Field after field flitted by, studded here and there by square, gray specters of ghost-like houses that blinked at him with red dragon eyes. Sub-consciously he knew the eyes were searching out the secret that made him in all his misery of misfortune so happy. And he would answer to the eyes, dragon or human, without fear and without shame—because he was innocent—that it was love, the greatest thing in all the world, the love and faith sublime of a good, true woman. Woman had he said?—an angel!
XLIV
As Farrell had suggested, Crane sought him at the office the next day at ten o'clock.
Farrell and his clerk were busy planning an enterprising campaign against men who had faith in fast horses for the coming week at Sheepshead Bay.
“Ah!” the Bookmaker exclaimed when Crane entered, “you want that badge number. Hagen, get the betting sheet for the second last day at Gravesend, and look up a bet of one thousand dollars we roped in over Mr. Crane's horse. I want the number to locate the man that parted—I wish there'd been more like him.”
“Do you mean Billy Cass?” queried the clerk.
“Who the devil's Billy Cass?”
“Why the stiff that played The Dutchman for a thou'.”
“You know him?” This query from Farrell.