‘Please let me read it. I cannot wait.’
He handed it to her silently, and it fluttered in her hands as she perused it;—
‘Crackpot scratched. No end of a row.’
‘I do not know what that means,’ she said, tremulously. ‘Scratched—will you please explain.’
‘It means,’ said he, reluctantly, ‘that your brother has withdrawn his horse at the last moment from the race; and from the last part of the telegram, I am afraid there must be an impression that—that——’
‘That he has not dealt honourably,’ she said, quickly and breathlessly. ‘I want to know a little more, please, Mr. Langstroth. Is it not usual to withdraw a horse in this way?’
‘No. At least, it is a great pity when it has to be done. It is particularly a great pity that your brother should have had to do it the first time a horse of his was running. Some men do it pretty often; and then, you know, they get a bad name, and are not considered——’
‘Honourable. I understand. But will he have done it without any reason? Can you say, just at the last, “I have changed my mind, and my horse shall not run?”’
‘Most likely it is given out that Crackpot is ill, and unfit to run. Nay, it may be that he is so. Do not distress yourself about it,’ he added, eagerly. ‘I will find out all that I can about it, and let you know. Everything will be uncertain now, of course.’
She was still standing by the table, looking at him with haggard eyes, and as he spoke thus, she shook her head.