“It doesn't matter,” remarked Crane; “I can leave this money with you. It's to meet a payment of three thousand due from John Porter about the middle of June. You can put it in a safe place in the vault till the note falls due, and then transfer it to Porter's credit.”
“I'll attend to it, sir,” replied Mortimer. “I'll attach the money to the note, and put them away together.”
On his way to the station Crane met Alan Porter.
“I suppose you'd like a holiday to see your father's mare run for the Derby, wouldn't you, Alan?” he said.
“I should very much, sir; but Mr. Lane is set against racing.”
“Oh, I think he'll let you off that day. I'll tell him he may. But, like your mother, I don't approve of young men betting—I know what it means.”
He was thinking, with bitterness, of his own youthful indiscretions.
“If you go, don't bet. You might be tempted, naturally, to back your father's mare Lucretia, but you would stand a very good chance of losing.”
“Don't you think she'll win, sir?” Alan asked, emboldened by his employer's freedom of speech.
“I do not. My horse, The Dutchman, is almost certain to win, my trainer tells me.” Then he added, apologetic of his confidential mood, “I tell you this, lest through loyalty to your own people you should lose your money. Racing, I fancy, is very uncertain, even when it seems most certain.”