There was a tough skirmish when Nicholl met Craig Bellshaw at Hadwin's, but eventually the owner of Barellan gave way, mainly owing to his trainer's representations and persuasion, and settled with the jockey to ride both his horses, Flash at Caulfield, and Barellan at Flemington, for two hundred, win or lose, five per cent. on the stakes, and five per cent. on any sweep money that might be forthcoming. Having fixed this up, with a good deal of grumbling, Bellshaw set out for Manley to see Mrs. Prevost, who was not aware he was in Sydney.
Bellshaw was in a bad temper. Things were all awry, and even the thought of winning the Melbourne Cup with Barellan did not soothe him. It was a disagreeable surpriseto Mrs. Prevost when she heard who her visitor was.
Bellshaw made no bones about the matter. He asked her what she meant by writing him such a letter after all he had done for her; he upbraided her in no measured terms, used harsh names, and behaved somewhat brutally. It was his way with women.
She resented his conduct and replied forcibly. He saw she was determined, and this angered him still more. There was a scene, they lost their tempers, and mutual recriminations were the result. Mrs. Prevost was expecting Glen Leigh for lunch and wished to get rid of Bellshaw before he arrived. She dreaded their meeting, not on his account, but for the effect it might have on Leigh, and her influence with him. Bellshaw, however, did not seem in any hurry to go. He was loth to give her up; in his way he liked her.
"The fact is," he said, "you've taken up with someone else. I warn you he shall know all about you."
"You are cad enough to do that?" she asked.
"You can call me names if you wish; I don't care, but I'll make it mighty unpleasant for you," he said.
There was a ring at the front door. Mrs. Prevost was at her wits' end how to act. It was no doubt Glen Leigh.
She left the room hurriedly, and opened the door herself. It was Glen Leigh. She took him into the front room, and said her maid had just gone out; she promised to return in a few minutes, and left him.
Glen thought this strange. She was agitated; something must have upset her. He wondered what it was.
Craig Bellshaw also wondered why she had gone out of the room. He heard her open the door, and someone come in. Who was it? The voice sounded like a man's.
She gave him a hint that he had better be going.
"Not until I have seen who your visitor is," he said.
"If I have a visitor it is no business of yours," she retorted.
"It is. I am still interested in you even if you treat me badly," he said.
What was she to do? How could she prevent a meeting between him and Glen Leigh? She cudgelled her brains but was at a loss to find a plan. Bellshaw did not seem inclined to move.
Glen Leigh waited a quarter of an hour and became restless. What detained her? He heard voices in the next room, but could not distinguish who was speaking. Perhaps she had a visitor. If so, why did she not tell him?
"I must ask you to leave my house," she said desperately.
Bellshaw laughed.
"Your house?" he sneered.
"Yes, mine. You did not know I had bought it."
"Have you paid for it?"
"I have, if that's any consolation to you."
"And you wish me to believe that? I wonder where you got the money from?"
"It was my money. I am not without means," she answered indignantly.
He laughed as he got up, but there was an evil look in his eyes.
"I'll go. I don't wish to interfere with your pleasures, or any conquests you may make, but I've not done with you, I promise you that," said Bellshaw.
He took up his hat and opened the door. She followed him. Would he go into the front room?
Her heart beat fast. She felt faint. It was a trying moment.
Glen Leigh might see him leave the house, but he would not know who he was; if Bellshaw saw him there was no telling what might happen.
Bellshaw passed the door of the room, opened the front door, and walked away without saying another word, or even raising his hat. It was a tremendous relief now he was gone; she waited a few minutes to regain her composure, and then with a faint smile, entered the front room.
Glen Leigh was looking out of the window; he recognised Craig Bellshaw and was soastonished he did not hear her open the door. Scores of questions crowded into his mind as he saw the owner of Mintaro walking away; the main questions were how came he to Mrs. Prevost's, and for what purpose?
