“But,” began Mortimer.
“Stand aside—make room, please!” from the gatekeeper, cut short his conversation.
Others were waiting to pass through. In despair he gave up his untenable place, and once more was swallowed in the maelstrom of humanity that eddied about the stand enclosure.
As he was heading for his rock of locality, the stairway, hurrying somewhat recklessly, he ran with disturbing violence full tilt into a man who had erratically turned to his left, when according to all laws of the road he should have kept straight on.
“I beg pardon—” began Mortimer; then stared in blank amazement, cutting short his apology. The victim of his assault was Mr. Crane. The latter's close-lidded eyes had rounded open perceptibly in a look of surprise.
“Mr. Mortimer!” he exclaimed, “You here? May I ask who's running the bank?”
Anxious about the stolen money the sudden advent of Crane on his immediate horizon threw the young man into momentary confusion. “My mother was ill—I got leave—I had to see Alan Porter—I've come here to find him. They'll manage all right at the bank without me.”
He fired his volley of explanation at his employer with the rapidity of a Maxim gun. Truth and what he considered excusable falsehood came forth with equal volubility. Crane, somewhat mollified, and feeling that at first he had spoken rather sharply, became more gracious. At sight of Mortimer he had concluded that it was to see Allis the young man had come, perhaps at her instigation.
“Have you seen Alan Porter, sir?” Mortimer asked, anxiously.
“I did, but that was about an hour ago. You will probably find him”—he was going to say—“in the paddock with his sister,” but for reasons he refrained; “let me see, most likely sitting up in the grand stand.”