CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sperry left early the next morning; only his host and Blakeman saw him off. When he had reached his train and had slipped off his overcoat, he found all the tips he had given Blakeman in its outside pocket.
The doctor was not the only man that morning that awoke with an anxious mind. His host was equally preoccupied; all through breakfast he had caught his thoughts straying from those usually given to a departing guest. In his talk with Holcomb, the night before, his manager had gone straight to the point.
"You remember, do you not," he had said, "that a horse Bergstein bought died a week after its arrival—the first horse we lost, I mean?"
"Yes, Billy, I remember," Thayor had answered. "Poor beast. I remember also that you said in the letter that Bergstein was indefatigable in his efforts to save him."
"Perhaps so—but I don't think so now, and I'll tell you why in a minute. You remember, too, that Jimmy said he was all right that night when he got through work and put him in the barn for the night?" Thayor raised his eyes in surprise. "That barn was locked," Holcomb went on, "and Bergstein had the key."
"What was the veterinary's opinion?" Thayor had asked seriously, after a moment's thought.
"Quite different from mine," declared Holcomb; "he pronounced it congestion."
"Was he a capable man?" demanded Thayor.
"So Bergstein said," replied Holcomb slowly. "He got him from
Montreal."