Читать книгу The Flying Fifty-Five - Edgar Wallace - Страница 14

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SIR JACQUES GREGORY came down to breakfast in a cheerful mood, and the telegram he found by the side of his plate increased his good humour.

When Claude Barberry joined him, looking a little more washed-out than usual, Jacques was almost boisterous, a mood which did not quite accord with Claude's own condition of mind, for he never met the coming day cheerfully.

"I've got good news for you, Claude," said Gregory.

Claude was at the sideboard preparing his morning meal, which consisted of whisky and milk.

"Oh," he growled. He was never at his best at this hour.

"I can put you into the way of making a fortune," said Gregory, and the other became instantly interested.

"Mendoza will win the Hunt Cup! I have had a big bet about the horse already and I've just had a wire from Flack."

"Who is Flack?" grumbled the other, pushing away his plate with a grimace of disgust. Food had that effect upon him at this hour.

"Flack is the most inspired tipster in England," said Gregory.

"Tipster!" sneered the other. "Good God! you don't take any notice of tipsters, dear old thing, do you?'

"Not as a rule, but Flack is an unusual fellow. He sent me old Urquhart's horse, Antimon, for Windsor, a horse that had never run in public and which nobody knew about. If a man can get into Urquhart's secrets, he must be pretty clever. He charges a tenner for his win, and only sends when he has got something extraordinarily good. If the devil had only wired with more confidence about Urquhart's horse I'd have won a mint of money."

He passed the telegram to the other and Claude Barberry fixed his eyeglass with an unsteady hand and read.

"I wrote and told him never to send me a wire unless he's absolutely sure, and has inside information," explained Jacques. "I agree with you that tipsters are absurd, and that any man who employs them should have his head shaved, but this man is different. He never asks you to back a horse for him, he is satisfied with his fee and he sends nothing but winners."

A genial man was Sir Jacques that day, so genial that he lent twenty pounds to his guest for the purpose of backing the horse. He did not see Urquhart at Ascot, and the girl whom he hoped to see was invisible. Just before the Hunt Cup was decided, Claude Barberry found him.

"I've seen Lady Semberson and I've fixed up the invitation for Miss Barrington," he said. "I told her she was an old friend of mine."

"You're a brick," said the other heartily. "I hope you've backed Mendoza."

"Every shilling I have in the world is on that beastly horse," said the other pathetically. "If it loses I am practically ruined."

Sir Jacques Gregory, who knew that practical ruin was a normal condition of his guest, was not impressed. He himself bet with more than usual freedom. The price of Mendoza shrank until it had reached the five to two which the old man had prophesied, and it finished seventh.

Watching the horses streaming down the hill, Jacques Gregory could not believe his eyes; the black and green coat for which he was looking was never in the forefront, and when the horses flashed past the stand, its jockey had given up all attempt at winning and was content to finish with the ruck.

"Damn Flack!" he snarled. He had lost a lot of money, but he had lost something more. Something that the old man had schemed for and worked for, and for which he had spent his money lavishly. He had lost something of his confidence. Urquhart would never ruin Jacques Gregory in one coup, but he could cut away the foundations of his faith in Jacques Gregory's judgment, and this to some extent he had done.