George Barton pushed open the swinging doors, and came into the bank. Several people were standing at the counter—a couple of tradesmen, an old lady, an errand boy—while the cashier, an elderly, harassed-looking man, was counting over a large heap of silver, which one of the former had just paid in. He looked up as Barton entered, and nodded in the direction of the other customers. Barton lifted the slab that led through into the office, and walking up to a side door with a frosted-glass panel, opened it, and hung up his hat upon a peg inside. Then he came to the counter, and began to attend to the people who were waiting. His work was characterized by a mechanical swiftness noticeably absent in the movements of his elderly confrère; so by the time that the latter had satisfied himself that the pile of silver in front of him corresponded with the amount on the slip, Barton had settled the requirements of the remaining customers. The cashier made an entry in his "scroll," filled the credit slip, and then, after carefully wiping his pen and laying it on the desk, turned to Barton.
"I am going to lunch now," he said. "If you have time, you might put a few of these entries through"—he pointed to a twisted-up heap of cheques and credit slips under a paper-weight. "We have been rather busy while you were out," he added.
"All right," answered Barton, without looking up from the book in which he was writing.
For the next quarter of an hour the bank was practically deserted; the silence only being broken by the scratching of pens, or an occasional sigh from one of the two junior clerks, who were working at a desk behind. Outside, the world was bathed in the golden sunshine of a perfect June day; but within, it was merely another hot afternoon dragging on its ordinary monotonous round. Barton soon entered up the pile of arrears bequeathed him by his companion, and added up the latter's scroll for him. One of the senior clerks came in from the manager's room with a pile of papers, threw them down on the desk, and sauntered up to where he was working.
"How goes it?" asked the new-comer, taking out a pen-knife and beginning to clean his nails.
"All through, up to date," said Barton. "Do you want to get out early?"
"Well, I do rather, if you can manage it." He glanced over the scrolls. "I see you have been giving Weary Willy a hand."
Barton smiled. "You would be here till six if I didn't. It is quite time the poor old chap got his pension."
"They ought to make you cashier," said the other. "Furze wants to go at the end of the year, if they will let him. Why don't you apply for it?"
Barton glanced round to see if they were overheard, and, speaking in a lower voice, answered, "That is just what I did last week. The manager—he is a little brick, Blackmore—sent up a very strong letter urging my fitness, and all that sort of thing; but the directors wrote back and said I was too young. Rather sickening, wasn't it?"
"Why don't you go in for something else?" asked his companion. "With your brains you are wasted in a bank. Any fool can do this sort of thing."
Barton flushed slightly. He was twenty-one, and the compliment was obviously genuine. "It is all very well, Steele," he said; "but what can I do? I haven't got a halfpenny in the world, and I have had to keep myself ever since I entered this confounded hole. I shan't stay in it a minute longer than I can help, but at present—" he shrugged his shoulders.
"It is a bit off, isn't it?" agreed Steele sympathetically. "I should leave myself, if I could do anything else. By the way, do you want a tip for the Manchester Cup?"
"Well, that's curious!" said Barton. "You are the second to-day."
"Second what?"
"Why, I have just had a letter from a man offering to give me a tip. What's yours?"
"'Kildonen.' It's a dead cert. What's yours?"
"I don't know till this evening. The whole thing is rather quaint. The other night I was coming down Shaftesbury Avenue very late, when I saw a fellow being set on by two or three rough-looking brutes, so I ran across to lend him a hand. He was very grateful, and turned out to be McFadden, the tipster—you know, the chap who is always advertising in the sporting papers. Well, he insisted on taking my name and address, and this morning I got a letter from him asking me to dine at the Troc. He said he could put me on to a good thing for the Manchester Cup."
"You back 'Kildonen,'" said Steele sceptically. "I got it straight from my brother, who is a pal of the trainer. Ten to one McFadden will put you on to some rotter."
"We shall see," answered Barton, getting up to attend to a customer who had just come in. "At all events, I will let you know what he says."
* * * * * * *
Barton lit his cigar and, leaning back in his comfortable seat, looked round the big restaurant with a quiet satisfaction born of an excellent dinner, a bottle of good champagne, and a really first-class Larranaga. Barton's companion, a big, sun-burnt man, with a large moustache, twinkling black eyes, and a face heavily pitted with the remnants of smallpox, waited until the men serving liqueurs and coffee had moved on to the next table, and then resumed the conversation.
"I didn't want those chaps to get hold of what I was saying," he explained; "they know me, and it would be all over London to-morrow."