She saw Glen with his back turned to her, and knew he had seen her visitor; she was not aware Leigh knew him, and of his doings elsewhere of which she was in ignorance; she had, as yet, no conception of the depths of infamy to which Bellshaw had sunk.
"I am sorry to keep you waiting so long, but I had a visitor," she said.
"I saw him leave the house," said Glen, turning sharply round.
"He's an old friend; I have known him many years." She could not make him out. He was looking at her steadily; his eyes seemed to pierce her.
"I know him," said Glen quietly. "I did not expect to see him inyourhouse."
"You know him!" she exclaimed aghast, the colour deserting her cheeks.
"Yes. Do you know him well?" he asked.
"Yes, but why do you ask in such a strange way?"
"I do not think you know what Craig Bellshaw really is. I am sure you do not. If you did he would never have been admitted to your house," said Glen.
What was she about to hear? She must learn more; how was she to excuse herself to him? What if he and Bellshaw met? There would be revelations, her backsliding would be magnified a hundred times; she must have the first say no matter what it cost her.
"What is he?" she asked.
"A bad man, almost a murderer. I dare not tell you what has happened at Mintaro. You would be overwhelmed with shame to think you ever had dealings with, or ever took the hand of such a man," said Glen seriously.
She looked very charming in her distress. Even Glen Leigh would have been very dense had he failed to see the appeal in her eyes, or to recognise that she liked him very much indeed.
No woman had ever appealed to him quitein the same way as Mrs. Prevost; he had thought a good deal about her since he saw her last.
"Tell me about him," she said.
"What was he doing here?" asked Glen who doubted everything where Craig Bellshaw was concerned.
"He came to see me, not at my request, but I was not surprised. I had written to him at Mintaro telling him—" she hesitated.
Glen waited. Should he help her out? He thought he could. Rage was surging up in him, not against Mrs. Prevost, but against Bellshaw. Was she another of his victims?
That was hardly possible; yet there were unmistakable signs of acute distress at the situation in which she was placed. As Glen thought, a sudden wave of feeling overwhelmed him, and would not be beaten back. He loved this woman. By some strange fatality Bellshaw was connected with her as he had been with the other woman. He felt a mad desire to rush after Bellshaw and kill him. This passed in a few seconds; then he said, in answerto her hesitation, "Telling him you never wished to see him again."
She looked at him in great surprise, feeling intense relief. This man understood her, because he knew Craig Bellshaw for what he was. Already he had forgiven her without the asking. He did not blame her, but the man. In that case he guessed some of the truth and the rich blood crimsoned her cheeks. She bowed her head; then she looked straight at him and said, "That is what I wrote him—that I never wished to see him again. I ordered him to leave the house, my house, when you saw him go. I will never admit him again."
"I am glad of that," said Glen. "Very glad. When did you write to him?"
It was the truth she would tell him.
"The day after you came here with Jerry," she said.
Glen smiled.
"What decided you to write?" he asked.
"You did."
Again he smiled.
"I wonder how that happened?" he said.
"Can't you guess?" she answered in a low voice.
"No, at least not yet. Later on I'll try—with your permission."
"You have it now. I want a friend—like you."
"You don't think he'd dare to come here again?" asked Glen savagely.
"There is no telling what he might do. Try and avoid him."
"Why should I?"
"He's a dangerous man."
Glen laughed.
"I'm more than a match for him in many ways," he replied.
After lunch she asked him to tell her about Craig Bellshaw.
"I will tell you one terrible thing which I believe to be quite true," he said. "I am waiting to find out. It is a matter of time, and you must promise not to repeat what I tell you."
She readily gave her promise and he told her in a graphic narrative all about the womanwho came to his hut, what happened there, and since her recovery. He concealed nothing, not even about Lin Soo. He thought, in justice, she ought to know what manner of man Craig Bellshaw was.
