But he knew accidentally that Glyddyr was a man who betted heavily, and report said that he won large sums on the turf, while by the irony of fate here was he, possibly Glyddyr’s greatest enemy, suddenly put in possession of one of his great turf secrets—undoubtedly a hint from his agent by which he would win a heavy sum.
“Well, let him win a heavy sum,” cried Chris petulantly, as if some one were present tempting him to try his luck. “Let him win and gamble and lose, and go hang himself; what is it to me?”
He hurriedly wound in his line, to find that a fish had hooked itself; but, in his petulant state, he gave the rod a sharp jerk, snatched the hook free, and began to retrace his way to the bridge; but before he reached the spot where he had had to step amid the big stones, he caught sight of a scrap of pink paper sailing down to meet the tide, and he could not help seeing the words,—
“Prince’s fil—”
And directly after another ragged fragment floated by showing, at the torn edge where the stone had dashed through, the one mutilated word,—
“Bac—”
“Any one would think there were invisible imps waiting to tempt me,” thought Chris. “How absurd!”
He strode on, leaping and climbing along the rugged bank till he once more reached the bridge, crossed it, and was half-way back to his apartments when he saw Gartram coming along the road with Claude and Mary.
His first instinct was to avoid them. The second, to go straight on and meet them, and this he did, to find that, as he raised his hat, Gartram turned away to speak to Claude, and completely check any attempt at recognition on her part.
“How contemptible!” thought Chris. “Now, if I had been as well off as Glyddyr, I should have been seized by the hand, asked why I did not go up more to the Fort, and generally treated as if I were a son.”