Barton leaned slightly across the table towards him, and lowering his voice, McFadden continued: "It's the chance of a lifetime. Not a soul witnessed the trial except Rainsford and Burch, and you can trust them to keep it dark. They want the money; besides, Rainsford is the sort of man who would cut his throat rather than give away a tip; and I know Burch has told no one but myself. Even Relf, the jockey, thinks that he was carrying about ten pounds less than he was; so you can take it from me that, with the exception of us four, there isn't a living soul who has an idea of what 'Mountain Lady' can do. She will start at twenty to one, and unless she is left at the post or drops dead on the course, nothing will get near her. Why, just think, man, according to the trial, that would put 'Night-jar' in at about eight stone four; while, as a matter of fact, he would be carrying nine stone, and then be a hot favourite. You must have something on—something worth winning. If you can beg or borrow 'a monkey' for a couple of days you are made for life. I could get it on for you with Cook at twenty to one, but he would want to see the cash first, and I have none to spare at present, or I would do it for you. It means simply picking up ten thousand. I am sticking on every penny I can spare myself. We shall have to back to win, for there won't be more than six runners but it's as safe as the Bank of England." His face was flushed with excitement as he finished. Picking up his glass of liqueur, he drained it at a gulp.
Barton had listened intently; his eyes had never left McFadden's face, and he felt sure that the man had been telling him what he at all events believed to be the truth. "It is very kind of you to have given me the tip," he said, "and such an excellent dinner into the bargain."
"Bosh!" returned the other shortly. "Waiter! two more liqueur brandies. Look here, youngster, you acted like a gentleman the other night—got me out of a damned tight place—and I never forget a pal."
Barton was silent for a moment. "What about 'Kildonen'?" he asked.
McFadden laughed. "Oh, I know the stable are sweet on him, but he hasn't a dog's chance against 'Mountain Lady' at the weights. Besides, he is a clumsy, bad-tempered brute at the best of times. What I have told you is gospel truth, sonny; and if you like to send me anything to Morley's Hotel, I'll shove it on for you. Of course do the business yourself if you prefer it; but, in case you wanted a big deal, I thought you might have some trouble in getting it on—see?"
Barton's face was, perhaps, a little paler than usual, but, beyond that, there was no trace of any particular emotion in his appearance or manner to betray the sudden thought that had flashed across his mind while McFadden was speaking. He sipped the second liqueur which the waiter had just put down in front of him, knocked the ash off his cigar, and then, leaning across the table again towards his companion, answered quietly: "I believe what you tell me, and I am very grateful to you for letting me know. It is just possible I might be able to borrow a few hundreds; but I should have to spin some other yarn about it. Now, if I were to send you something in notes first post Friday morning, could you let me have them back, if all goes well, on Friday night?"
"Why, of course! Cook will pay up Saturday. As long as he knows the cash is there, he wouldn't want it till after the race, even if we were to go down. There is nothing dead certain, but this is just as near to it as you can get. It's worth risking something, or I wouldn't put you on to it. I have been messing about with the turf for twenty years, and it's the best thing I ever struck." He took out his watch, and looked at the time. "I must be off," he added; "I have to meet a man at half-past. You think it over, and do just what you like; only don't talk about it."
He paid the bill, tipping the waiter generously, and they walked upstairs. At the door he turned to Barton. "I have dealt with you straight," he said; "you did me a good turn, and I always pay my debts when I can."
Barton nodded, and held out his hand. "If I can raise the money, I will ask you to put it on for me. In any case—thank you."
Through the warm starlit night Barton walked home to his rooms in Bloomsbury. His face was pale and drawn, and he walked fast, staring straight in front of him. A fierce excitement was tingling in his blood; his brain and conscience seemed to be dancing together in a mad riot of contradictions. Through it all McFadden's words leaped out in letters of fire: "It means simply picking up ten thousand." He kept on repeating the sentence to himself. Ten thousand pounds! Was there anything impossible in the world with such a sum? A hundred paths, leading up the hills of power and fame, opened out suddenly before his chained ambition. He walked on quickly, unsteadily, his hands clenched, his eyes shining.
He turned into Burton Crescent, and stopped before a dark, untidy-looking house that stared forlornly on the ill-kept square in front. He had lived here for the last two years, a small bedroom on the third floor being the exact amount of luxury permitted him by his salary. The hall was in total blackness—no reckless jet of blue wasted on the hall burners in Burton Crescent—but experience had taught Barton to dispense with such facilities. He made his way upstairs, stumbling over a sleeping cat, that fled away into the darkness with a horrible scream. His room was poorly furnished, but saved from the usual deadly barrenness of such apartments by two large shelves crowded with books, a fine engraving of Burne-Jones's "King Cophetua," and one or two cheaper reproductions of well-known pictures. He locked the door behind him, and turned up the gas.