As she listened, horrified, believing every word, she felt deeply humiliated when she thought what Bellshaw had been in her life; she shuddered with repulsion.
"Bring her here," she said. "Let her be my companion. I may be able to call back her lost memories. I will love her for all she has suffered. You will trust her with me, will you not?"
They decided to allow Clara to go to Mrs. Prevost's, and Glen took her there. She was given a kindly welcome. Mrs. Prevost was glad to have her, liked her at once. The feeling was mutual. Glen felt he had left her in good hands, that she would be happy and comfortable.
"Don't let Bellshaw see her if by any chance he calls," said Glen, "but he will be going to Melbourne for the Cup meetings, and our show leaves to-morrow. I shall not see you again for several weeks."
"I shall look forward to your return. I hope you will do well there," she answered.
"I think we shall. There is no reason why we should not do even better than in Sydney."
As Glen was leaving, having bid good-byeto Clara, he said, "On my return I may have something to tell you; something which I hope will be for our happiness."
She smiled brightly, guessing what he meant. There was a prospect of sailing into a peaceful harbour after a stormy life. Glen Leigh was indeed a man. He had not even questioned her about the past, or her relations with Bellshaw.
The horses, and all the paraphernalia of the show, went to Melbourne by steamer, Glen and Jim going with them. During the short voyage Glen thought Jim taciturn and ill-tempered. He asked him the cause.
"I'm sick of life," said Jim, "I never seem to get anything out of it. You and Bill have all the luck."
"I don't think you've done so badly," objected Glen, "and now you have a share in the show. What more do you want?"
"A good deal more. I want happiness, and I don't seem in the way of getting it."
"Why not? What troubles you? Tell me, lad; I may be able to help you."
Then, as they sat on deck, Jim poured out the vials of his ill-tempered wrath on Glen's head. He told how he loved Clara, but that she avoided, shunned him. He complained that it was very hard lines he, Glen, should come between them. For a long time he went on grumbling, and Glen listened to him patiently not saying a word. He let him exhaust himself before he made any reply.
"Jim, you're a fool," said Glen. "When she first came across my path and found her way to my hut, as I sat and nursed her back to life, you helping me, I thought I loved her. I was sure of it. That same feeling possessed me when we came to Sydney. It remained with me until something happened which opened my eyes, something totally unexpected. She put her arms round my neck and kissed me."
"I know," said Jim. "I know. She always does. She loves you."
Glen smiled as he said, "You're a bit shallow, Jim. You can't see far. I knew when she kissed me she would never love me like that, so I gave it up. She regarded me as a father,that was all, and I'm quite contented she should. I've found out the feeling I had for her was not that of a lover. I love her, I always shall, because I rescued her from death. It's only natural. You've no need to fear me as a rival. I love another woman, not her."
Jim's face brightened. He knew Glen spoke the truth; he always did. It clouded again as he thought how she avoided him.
"The reason she doesn't kiss you," said Glen, "is because she feels different towards you. She doesn't think it would be right. I've watched her, and I think if she does not love you now she will in days to come. She'll miss you when you are away from her in Melbourne. Probably she'll talk to Mrs. Prevost about you. Wait till you come back and then see how the land lies. She's not fit to marry yet, not strong enough. It will be better to wait until she recovers her memory."
"She may never recover it," said Jim.
"She will, I'm sure of it, and through Mrs. Prevost, who will help her. She's a sympathetic woman, and I told her all about it,everything. She'll do all in her power to bring back her lost memory; she said she would," Glen answered.
After this conversation Jim was a different man.
All along he had been jealous of Glen; now the cause was removed. Sometimes he gave a thought to Joe Calder, but he felt no regret for what he had done; the man had brought it on himself.
"If I hadn't shot him he'd have done for me," said Jim to himself.
The show arrived safely in Melbourne, and opened in a large tent on the St. Kilda Road. Crowds flocked to it, and before the first week was over Glen knew they were in for an even better season than in Sydney. They started business the Saturday before the Caulfield Cup. The tent was packed every night, and sometimes twice a day.
