Читать книгу The Flying Fifty-Five - Edgar Wallace - Страница 8

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"NEMESIS!" Sir Gregory repeated the word falteringly. He blinked down at the race card. "Nonsense," he said loudly. "What are you talking about, Urquhart? I've nothing to be afraid of. Bah! Nemesis!... Melodrama!..."

But the blue-eyed old man turned away and slowly crossing the royal enclosure, joined the gay stream which was flowing towards the paddock. He came up to the unsaddling enclosure as the horses were threading their way through the throng, and, leaning his elbows on the rail, he watched the entry of the winner. For the time being his attention was wholly absorbed by the girl who had followed the horse into the ring.

In contrast to the gaily-clad gathering that stood three deep about the enclosure, she was plainly, even severely dressed; a workable serge coat and skirt that fitted her figure perfectly, a little hat innocent of ornamentation and a pair of business-like shoes, were oddly unexpected in this place of diaphanous draperies, of shimmering silks and fantastic modes.

She seemed oblivious to the curious eyes of the onlookers as she passed round the horse, stooping to run her ungloved hands down each leg. Presently she straightened her back and as she patted the horse on the neck, he turned his somewhat ungainly head to look at her.

Jonah Urquhart, who understood horses, realised that this girl was no ornamental trainer, for between her and the animal was a certain understanding. And then he saw the stable-lad who was holding the horse, and before he could put his thoughts into words, someone said:

"Great heavens! What a ruffian!"

Certainly the man who was holding the horse did not harmonise with the general atmosphere of Ascot.

"What a terrible looking creature, Reggie!"

But Reggie Cambray was gazing spellbound and incapable of speech, for the effect that the stable-lad produced upon him was even more startling than it had produced upon Lady Semberson.

"Weighed in!"

The head lad led the horse from the enclosure and with difficulty made his way through the crowd, the girl following.

At the farthermost corner of the paddock, indeed, upon the very place where Mr. Urquhart had issued his instructions, he stopped. A small stable-boy took the horse from his hands, and the two were busy rubbing him down when the girl came up to them.

"Well, you were right, Lord," she said. "He won easily —but you were wrong when you said he was fat."

"He is fat," said the head lad calmly," only the other beasts are fatter."

Stella Barrington looked at him dubiously. "I wish you had shaved," she said. "Everybody is remarking upon your disreputable appearance."

"Did you have a bet?" he demanded.

She nodded.

It was not customary of her employees to cross-examine her on her financial interest in a race, but somehow it seemed natural in him. Their relationship had given her a qualm. She had resented and endeavoured to recover a mastery of the situation, but without success.

"I was rather scared of Belafort," she said, watching him as he worked at the horse.

"Belafort was beaten by Urquhart's before they came over the hill," said the other promptly.

'"But Belafort was in front and seemed to be going easily," she protested.

He shook his head. "Urquhart's horse was always the better, and he was your only danger. The market was very eloquent. There wasn't a bookmaker in the ring who didn't want to lay Belafort, and you couldn't get a fair price about Mr. Urquhart's horse."

"Did you back mine?" she asked a little irritably.

He nodded. "I had a pony on," he began, and then stopped himself.

"A pony?" she gasped. "Twenty-five pounds?' She looked at him incredulously and he felt some explanation was due.

"I met a bookmaker who knew me in my palmier days," he said, "and as the confiding man offered to lay me two hundred and fifty to twenty-five, I accepted. I thought if I refused I might have hurt his feelings."

He glanced round.

"Here is your victim," he said, lowering his voice.

She turned to meet Jonah Urquhart. She had seen him before, though she had never spoken to him.

The old man lifted his hat grudgingly as one who had no patience with social conventions and was anxious to be through with a foolish ceremonial.

"Good morning, Miss Barrington. May I congratulate you upon your win?"

She smiled at him. "That is very generous of you, Mr. Urquhart. I am afraid we upset your race."

He shook his head. "I didn't lose money," he said. "I backed yours in running."

He looked at the horse critically.

"He's a big fellow," he said, "but I always think that Ascot is a track that wants a lot of galloping. Some people think it is a sharp course, but I've never seen a fat horse win on it." Then abruptly: "I knew your father, Miss Barrington."

Stella was interested. So very few racing men had known that shy man.

"You have taken over his training establishment. I read that some time ago in one of the sporting papers. Have you many horses?"

"I have two or three good ones," she smiled again; "and a few that are very bad indeed."