He began to feel a little more collected. This excitement was contemptible—the wine must have gone to his head. He poured himself out a glass of water, and drank it off. The thing had to be faced here and now, in all its radiant possibilities, in all its cold reality. He sat down in the frayed arm-chair and filled his pipe with trembling fingers. McFadden had spoken the truth, of that he felt certain. The man might have been deceived, but Barton doubted it. He was no callow novice at the game to suck in an ordinary turf lie with such conviction. Besides, he had hinted that Burch had reasons for not deceiving him. Then there was the chance that the trainer himself had been mistaken; such a thing might happen, and, as McFadden himself had said, nothing was certain, the mare might be left at the post. He lit his pipe and began to smoke quickly, trying to see the thing in its right proportions. On the one hand, years of drudgery at the bank, mean sordid poverty, surroundings such as these—he looked round and shuddered—to lead to what? Who could tell? He knew that he had ability, but life was such a ghastly lottery. Handicapped as he was, without money or friends, what more likely than that he should share the fate of others, fully as able and ambitious as himself—men who had eaten out their hearts in the labour and disappointment of existence, while life floated past on golden wings mocking and out of reach? And on the other hand, a deliberate crime, a temporary theft; and then, either life itself, full-blooded, working, joyous life, with success and fame to light the road, or—he paused a moment—death. There was no other alternative.
He got up and crossed the room to the battered deal dressing-table. Pulling open the drawer, he took out a small revolver, almost the sole legacy of his father, a cashiered major in the Army. Well, why not? His life was his own, there was no one dependent on him, no one who would ever regret his death, except, perhaps, the fellows at the office. If he chose to cast it into the scale against destiny, who had the right to question him?
He put back the revolver and paced slowly up and down the room. It would be so easy in his position at the bank. He had a perfectly free access to the cash, and was himself responsible for what he used at the counter. It was checked sometimes by the manager, but never on Friday or Saturday; on those days Blackmore went away early to play golf. He could take five hundred pounds on Thursday night, and, if he won, replace the same notes on Saturday morning. If he lost—well, there would be a headline for the papers, and another vacancy for a head clerk in the bank. It was stealing, of course; sophistry had no place in his mental equipment. Up till now he had never done a dishonourable action. The terrible example of his father, and an instinctive dislike to anything underhand, had kept him straight. For a moment he hesitated—then suddenly some words he had read in a book a few evenings before flashed into his mind. He repeated them with a sort of desperate mockery:
He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dare not put it to the touch,
To win or lose it all.
Yes—Yes. That was best. "To win or lose it all." He whispered the last line over again; and knew that he had decided.
* * * * * * *
"You have made a mistake," said Steele, "and you will know it in another twenty minutes. Did you put much on?"
Barton smiled. "Not enough to get excited about."
"I stuck a quid on 'Kildonen,' so I shall be a bit sick if he goes down."
"Yes, that's a good deal to lose," said Barton calmly.
"I have to go around now to see Johnstone and Driver for Blackmore. I shall be back in about half an hour, and I will bring a paper in with me. You will be sorry you did not take my tip when you see the result—'Kildonen' first, 'Mountain Lady' nowhere. Lucky for you you didn't plunge."
"It would have been rather foolish, wouldn't it?"
"You look a bit off colour to-day, somehow," said Steele, tying up some deeds which he was taking to the lawyers.
"I didn't sleep much last night. I expect I want my holiday."
"Like the rest of us. Two weeks in the year are no good to any one. Well, so long! Prepare for a disappointment when you see the paper."
"I am quite ready," answered Barton.
His fellow clerk laughed, and picking up his parcel of deeds, passed out of the office. As the swing-door closed behind him, Barton suddenly realized that they might never meet again. Steele had been one of his few friends—a pleasant good-natured fellow, who had always treated him with a faint touch of deference; an unconscious tribute that some young men are always ready to pay to a stronger or keener intelligence than their own. Steele would be sorry if things went wrong. He was, perhaps, the only one who would think of him in future with anything but contempt.
Three o'clock! Another twenty minutes. They were in the paddock now. Relf would be examining his saddle. He could picture the scene; the crush round the favourite. No doubt "Mountain Lady"——
Some customers came in, and he got up to attend to them mechanically, adding up the amounts, or paying out what was required, without the least hesitation or inaccuracy. He was scarcely conscious of what he was doing; it was like a strange dream. He felt as if he was looking on at the tragedy of his own life. How long had it been? Twenty-two hours! He laughed to himself. What fool invented the clock? Last night alone had been a lifetime. There had been no time to-day. It had drifted past in a dull trance. After hours of torture he had waked to a state of mental exhaustion, in which thought at last was numbed and powerless.