Ivor Hadwin arrived at Caulfield with his horses, Barellan, Flash, and a couple of others.
Betting on the two Cups was brisk, andBarellan was well backed by the public at a hundred to eight.
Bellshaw had been laid a fair sum to nothing by the drawer of Flash in the Caulfield Cup Sweep.
The first Hundred Thousand Pound Sweep on the Melbourne Cup was to be drawn in Sydney on Monday night.
When Glen Leigh was informed he laughed, and said, "I don't set much account on it. A fellow can't expect to get anything with one ticket in a hundred thousand."
There was a tremendous race for the Caulfield Cup, and Flash ran third, being beaten by Roland and Mackay.
Flash ran a remarkably fast race. Ivor Hadwin hardly thought him good enough to win and he died away a furlong from the post. Knowing what Barellan could do with Flash on the track, the trainer told Nicholl he thought the Melbourne Cup was pretty nearly as good as won.
The result of the drawing for the Hundred Thousand Pound Sweep on the Melbourne Cup was made public on the Wednesday.Glen Leigh received a wire from Bill Bigs which fairly astonished him.
"You have drawn Barellan. Good luck, Bill."
This was astounding news indeed. He had only one ticket in the sweep, number 33444, and it had drawn Barellan, third favourite for the great race. Was there ever such a stroke of luck! Glen could hardly believe in his good fortune. Barellan was Bellshaw's horse which made it more remarkable still. All his friends connected with the show crowded round congratulating him. He was regarded as a kind of hero. The first prize was close upon twenty-five thousand pounds, and there were numerous other large and small sums to be divided. He was bound to get one of the first three big prizes with such a horse as Barellan running for him, so said everybody who knew him.
Ivor Hadwin heard the news with mixed feelings; he was glad Leigh had drawn the horse, but wondered what would happen if he declined to give Craig Bellshaw a cut outof the sweep money. It was impossible to keep the fact that Leigh had drawn Barellan a secret, nor had he any wish it should be so.
"I've drawn the horse; where's the harm in people knowing it?" said Glen.
Bill Bigs arrived in Melbourne, and consulted with Glen as to what was best to be done.
Bill advised him to lay some of it against Barellan. He could stand to win a large sum to nothing, and if the horse lost he would also be a winner. Glen, however, was adamant on this point. He declared he would not lay off a penny; he'd stand the thing right out.
"It's only cost me a pound," he said. "That's not much, and I'd sooner go the whole hog and win the lot, if Barellan wins. If he loses I shall not grumble."
"Please yourself," said Bill. "From all I hear you stand a good chance of pulling it off at the first time of asking. It's an extraordinary piece of luck, that's what it is. I know fellows who have been going in for sweeps for years and have never drawn a horse. I've been doing it for a dozen years, and all I ever got was a non-starter."
"You shall have a couple of hundred if Barellan wins," said Glen. "So shall Jim, and I'll see Hadwin and Nicholl have a trifle."
"You're distributing the cash before you've won," laughed Bill.
"Half the fun of things is to anticipate, and plan out what you'll do with the money," Glen laughed back.
"So it is. I've drawn some nice little pictures myself, but they've always been rubbed out, not so much as a daub remaining," said Bill.
When Glen met Hadwin, the trainer asked, "I suppose you've not heard from Bellshaw?"
"No. What do I want to hear from him for?" replied Glen.
Hadwin smiled.
"You've not had much experience of sweeps. Owners generally expect a good slice out of them," he said.
"If Bellshaw expects to get me to lay him a big slice he's mistaken. I shan't lay him a penny," replied Glen determinedly.
"For goodness' sake don't say that," expostulated Hadwin in genuine alarm.
"Why not? I mean it."
"It will ruin me, Leigh, ruin me. I've backed Barellan for all I'm worth, or nearly so," said the trainer.
