This was the wholly ambiguous communication that Crane had found under his door. There was no stamp, neither place nor date written in the letter; nothing but an evident warning from some one, who, no doubt, hoped to get into his good graces by putting him on his guard.
As it happened, Crane had just made up his mind to make his plunge on Diablo while the odds were long enough to make it possible with the outlay of very little capital. He smoked a heavy Manuel Garcia over this new contingency. It did not matter about the saddles. Langdon had confided in him fully. But how had the writer of the ill-spelled missive known of that matter?
Yes, he had better make his bet before these whisperings came to other ears.
But the bookmaker mentioned? That must be Faust. Why was he prowling about among stable lads?
He sent for Faust. When the latter had come, Crane asked Diablo's price for the Brooklyn.
“It's thirty to one now,” replied the Bookmaker; “somebody's backin' him.”
Faust's small baby eyes were fixed furtively on Crane's pale, sallow face, as he imparted this information; but he might as well have studied the ingrain paper on the wall; its unfigured surface was not more placid, more devoid of indication, than the smooth countenance he was searching.
Crane remained tantalizingly silent for a full minute; evidently his thoughts had drifted away to some other subject.
“Yes,” said Faust, speaking again to break the trying quiet, “some one's nibblin' at Diablo in the books. I wonder if it's Porter; did he think him a good horse?”
“It can't be Porter, nor any one else who knows Diablo. It's some foolish outsider, tempted by the long odds. I suppose, however, it doesn't matter; in fact, it's all the better. You took that five thousand to fifty for me, didn't you?”