Barton was silent for a moment. "What about 'Kildonen'?" he asked.
McFadden laughed. "Oh, I know the stable are sweet on him, but he hasn't a dog's chance against 'Mountain Lady' at the weights. Besides, he is a clumsy, bad-tempered brute at the best of times. What I have told you is gospel truth, sonny; and if you like to send me anything to Morley's Hotel, I'll shove it on for you. Of course do the business yourself if you prefer it; but, in case you wanted a big deal, I thought you might have some trouble in getting it on—see?"
Barton's face was, perhaps, a little paler than usual, but, beyond that, there was no trace of any particular emotion in his appearance or manner to betray the sudden thought that had flashed across his mind while McFadden was speaking. He sipped the second liqueur which the waiter had just put down in front of him, knocked the ash off his cigar, and then, leaning across the table again towards his companion, answered quietly: "I believe what you tell me, and I am very grateful to you for letting me know. It is just possible I might be able to borrow a few hundreds; but I should have to spin some other yarn about it. Now, if I were to send you something in notes first post Friday morning, could you let me have them back, if all goes well, on Friday night?"
"Why, of course! Cook will pay up Saturday. As long as he knows the cash is there, he wouldn't want it till after the race, even if we were to go down. There is nothing dead certain, but this is just as near to it as you can get. It's worth risking something, or I wouldn't put you on to it. I have been messing about with the turf for twenty years, and it's the best thing I ever struck." He took out his watch, and looked at the time. "I must be off," he added; "I have to meet a man at half-past. You think it over, and do just what you like; only don't talk about it."
He paid the bill, tipping the waiter generously, and they walked upstairs. At the door he turned to Barton. "I have dealt with you straight," he said; "you did me a good turn, and I always pay my debts when I can."
Barton nodded, and held out his hand. "If I can raise the money, I will ask you to put it on for me. In any case—thank you."
Through the warm starlit night Barton walked home to his rooms in Bloomsbury. His face was pale and drawn, and he walked fast, staring straight in front of him. A fierce excitement was tingling in his blood; his brain and conscience seemed to be dancing together in a mad riot of contradictions. Through it all McFadden's words leaped out in letters of fire: "It means simply picking up ten thousand." He kept on repeating the sentence to himself. Ten thousand pounds! Was there anything impossible in the world with such a sum? A hundred paths, leading up the hills of power and fame, opened out suddenly before his chained ambition. He walked on quickly, unsteadily, his hands clenched, his eyes shining.
He turned into Burton Crescent, and stopped before a dark, untidy-looking house that stared forlornly on the ill-kept square in front. He had lived here for the last two years, a small bedroom on the third floor being the exact amount of luxury permitted him by his salary. The hall was in total blackness—no reckless jet of blue wasted on the hall burners in Burton Crescent—but experience had taught Barton to dispense with such facilities. He made his way upstairs, stumbling over a sleeping cat, that fled away into the darkness with a horrible scream. His room was poorly furnished, but saved from the usual deadly barrenness of such apartments by two large shelves crowded with books, a fine engraving of Burne-Jones's "King Cophetua," and one or two cheaper reproductions of well-known pictures. He locked the door behind him, and turned up the gas.
He began to feel a little more collected. This excitement was contemptible—the wine must have gone to his head. He poured himself out a glass of water, and drank it off. The thing had to be faced here and now, in all its radiant possibilities, in all its cold reality. He sat down in the frayed arm-chair and filled his pipe with trembling fingers. McFadden had spoken the truth, of that he felt certain. The man might have been deceived, but Barton doubted it. He was no callow novice at the game to suck in an ordinary turf lie with such conviction. Besides, he had hinted that Burch had reasons for not deceiving him. Then there was the chance that the trainer himself had been mistaken; such a thing might happen, and, as McFadden himself had said, nothing was certain, the mare might be left at the post. He lit his pipe and began to smoke quickly, trying to see the thing in its right proportions. On the one hand, years of drudgery at the bank, mean sordid poverty, surroundings such as these—he looked round and shuddered—to lead to what? Who could tell? He knew that he had ability, but life was such a ghastly lottery. Handicapped as he was, without money or friends, what more likely than that he should share the fate of others, fully as able and ambitious as himself—men who had eaten out their hearts in the labour and disappointment of existence, while life floated past on golden wings mocking and out of reach? And on the other hand, a deliberate crime, a temporary theft; and then, either life itself, full-blooded, working, joyous life, with success and fame to light the road, or—he paused a moment—death. There was no other alternative.
He got up and crossed the room to the battered deal dressing-table. Pulling open the drawer, he took out a small revolver, almost the sole legacy of his father, a cashiered major in the Army. Well, why not? His life was his own, there was no one dependent on him, no one who would ever regret his death, except, perhaps, the fellows at the office. If he chose to cast it into the scale against destiny, who had the right to question him?