A TRIAL SPIN ON THE DOWNS
Harry Fielden spent a sleepless night and was glad when it was time to
come down to breakfast. He congratulated himself upon the way he had
restrained himself on the previous evening. He had even forced himself
to be polite to Copley, though his one impulse had been to take him by
the throat and choke the life out of him. His very presence in a house
like Haredale Park was an outrage. He wondered what Sir George would say
if he had known the real character of his guest. Possibly Fielden would
have spoken freely, had not he remembered what Sir George had said as to
the relationship existing between himself and Raymond Copley. Plainly
the master of Haredale Park was under the scoundrel's thumb. No doubt he
had lent him money, and probably the price of the assistance was to be
May Haredale's hand. There had been no mistaking Copley's manner towards
her. His air of cool proprietorship had sent the blood humming in
Fielden's head and caused it to tingle in his finger-tips. Harry had to
smile complacently whilst every instinct in his nature was crying out
against the villain's presence. He had only to speak and he knew that
Sir George would do his duty at any cost.
But he dared not speak. He had no desire to ruin the man who had been so
kind to him. It was far better to play a waiting game. But come what
might, May Haredale should never marry that man. Sir George should be
ruined a thousand times over and Haredale Park pass into the hands of
strangers before that catastrophe occurred.
It had been a relief to hear Copley say that he would not be down again
till the end of the week. Therefore he had three days in which to think
of some scheme. It was a bright, fresh February morning, with a touch of
frost in the air, but the diamonds were growing soft and yielding to the
sunshine. May Haredale was in excellent spirits. It was impossible not
to catch the infection of her gaiety. Fielden put trouble on one side.
There would be time for that later, he thought, as they rode out
together over the Downs. They were out again in the afternoon and it was
dark before they returned. It was like old times for Fielden to feel a
good horse under him. The exercise and motion drove all gloomy thoughts
away. Still, from time to time the shadow of distress lay heavily upon
his shoulders.
He strolled round to Mallow's after tea to have a pipe and chat with
Raffle. Everything appeared to be going well, and the old man was in
high glee.
"We shall try the colt at daybreak," he said. "Would you like to come
and have a look, Mr. Harry? I daresay there will be one or two people
about, but I don't think they'll learn much. I've got a plan of my own
on foot, and after to-morrow I shouldn't be surprised if you found the
colt going a little queerly in the betting."
Raffle chuckled as he spoke, but refused to be more explicit.
"Oh, never you mind, sir," he said. "There are some things it is as well
not to talk about. If you like to turn out to-morrow as soon as it is
light, I think I can show you something worth looking at."
Fielden nodded approvingly. He woke fairly early with the pale dull
light of the wintry morning streaming through his window, crept
downstairs into the deserted hall and let himself out by a side door.
The grey mist hanging over the Downs lifted as the sun began to make his
influence felt. A little later Fielden discerned a group of figures
faintly sketched against the skyline, and could see two horses in their
clothing. Then he picked out the form of Joe Raffle. There was a stretch
of turf between two banks of gorse, and the horses began to move along
the flat expanse. Fielden strolled up to the group, and was amused to
see the suspicious glances turned in his direction.
"That's all right, Mr. Mallow," Raffle muttered. "This gentleman is a
friend of mine. Now, sir, will you go on to the top of the Downs and
wait for us by the boundary stone? That will be the winning post. No
reason, I suppose, to ask you if you know which is the colt and which is
the old horse. That's pretty plain even in this light."
"That's right enough," Fielden smiled.
He walked rapidly towards the improvised winning-post, unslung his
glasses and fixed them steadily upon the little specks in the distance.
Presently they made a move in his direction and grew larger as they came
along. Fielden could hear the thud of hoofs upon the turf. Then they
flashed by him, the old horse lengths ahead. It came as a surprise to
the watcher, for he had expected an entirely different result. What was
Mallow doing? What scheme had that wily man in his brain? Fielden
stepped aside into the gorse, so as to be out of the wind which had
already extinguished two matches he had used in his attempt to light a
cigarette. As he stooped, he heard voices from somewhere close by. The
voices carried clear enough in the silence of the spot, and Fielden
could hear every word. With an instinct of caution which he could not
have explained he crouched down behind the thick shelter of a bush.
He thought he had recognized one of the voices and now he felt sure of
it. It was Raymond Copley beyond a doubt. Who the other man was Fielden
had not the slightest idea.
"Now what does that mean?" Copley was asking.
"What does it mean?" the other man exclaimed with a sneer. "Why, it is
as plain as the nose on your face. I felt certain what was going to
happen when I advised you to come here this morning. The boy told me
there was going to be a trial, and I wanted you to see for yourself. You
are always too sanguine in these matters, Copley, and that's a fact. Now
what do you think of the chances of your friend Sir George's colt?"
"I don't know what to say," Copley muttered. "The colt seemed to be
beaten fairly and squarely. I suppose there is no faking about it."
"Faking! Sir George and his trainer between them haven't got brains
enough for that. They belong to the old-fashioned school who pride
themselves upon doing everything above board. And a precious good job
for you and me, because they find the money to keep and train horses and
we sail in when it comes to making a book. Perhaps you're sorry you had
anything on the Blenheim colt."
"Oh, you were quite right to bring me here," Copley replied. "I owe you
one for this day's work. But the worst of it is I have backed that horse
for a big stake, just when I don't know where to turn for ready money.
If anybody knew my present position, a good many people would be anxious
to have an interview with Raymond Copley, the South African millionaire.
Then there's that scoundrel Phillips to be reckoned with. But come
along, let us go before anybody sees us. After breakfast----"
"Breakfast be hanged!" the other man broke out impatiently. "What's the
use of worrying about breakfast with a bit of information like this in
our pockets? The delay of half an hour may make all the difference in
the world. Besides, there may be a dozen other people watching for all
we know."
"Well, what do you suggest?" Copley asked.
"Suggest, who wants to suggest anything? What we have to do is to get
back to your place as soon as possible and take the motor straight to
town. By ten o'clock we can get our commission on the market at our own
price. Then we can have as much breakfast as you like. That's the worst
of you, Copley. You always think everything can wait. Now come on."
The voices died away in the distance, and then Fielden straightened
himself again. He was somewhat mystified by what he had seen. He was
puzzled to know what Joe Raffle and Mallow were driving at. But no doubt
the old man would tell him at the first opportunity. Some clever scheme
was in the wind. It was just possible, too, that Raffle expected that
Copley and his friend would be there. It was more than possible that
Raffle knew the class of scoundrel he had to deal with. The old man was
coming down the wide stretch of turf, and Fielden looked eagerly towards
him. As he vaulted a patch of gorse, his left foot dropped on something
soft, like a bundle, and he was thrown violently to his knees. Then he
turned to find that he had stumbled upon the figure of a man lying at
the foot of the gorse bush, snugly rolled up in a railway rug. Here was
another tout, beyond doubt, another of the hateful tribe which has
always been the detestation of every racing man. Fielden turned upon him
savagely and demanded what he was doing there. He bent over the stranger
threateningly, and the latter rose to his feet.
"Keep your temper," he said. "I'm doing no harm. I'm not the only one
who has earned a bit on the Downs this morning. Hands off, please. Why,
bless my soul! if it isn't Mr. Fielden."
Harry stared in amazement at the mention of his name. For a moment he
did not recognize the dark unshaven features of the man. They seemed
familiar, yet somehow he failed to connect them with time, or space, or
locality.
Then it suddenly came to him.
"Aaron Phillips!" he exclaimed. "Now is it Luck that has sent you here,
or Coincidence?"