Then in a quick, excited way he looked down the column he had found, and before long saw that the important race on the tapis was at Liverpool, and the last bettings on the various horses were before him, beginning with the favourite at four to one, and going on to horses against which as many as five hundred to one was the odds.
But the Prince’s horse! What Prince? What horse? He stood thinking, and recalled a rumour which he had heard to the effect that the Prince’s horses were run under the name of Mr Blanck, and there, sure enough, was in the list far down:—
“Mr Blanck’s ch. f. Simoom, 100 to 1.” Chris dashed down the paper in a rage.
“What have I to do with such things as this?” he said aloud. “Even if I were a racing man I could not do it. It is too dishonourable.”
Then he set to work to argue the matter out. He had come upon the information by accident, and it might be perfectly worthless. Even if the advice was good, the matter was all speculation—a piece of gambling—and if a man staked his money upon a horse it was the merest chance whether this horse would win; so if he used the “tip,” he would be wronging no one, except, perhaps, himself, by risking money he could not spare.
Anxiety, love, jealousy and disappointment had combined to work Chris Lisle’s brain into a very peculiar state of excitement, and he found himself battling hard now with a strange sense of temptation.
Here was a message giving Glyddyr information how to make money, and it had fallen into other hands. Why should not he, Christopher Lisle, seize the opportunity, take advantage of such a chance as might never come to him again, and back the Prince’s horse to the extent of four or five hundred pounds? Poor as he called himself, he had more than that lying at his bankers; and if he won, it might be the first step towards turning the tables on Gartram, and winning Claude.
True, the information was meant for his rival, but what of that? All was fair in love and war. Glyddyr would stand at nothing to master him: so why should he shrink? It would be an act of folly, and like throwing away a chance.
Then his training stepped in, and did battle for him, pointing out that no gentleman would stoop to such an act, and for the next six hours a terrible struggle went on, which ended in honour winning.
“I would not do such a dirty action; and she would scorn me if I did,” he said to himself. “Eh? Want me, Mrs Sarson?”