He put back the revolver and paced slowly up and down the room. It would be so easy in his position at the bank. He had a perfectly free access to the cash, and was himself responsible for what he used at the counter. It was checked sometimes by the manager, but never on Friday or Saturday; on those days Blackmore went away early to play golf. He could take five hundred pounds on Thursday night, and, if he won, replace the same notes on Saturday morning. If he lost—well, there would be a headline for the papers, and another vacancy for a head clerk in the bank. It was stealing, of course; sophistry had no place in his mental equipment. Up till now he had never done a dishonourable action. The terrible example of his father, and an instinctive dislike to anything underhand, had kept him straight. For a moment he hesitated—then suddenly some words he had read in a book a few evenings before flashed into his mind. He repeated them with a sort of desperate mockery:
He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dare not put it to the touch,
To win or lose it all.
Yes—Yes. That was best. "To win or lose it all." He whispered the last line over again; and knew that he had decided.
* * * * * * *
"You have made a mistake," said Steele, "and you will know it in another twenty minutes. Did you put much on?"
Barton smiled. "Not enough to get excited about."
"I stuck a quid on 'Kildonen,' so I shall be a bit sick if he goes down."
"Yes, that's a good deal to lose," said Barton calmly.
"I have to go around now to see Johnstone and Driver for Blackmore. I shall be back in about half an hour, and I will bring a paper in with me. You will be sorry you did not take my tip when you see the result—'Kildonen' first, 'Mountain Lady' nowhere. Lucky for you you didn't plunge."
"It would have been rather foolish, wouldn't it?"