When I saw there was no hope of the horse breaking down, I gave orders to the man who usually did such business for me to pick up quietly the necessary £10,000 to put my book straight. He carried out the transaction in a satisfactory manner; and my position then was this, that if Cremorne proved successful I would neither win nor lose.
It was not pleasant taking 4 or 5 to 1 about a horse you had laid 100 to 1 against. Still everything seemed to favour his victory, and the bitter pill had to be swallowed nolens volens. And if I had not been the victim of a gross fraud, I should have pulled through.
The Monday before the Derby brought me a letter and a telegram from my agent, the first comparing the bets he had made for me (which list I found correct), and the other announcing that he was down with typhoid fever, and would not be able to attend Epsom. As I had shut up my Derby book, his inability to be present on that eventful Wednesday did not so much matter. I went to see the race, and, as everyone is aware, Cremorne won; and I congratulated myself on not losing over one of the worst books ever seen. A genial companion turned up in the ring, and we drank the health of Cremorne in the wine of Champagne.
On the Oaks day I received a telegram intimating the death of my agent, and later on came a letter from the doctor who attended him, and who was much mixed up in betting matters. He went by the name of the "Red Doctor." In his letter he gave me details of the illness, and informed me the funeral would take place on the following Tuesday, at Norwood Cemetery. He proposed that I should meet him (the doctor) at the Gaiety Restaurant on the following day (Saturday) to go over the betting books.
The sudden death of my agent staggered me—it might mean utter ruin! Everything depended on whether my agent had booked the Cremorne bets to himself or to me. If his own name had been used I would never receive a penny of the £10,000.
As my readers can easily imagine, the interval between Friday and Saturday, though short, was a period of the greatest anxiety to me. I cursed my stupidity in not having had a clear understanding with my agent about the booking of bets; but my suspicions had not been aroused, and there never had been the slightest misunderstanding between us in our transactions.
I did not keep the "Red Doctor" waiting on Saturday. I met him at the appointed time, and we immediately retired to one of the tables, when he produced the only betting-book that, he said, could be found. I turned eagerly to the Derby entries, but could not see my name anywhere, and the "doctor" could not give me any explanation. There were items up to about £8,000 booked in favour of Cremorne, but underneath each bet was written "For Jessop."
"Who is Jessop?" I enquired. "I don't seem to know the name," and the reply was that he was a new comer on the turf, an owner of horses, and reputed very rich.
"There must be another book," I suggested, showing the last letter I had received from the dead man.