Sir Bertram sighed.
“I suppose God gave us the instincts,” he murmured, “but the devil has toyed with them since.”
“She scarcely spoke to me again,” Gregory concluded, “except out of her sweetness when we met face to face on the dock at Marseilles. It was because of her I went on to Monte Carlo, instead of coming straight home, and of course I won. I played baccarat at Rome and won again. I brought home more pocket money than I ever had before in my life. But I hate that Image like hell. Now you know everything.”
Sir Bertram moved to the sideboard, helped himself to a whisky and soda, and returned to his place.
“Confidence for confidence,” he said, stretching himself out comfortably. “I’m not going to even comment upon your little confession, Gregory, because I don’t know what sort of a fellow your friend Wu Ling was and I’ve never seen a Chinaman yet I’d trust for five seconds with a pack of cards. I’ve bad news for you, though, I’m afraid. We are pretty nearly broke. We can’t go on more than a few more months.”
“As bad as that!”
“I don’t know how it is,” Sir Bertram continued, “but luck always seems against the gambler who takes the big chances—especially when it really matters. If any man knows the points of a horse, I do. If there’s any amateur understands racing, I do. I bought my yearlings right. I trained with Sam Roscoe, and there’s none better, and the luck of old Harry’s pursued me this year, just as it did last. Up to three days before the race Little June—you remember her—was favourite for the Derby. When you left England you know what I was doing. I wasn’t waiting for starting price. I put on all I could at long odds. I got forty, thirty, twenty, and at eighteen I left off. Then, without any rhyme or reason in the thing, she went lame. She’s done for. She’ll never race again. It isn’t worth telling you the whole story. I’ve finished—haven’t a horse left. And I still owe Roscoe a thousand or two. You know old Mason, the bookmaker—well, I owe him seven thousand. ‘Pay me when you can, Sir Bertram,’ he said, ‘and shake hands on it.’ And I shook hands with him, but, Gregory—God forgive me—I’ve never paid him. The lands bring us in about thirteen thousand, taxes five thousand, interest on the mortgages a little more than the rest. Query—how do we live? God knows!”
There was a short silence. Gregory had thrown away his cigarette and his hands were clenching the arms of his chair. His face was set. The ghost of this threatened horror had risen up between them.
“It means breaking the entail, I suppose?” he muttered at last. “You and I can do it.”
Sir Bertram rose to his feet, fidgeted for a moment upon the hearth-rug, then stooped down and laid his hand upon his son’s shoulder. So far as it was possible for him to show emotion, he was showing it then.