He looked at the stump of his cigar, and leisurely snicked the grey ash from its end.

"I could send you a few of my horses, if you would give them stable room," he said, and he saw her hesitation.

"It is very kind of you, Mr. Urquhart, but for the time being I don't feel that I ought to assume responsibility for any but my own horses."

He nodded understandingly. "Have you any other winners for to-day?" he asked, turning the leaves of the card in his hand.

"I have a runner in the Coventry Stakes," she said," but I don't think I can win."

His finger-tip went down the entries. "Fifty-Five," he said. "Has he run before?"

She shook her head. "No, this is his debut, but I don't think he'll be good enough. I am told that Lord Fontwell's horse, Meyrick, will win."

He took a gold pencil from his pocket and marked the card deliberately.

"There are three. Meyrick may win and can win, I think. It is a certain runner. I saw it in the paddock a little time ago. And Mr. Cambray's Western Heath must have a big chance. It is trained in the same stable as Lord Fontwell's colt. And you have a third one to beat," he put a pencil line against another name," Lord Thrapton's filly, Doric. I saw this young lady win at Newbury and she won with a lot in hand. She may be good enough to beat all three."

"She won't beat Western Heath and she won't beat Meyrick," was the unexpected interruption. Bill, the stable-lad, did not look round as he spoke.

For a second the girl was embarrassed. "This is my new head lad, Mr. Urquhart," she smiled awkwardly;" and he has very definite views."

"A head lad who hadn't very definite views would be a monstrosity," said Mr. Urquhart, "but a head lad who has intelligent views is a rara avis and I think your head lad is that gentleman."

He gazed sombrely upon the labouring Mr. Lord, and that gentleman chuckled.

The old man turned to go, but there seemed something he wanted to say and the girl waited.

"I don't know how you are situated, Miss Barrington," he said, "or what help you may need, but if you are in any kind of difficulty, I should esteem it a great honour if you would notify me."

He held out his thin white hand and the girl took it in hers.

"That is most kind of you, Mr. Urquhart," she said quietly," and it is an offer that I shall remember."

In another part of the paddock the Honourable Reggie Cambray was endeavouring to disengage himself from the attentions of Lady Semberson.

"But you did, Reggie," said that lady severely. "I saw you go perfectly white."

"Indigestion," mumbled Reggie. "The truth is, I ought not to have come to Ascot to-day."

"Stuff!" said her ladyship. "And why didn't you tell me about Lord Fontwell? I have only just heard the story from Major White."

"Bill Fontwell isn't here," said Reggie loudly.

"Of course he isn't. I'm not talking about his being here," said Lady Semberson scornfully. "I'm talking about the ridiculous bet of a thousand pounds he had with you. You told me nothing about that."

"Bet?" said Reggie, with an air of innocence.

"Now, Reggie," she warned him, "please do not pretend you know nothing about it. You bet Lord Fontwell a thousand pounds that he would not walk to Edinburgh and back in fifteen days, carrying no clothes but those he wore and having no money but a shilling."

"Didn't I tell you?" asked Reggie feebly. "Well, the fact is, Aunt——"

"The fact is, Reggie, that you have allowed this boy to take the most terrible risks. Why, he may be murdered for all we know, he may have died on some lonely wayside place, or be ill, or anything horrible may have happened to him. And it is your duty to tell the police what has occurred, and put them on the track. If you don't, I shall consider it my duty to move in the matter myself."

"No, no," said Reggie, terror-stricken. "Don't you trouble about it, Lady Semberson, I'll fix it—besides, I heard from Bill this morning."

"You told me nothing about that," said the indignant lady. "You distinctly said in the car that you had not heard from Lord Fontwell. Really, Reggie, you're too bad!"

Her indignation, embarrassing as it was, had one, pleasing result. Under its influence she stalked off and left the young man alone. After a glance round he walked with rapid strides across the paddock.

From afar off he saw the head lad putting the finishing touches upon Patience. He was strapping a surcingle about the rug-enshrouded figure when Reggie came up to him.

"Can I have a few words with you?" demanded Reggie, his voice squeaky with agitation.

Bill Lord looked round and surveyed the elegant figure with mild interest.

"Certainly, sir," he said," but as you know, we stable-lads aren't allowed to give tips to outsiders, and you are liable to be warned off, if you attempt to secure information about horses——"

The jaw of the tiny stable-boy who was leading the horse away dropped.

"Now, sir," said Bill, when the horse had gone and the lad was out of hearing.