He shut himself up in his study in a fume; he boxed Stephen’s ears for nothing at all, and would see no one for the rest of the evening. He knew well he could not have given his enemies a greater crow over him than such conduct, and yet he could not command his vanity to act otherwise.
But that evening, just before tea-time, something happened which gave Loman more to think about than the Dominican. A letter marked “Immediate” came to him by the post. It was from Cripps, to say that, after all, Sir Patrick had won the Derby!
Chapter Thirteen.
Company at the Cockchafer.
Cripps’s letter was as follows:
“Hon. Sir,—This comes hoping you are well. You may like to know Sir Patrick won. The tip was all out. Honourable Sir,—My friend would like his ten pounds sharp, as he’s a poor man. Please call in on Saturday afternoon. Your very humble servant, Ben Cripps.”
This letter was startling enough to drive fifty Dominicans out of Loman’s head, and for a long time he could hardly realise how bad the news it contained was.
He had reckoned to a dead certainty on winning the bet which Cripps had advised him to make with his friend. Not that Loman knew anything about racing matters, but Cripps had been so confident, and it seemed so safe to bet against this one particular horse, that the idea of events turning out otherwise had never once entered his head.