, became more gracious. At sight of Mortimer he had concluded that it was to see Allis the young man had come, perhaps at her instigation.

"Have you seen Alan Porter, sir?" Mortimer asked, anxiously.

"I did, but that was about an hour ago. You will probably find him"--he was going to say--"in the paddock with his sister," but for reasons he refrained; "let me see, most likely sitting up in the grand stand."

As Mortimer stood scanning the sea of faces that rose wave on wave above him, Mr. Crane said, "I hope you found your mother better. If I see Alan I'll tell him you are looking for him."

When Mortimer turned around Crane had gone. He had meant to ask about the race Porter's horse Lauzanne was in, but had hesitated for fear he should say something which might give rise to a suspicion of his errand.

He heard the rolling thunder of hoof beats in the air. From where he stood, over the heads of many people he could see gaudy colored silk jackets coming swiftly up the broad straight boulevard of the race course; even as he looked they pa.s.sed by with a peculiar bobbing up-and-down motion. The effect was grotesque, for he could not see the horses, could not see the motive power which carried the bright-colored riders at such a terrific pace.

A thought flashed through his mind that it might be the Derby.

"What race is that?" he asked of one who stood at his elbow.

The man's face wore a sullen, discontented look, and no wonder, for he had, with misplaced confidence, wagered many dollars on a horse that was even then prancing gaily in many yards behind the winner.

"Do you know what race that was?" Mortimer repeated, thinking the silent one had not heard him.

"Why don't you look at your race card?" retorted the jaundiced loser, transporting himself and his troubles to the haven of liquid consolation.

His answer, curt as it was, gave Mortimer an inspiration. He looked about and saw many men consulting small paper pamphlets; they were like people in an art gallery, catalogue in hand.

By chance, Mortimer observed a young man selling these race catalogues, as he innocently named them. He procured one, and the seller in answer to a question told him it was the third race he had just seen, and the next would be the Brooklyn Derby.

There it was, all set forth in the programme he had just purchased.

Seven horses to start, all with names unfamiliar except The Dutchman and Lauzanne. He had almost given up looking for Alan; it seemed so hopeless. At any rate he had tried his best to save the boy's honor; told deliberate lies to do it. Now it was pretty much in the hands of fate. He remembered what Alan had said about The Dutchman's certain chance of winning the coming race. He felt that if the horse won, Alan would put back the stolen thousand dollars; if not, where would the boy get money to cover up his theft?

It had seemed to Mortimer a foolish, desperate thing to risk money on anything so uncertain as a horse race; but here was at stake the honor of a bright, splendid young man--even the happiness of his parents, which the poor, deluded boy had wagered on one horse's chance of winning against six others. It was terrible. Mortimer shuddered, and closed his eyes when he thought of the misery, the shame, that would come to Allis and her mother when they knew, as they must, if Crane's horse were beaten, that the son was a thief. Oh, G.o.d! why couldn't he find the boy and save him before it was too late? Probably Alan had already betted the money; but even if that were so, he had vain visions of forcing the man who had received the stolen thousand to disgorge. No one had a right to receive stolen money; and if necessary, Mortimer would give him to understand that he was making himself a party to the crime.

But the mere fact that he couldn't find Alan Porter rendered him as helpless as a babe; he might as well have remained in the bank that day.

How willingly he would have hastened back and replaced the money if he but had it. For Allis's sake he would have beggared himself, would have sacrificed a hundred times that sum to save her from the unutterable misery that must come if her brother were denounced as a felon. The love that was in him was overmastering him.

He was roused from his despondent train of thought by speech that struck with familiar jar upon his ear. It was the voice of the man who had descanted on the pleasures of betting during their journey from New York.

"What dye t'ink of it, pard?" was the first salutation.

Mortimer stammered the weak information that he didn't know what to think of it.

"Dere ain't no flies on us to-day--I'm knockin' 'em out in great shape.

Can't pick a loser, blamed if I can. I've lined up for a cash-in tree times, an' I'll make it four straight, sure. Larcen'll come home all alone; you see if he don't."

"I hope so," rejoined Mortimer.

"I say, Mister Morton, put down a bet on him--he's good business; put a 'V' on, an' rake down fifty--dat'll pay your ex's. De talent's goin' for De Dutchman, but don't make no mistake about de other, he'll win."

In an instant the young man knew why this persistent worrier of a tortured spirit had been sent him. Fate gave him the cue; it whispered in his ear, "Put down a hundred--you have it--and win a thousand; then you can save Alan Porter--can keep this misery from the girl that is to you as your own life."

Mortimer listened eagerly; to the babbler at his side; to the whisper in his ear; to himself, that spoke within himself. Even if it were not all true, if Lauzanne were beaten, what of it? He would lose a hundred dollars, but that would not ruin him; it would cause him to save and pinch a little, but he was accustomed to self-denial.

"Will the betting men take a hundred dollars from me on this horse, Lauzanne?" he asked, after the minute's pause, during which these thoughts had flashed through his mind.

"Will dey take a hundred? Will dey take a t'ousand! Say, what you givin'

me?"

"If Lauzanne won, I'd win a thousand, would I?"

"If you put it down straight; but you might play safe--split de hundred, fifty each way, win an' show; Larcen'll be one, two, tree, sure."

"I want to win a thousand," declared Mortimer.

"Den you've got to plump fer a win; he's ten to one."

Mortimer could hardly understand himself; he was falling in with the betting idea. It was an age since he stood at his desk in that bank, abhorrent of all gambling methods, to the present moment, when he was actually drawing from his pocket a roll of bills with which to bet on a horse.