"I'm going out for a moment, Mr. Furze," he said.
The cashier nodded. "Don't be longer than you can help. We shall be busy again in a minute."
"I shall be back almost immediately," answered Barton.
By the time he reached the street, the boy was quite close, a ragged little urchin, darting from one side of the road to the other in pursuit of customers. Barton held up his hand, and the boy rushed across to him.
"Paiper, sir; winner, sir!" He held one out and Barton took it, giving him a shilling.
"You can keep the change," he said.
With a quick "Thankee, sir," the lad ran on. Barton stepped back to the wall and opened the paper. In the blank space reserved for stop-press news was the single word "Kildonen." It was in blue ink, stamped in by a local agent. Barton stared at it for a moment, and then laughed. So he had lost. He felt no particular emotion—just a vague disappointment. Remorse and fear left him untouched. He had played with fate and been beaten; all that now remained was to pay the price.
He crossed the road to a public-house opposite, and, going into the saloon bar, ordered a glass of brandy. A man who was sitting in the corner saw the newspaper in his hand.
"What's won the Cup, guv'nor?" he asked.
"'Kildonen,'" answered Barton. "You can have the paper if you like. I have done with it." He found himself speaking in a perfectly level, disinterested voice.