On the Monday morning Michael was amazed to receive a note from Eleanor.
‘My dear Mr. Langstroth,
I wonder if you would think it very troublesome to come and tell me, if by any chance you should hear anything about my brother’s horse, on Wednesday. I am most anxious to know, and thought perhaps you might know people who will have telegrams about the race before Thursday’s paper comes. I shall not see that till the afternoon, you know.
‘Sincerely yours,
‘E. Askam.’
Michael, as she conjectured, had means of gaining information before Thursday’s London paper made its appearance. He wrote to the secretary of a certain club at Darlington, desiring him to telegraph to him any news of ‘Crackpot,’ at as early a date as possible. He was both astonished and disturbed to receive a telegram on the Tuesday night, and its contents were not too soothing to his feelings. Thinking it best to get the business over, he went straight to the Dower House, and was admitted to Miss Askam at once.
She looked astonished to see him, and he perceived that her brightness was gone. There was a look of worn and harassed anxiety, and of nervous restlessness, too, about her. Her hands trembled, and her eyes wavered.
‘Miss Askam,’ he was beginning, but she interrupted him.
‘You have got a telegram. Something has happened. I knew it. I had—I was certain of it. What is it,—because I know the race is not yet run? Is anything the matter with Otho?’
‘This telegram,’ he began again.