"Well, my drawing him in the sweep won't stop him winning."
"No, I don't mean that. I think he will win, but if you don't lay Bellshaw a fair sum, there's no telling what he'll do."
"What can he do?" asked Glen, surprised.
"Scratch him," said Hadwin in a low tremulous voice.
Craig Bellshaw soon heard who was the drawer of Barellan in the great Melbourne Cup Sweep. Glen Leigh held the ticket. He smiled wickedly. He had found out that Glen had been a welcome visitor at Mrs. Prevost's. So this was the man who had supplanted him. He wished him joy of his bargain; he'd find it pretty expensive. No doubt it was Leigh who called when he, Bellshaw, was ordered out of the house. If he had only known he would have enlightened him there and then; he intended doing so at the first favourable opportunity. He'd make it particularly hot and sultry for Mrs. Prevost, put a spoke in her wheel that even Glen Leigh would not care to try and pull out. A keeper of the fence, a common showman, a rider of buckjumpers, to be ousted by such a man—itmade Craig Bellshaw writhe. He did not call at Sea View before he left for Melbourne; there was time enough. He'd put in an appearance when he had fairly choked Leigh off, made him sick of the whole business. He hated him, he hated Mrs. Prevost for throwing him over, and he vowed vengeance against them. Leigh had thwarted him in many ways when he had been on the fence. Bellshaw recalled how on one occasion he had given him the lie direct at a meeting held at Boonara, and had proved his statement up to the hilt. This had lessened the owner of Mintaro's prestige considerably, and he had not forgiven it.
Glen Leigh had drawn Barellan. Bellshaw chuckled, a curious gurgling sound, more like the growling of a dog. This decided him. He had returned to Sydney after the Caulfield Cup; he didn't care for Melbourne. He took train back again as soon as he heard who had drawn Barellan in the sweep.
He always stayed at Scott's. He walked there from Spencer Street Station, along Collins Street.
"Hallo, Bellshaw, back again?"
It was Nick Gerard who, for a wonder, was in that part of the town.
"You, Nick. What's the news?"
"I expect you know it all; you're never much behind the times where your interests are concerned. By Gad, perhaps you don't know; it only happened this morning. When did you arrive?"
"I've just come in by the express. What's up?"
"Your horse, Barellan."
"Well?"
"He went lame on the track at Flemington this morning, limped away badly, and it's the week before the race. He'll not have much time to pull round. I'm sorry for you. It's deuced bad luck, but you can stand it. I'm more sorry for that chap, Glen Leigh, who drew him in the sweep. It's rough on him. I like him; he's the best roughrider I ever saw. I'm open to bet there isn't a bucker in Australia can get rid of him in a quarter of an hour. I told him I'd bet a level thousand,two thousand if anybody wanted it, and give him half if he won," said Nick.
"My horse lame!" exclaimed Bellshaw, ignoring the latter part of Nick's remarks.
"Dead lame, from all accounts. I didn't see him, but I met Luke Nicholl in Bourke Street, and he told me. He was on his back, so he ought to know," said the bookmaker.
"Damn him! He'd no right to say anything about it, especially to a bookmaker," cried Bellshaw angrily.
"And pray why not? What have I done? The fact will be in all the evening papers. Most men I met at the Club were talking about it."
"Were they? It's a den of thieves," almost shouted Bellshaw, in his anger.
"You're talking rot," said Nick, who knew his man. He also had a fairly thick skin, and such remarks failed to penetrate it. "Have you been playing 'solo' all the way from Sydney and losing, or what's ruffled you?"
"I never play 'solo' or hazards," sneered Bellshaw.
"Well, I do, and I'm considered a fairly good hand at the former. As to hazards, I'll not say much about that. I'm out on the green cloth, out a biggish sum, but I can't leave off. It's in my blood. I must throw the dice sometimes," said Nick.
