Langdon had informed Crane of this change in their favor, though he said nothing about the deal with Shandy which had brought about the poisoning of the mare.
“I'm sorry that Porter's mare has gone wrong,” Crane said. “I think we would have won anyway, but it'll just about ruin them.”
Figuratively, Langdon closed one eye and winked to himself. Crane must know that it was his implied desires that had led up to the stopping of Lucretia. Langdon thought Crane just about the most complete hypocrite he'd ever met; that preacher face of his could look honorably pious while its owner raked in a cool forty thousand over the Trainer's dirty work. However, that cut no figure, it was his ten thousand dollars Langdon was after.
Just as they thought they had destroyed the chances of their strongest opponent, came a new disturbing feature. Other eyes than Dixon's has seen Lauzanne's strong gallop; other watchers than his had ticked of the extraordinary good time, 2:11 for the mile and a quarter, with the horse seemingly running well within himself, never urged a foot of the journey, and finishing strong, was certainly almost good enough to warrant his winning.
This information had been brought to Langdon, but he also had observed the gallop. And the same boy was to ride Lauzanne in the race, he understood, for Redpath had been released, and was looking for another mount. It wasn't in the natural order of things that one small stable would have in it two horses good enough to win the Derby, especially when one of them was a cast-off; but there was the gallop; time, like figures, didn't lie, not often; and as he thought of it Langdon admitted that he had never seen such an improvement in a horse as had been made in Lauzanne. Shandy had told him that it was Miss Porter's doing, that she had cured him of his sulky moods; the gallop Langdon had witnessed seemed to bear out the truth of this. What was he to do? They couldn't repeat the trick they had played on Lucretia. The Dutchman might win; he had worked the full Derby distance, a mile and a half, in 2:45, nearly all out at the finish. Lauzanne's gallop was only a mile and a quarter; he might not be able to stay the additional quarter. But there was ten thousand dollars at stake—for Langdon. He sought to discover the identity of Lauzanne's rider; but nobody knew him—Dixon had picked him up somewhere. Perhaps he could be got at; that would simplify matters greatly.
The morning after her fast work on Lauzanne, Allis, draped as she was into the personification of Al Mayne, arrived at the course before their horses. As she was leaning over the paddock rail waiting for Lauzanne to come, Langdon, who had evidently determined upon a course of action, sauntered up carelessly to the girl and commenced to talk. After a free preliminary observation he said, “You're the boy that's ridin' for Andy Dixon, ain't you?”
The small figure nodded its head.
“I seen you gallop that Chestnut yesterday. Where you been ridin—you're a stranger here, I reckon?”
“Out West,” answered Allis, at a hazard.
“Oh, San Francisco, eh? Are you engaged to Dixon?”