“I don't like it,” muttered Langdon, surlily. “She's a mighty good three-year-old to put up a race like that.”
“She may go off before Derby day,” suggested Crane; “mares are uncertain at this time of year.”
“That's just it; if she would go off we'd feel pretty sure then. I think the race is between them.”
“Well, we'll know race day; if she goes to the post, judging from what you say, it'll be a pretty tight fit.”
“She didn't cut much figure last year when Lauzanne beat her.” Langdon said this with a drawling significance; it was a direct intimation that if Lucretia's present jockey could be got at, as her last year's rider had been—well, an important rival would be removed.
Crane had not been responsible for the bribing of Lucretia's jockey, though he was well aware what had occurred; had even profited by it.
“There'll be no crooked work this time,” he said; “nobody will interfere with the mare's rider, I hope,” and he looked significantly at Langdon.
“I don't think they will,” and the Trainer gave a disagreeable laugh. “From what Shandy tells me, I fancy it would be a bad game. The truth of the matter is that gosling Redpath is stuck on the gal.”
Crane's pale face flushed hot.
“I believe that Shandy you speak of is a lying little scoundrel. I have an idea that he wrote me a note, a wretched scrawl, once. Wait, I've got it in my pocket; I meant to speak to you about it before.”