Faust consulted his betting sheet, Crane looking over his shoulder. “I didn't have no thousand in one bet on that race,” he said.
“What are those flgures,” asked the other, pointing to two consecutive numbers of one thousand each.
“That was the other way about,” answered the Bookmaker; “that was pay. A thousand to one hundred twice over Lauzanne. I think it must have been stable money, for one of the guys was like a big kid; he didn't know 'nough to pick a winner in a thousand years.”
The coincidence of this amount with the win attributed to Mortimer, appealed to Crane's fancy. “You remember the man who made this bet, then?” he asked.
“Yes, sure thing. There was two of 'em, as you see. I remember him because it took some explainin' to get the bet through his noddle. He was a soft mark for a bunco steerer. I've seen some fresh kids playin' the horses, but he had 'em all beat to a standstill. It must abeen first-time luck with him, for he cashed.”
“Can you describe him?”
The Cherub drew an ornate verbal picture, florid in its descriptive phraseology, but cognate enough to convince Crane it was Mortimer who had made one of the bets. His preconceived plan of the suspected man's operations was working out.
“Now find this thousand-dollar note for me,” he said; “take trouble over it; get help if necessary; go to every bookmaker that was in line that day. If you find the note, exchange other money for it and bring it to me.”
“There may be a chance,” commented Faust, scratching his fat poll meditatively; “the fellows like to keep these big bills, they're easier in the pocket than a whole bundle of flimsies. The next day was getaway-day, an' they wouldn't be payin' out much. I'll make a play fer it.”
The next afternoon Faust reported at Crane's rooms with the rescued note in his possession. He had been successful. “I give a dozen of 'em a turn,” he said, “before I run again' Jimmie Farrell. He had it snuggled away next his chest among a lot of yellow-backs, good Dutchman money.”