Five minutes more! A tradesman was talking to him about the weather, as he examined the endorsements on the cheques, and counted silver and gold into little separate piles. "Yes, it was beautiful: a regular summer day. It made one want to be outside, instead of being stuffed up in an office. However, business was business, of course." A quarter past. God—how the moments dragged! They were lining up, perhaps. They might even have started. In a quarter of an hour he might be dead. How those chattering fools would start if they knew!
There was a sudden lull in the work. Four or five customers went out almost together, and for a little while the office was empty. A strange apathy settled down like a mist over Barton's mind. It was all over now. The paper would be out in a few minutes.
He went on writing, slowly, correctly. He felt as though he were being stifled. Suddenly, in the distance, he heard the shrill cry of a paper boy: "Winner, paiper; Cup winner!" Something seemed to snap in his brain. A deadly calm succeeded the formless emotions that had been racking him. He laid down his pen, and getting up from his seat, walked to the cashier's desk.
"I'm going out for a moment, Mr. Furze," he said.
The cashier nodded. "Don't be longer than you can help. We shall be busy again in a minute."
"I shall be back almost immediately," answered Barton.
By the time he reached the street, the boy was quite close, a ragged little urchin, darting from one side of the road to the other in pursuit of customers. Barton held up his hand, and the boy rushed across to him.
"Paiper, sir; winner, sir!" He held one out and Barton took it, giving him a shilling.
"You can keep the change," he said.
With a quick "Thankee, sir," the lad ran on. Barton stepped back to the wall and opened the paper. In the blank space reserved for stop-press news was the single word "Kildonen." It was in blue ink, stamped in by a local agent. Barton stared at it for a moment, and then laughed. So he had lost. He felt no particular emotion—just a vague disappointment. Remorse and fear left him untouched. He had played with fate and been beaten; all that now remained was to pay the price.
He crossed the road to a public-house opposite, and, going into the saloon bar, ordered a glass of brandy. A man who was sitting in the corner saw the newspaper in his hand.
"What's won the Cup, guv'nor?" he asked.
"'Kildonen,'" answered Barton. "You can have the paper if you like. I have done with it." He found himself speaking in a perfectly level, disinterested voice.
Mixing a little water with the brandy, he drank it off, and walked back to the office. As he again crossed the road, a man raced past him on a motor-bicycle with a huge pile of newspapers strapped behind him. The Fleet Street edition was evidently down now; he could hear the boy's shouting higher and higher up the road. He hesitated a moment; it would be rather interesting to see if "Mountain Lady" had been in the first three. Then he shrugged his shoulders, and walked on. After all, what did it matter?
There were no customers in the office. He passed through the side door into the small anteroom where the staff kept their coats and hats. From here a staircase led down into the strong-room. He knew that, if he shut the iron door below, the sound of the shot could scarcely reach the bank. It was more pleasant to die without being interrupted.
He walked downstairs quickly, and turned on the electric light that illuminated the big safe. Taking out his revolver, he tested the trigger before putting in a couple of cartridges.
Now everything was ready. There was no time to lose, for Furze would probably be sending down for him in a minute. He felt sorry for the clerk who would come to fetch him. He caught hold of the big, brass handle, and was just swinging the heavy metal slab into its place, when he heard the door open and someone running down the stairs. For an instant he faltered, and then, slipping the revolver into his pocket, pushed back the door.
"Barton! Barton!" It was Steele's voice. He rushed into the safe with a paper in his hand. "Isn't it too rotten?" he exclaimed, flinging it down on the slab.
"I should have thought you would have been pleased," answered Barton wearily.
"Oh, I am glad for your sake, of course; but, under the circumstances, it's a bit rough on me, damn it all."
"What do you mean?" Barton cried hoarsely.
"Haven't you heard?" shouted Steele. "Kildonen's' disqualified—look!" He thrust the paper into Barton's hands.
With a savage effort the latter choked back a deadly faintness that almost overpowered him, and through the dim mist that swam before his eyes, read the lines that Steele pointed out:
MANCHESTER CUP
KILDONEN 4.1 1
Mountain Lady 20.1 2
Rose Crown 7.4 3
Sir Charles 11.2 0
Also ran, Barcup and Flagstaff.
"Kildonen" was disqualified for bumping, and the race awarded to "Mountain Lady."
The paper slipped from Barton's fingers. If Steele had not caught him he would have fallen himself.
"What's the matter, old chap? Are you ill? I never thought you would take it like this. You hadn't much on, had you? Let me get you a glass of water." The astonished clerk helped Barton to a stone slab, where he sat for a minute with his eyes shut.
Then he opened them and smiled. "I am all right now, Steele. I—I have been feeling a bit ill this afternoon.”