“Speaking materially of race horses quite outside of the moral aspect,” said Crane, as he was taking his leave, “you'll have to be mighty careful of that Diablo, Mr. Porter, when Miss Allis is about; he seems a vindictive brute.”
“Yes, John; you'll have to sell him right away; I'll be frightened to death while he's about the place.”
“I shall never be a bit afraid of him,” remonstrated Allis; “Shandy, who made all the mischief, has been discharged.”
“Diablo has always been more trouble than he's worth,” said Porter. “I thought he was going to be a good horse, but he isn't; and if he has taken to eating people I'll give him away some day. I wouldn't sell him as a good horse, and nobody'd buy a man-eater.”
“I'll buy him when you make up your mind, Mr. Porter,” exclaimed Crane, somewhat eagerly. “I have nobody sweet enough to tempt his appetite. In the meantime, Miss Allis, if I were you I should keep away from him.”
Then presently, with good-nights and parting words of warning about Diablo, the guests were gone; and Mortimer, having declined Porter's proffered help, was somewhat awkwardly—having but one good hand—preparing to retire in Alan's room.
His mind worked somewhat faster than his fingers; several new problems had been given it to labor over within the compass of a single moon. That horse racing should ever become a disturbing interest in his life had seemed very improbable; now it was like a gale about his soul, it swayed him. He was storm-tossed in the disturbing element; he could come to no satisfying conclusion. On the one hand the thoroughbred horses were to be admired; they were brave and true, creatures of love. Also Porter was an honest man, the one thing he admired above all else.
And Miss Allis! Somehow or other his eyes wandered to a picture that rested on a mantelpiece in the room. He took it down, looking furtively over his shoulder as he did so, and taking it close under the lamp that was on the table sat and gazed steadfastly into the girlish face.
Even in the photograph the big, wondrous eyes seemed to say, “What of wrong, if we are not wrong?” That was the atmosphere so thoroughly straightforward and honest that wrong failed of contamination.
Still it was unconvincing to Mortimer. The horses might be good, the man honest, and the girl pure and sweet, but the life itself was distasteful. Reason as one might, it was allied to gambling. Mortimer rose with a sigh, the whole thing wearied him. Why should he distress his mind over the matter? As he put the photograph back on the mantel he held it for an instant, then suddenly; with a nervous, awkward gesture, brought it to his lips and kissed the eyes that seemed to command tribute.