"More fool you. Where are you going?"
"To the Federal."
Bellshaw smiled grimly.
"What have you got there? Is she nice? bewitching? or just an ordinary filly?" he asked.
"It's a man, a dashed clever fellow, but he's one failing, and it's got fairly hold of him since he's been in Melbourne this time. I've known him come here and never touch a drop the whole blessed time, but he's been knocked out this trip. I'd like to find out the beggar who led him on. I'd give him a piece of my mind," said Nick hotly.
"Haven't you enough to do without wasting your time over a boozer?"
"He's always been a friend of mine; he's done all his expenses in, and hasn't a bean. Imean to see him through, if he'll promise to keep straight until the meeting's over."
"And do you suppose he will?" sneered Bellshaw.
"Yes, if he gives me his word," replied Nick.
"You're blessed with an uncommon amount of faith," said Bellshaw.
"And you've got none, not even in yourself. If you'd any pluck you'd not squeal because Barellan's gone lame. He may pull round. Hadwin's a clever man with dicky horses."
"He's an ass or he'd not have galloped the horse to a standstill. I told him he was giving him too much work."
"I'm more sorry for him than you," said the bookmaker.
Bellshaw laughed cynically, ignored the remark and asked, "Who's your sick friend at the Federal?"
"Jerry Makeshift, of 'The Sketch,' one of the best, the very best, a jewel with only one flaw in it."
"A gem of the first water, with whiskey in it," jeered Bellshaw.
"And supposing he is? That's better than being a grinding, snarling, miserable money-grubber," retorted Nick.
"Who's in a bad temper now?" asked Bellshaw.
"You're enough to rile a parson," said Nick.
"I never tried. I don't know much about 'em. I haven't got a chaplain at Mintaro."
"By all accounts you ought to have."
"What for?"
"To marry you," said Nick laughing.
Bellshaw swore and left him. Nick looked after him.
"He's a rotter if ever there was one, but he's been straight with me so far, and he'd better continue to walk the line. The first time he steps off it I'll push him right down," he thought, then went into the Federal.
"Is Mr. Makeshift in?" he asked the young lady presiding over the entry book in the desk, on the right hand side near the door.
"Oh, it's you, Mr. Gerard. Yes, he's in. He's been asking for you," and she told him where to find him.
Nick ascended the stairs, knocked at the door.
"Come in," said a thick voice.
Nick entered and found Jerry struggling with a sketch.
"I don't feel a bit humorous," said Jerry.
"You're a pretty specimen," began Nick.
"Look here, Old Nick, if you've come here to upbraid me I don't want to see you. What I want is ten pounds to see me through."
Nick laughed.
"I'll let you have it if you promise to keep all right."
"Snakes alive. You don't suppose I want to be sacked, do you?" exclaimed Jerry.
"I'd be sorry if you were, so would thousands of people. We'd all miss you, Jerry. 'The Sketch' wouldn't be the same paper," answered Nick.
"That's awfully good of you," said the repentant Jerry. "It means a lot to me. I'll not go back on you, Nick, I promise you, and you shall have some good stuff to amuse you next week."
"That's right, old boy. Buck up. Here's the cash. Have you heard the latest?"
"I haven't been out for days."
"Barellan's lame; Nicholl told me this morning. I've just met Bellshaw. He's in a towering rage, cursing everybody, and everything. He can handle some language when he likes. He's a heavyweight at it," said Nick.
"Bellshaw's a beast," replied Jerry. "I'm not sorry for him, but I am for Leigh and Hadwin."
"So am I, and I told him so," said Nick.
"What'll happen?" asked Jerry.
"I suppose he'll scratch him if there's no chance of getting him to the post."
"Lame horses have gone to the post and won a Melbourne Cup," said Jerry.
"I'd sooner have one with four legs sound."
"I say, Nick?"
"Yes."
"What do you fancy?"
"If Barellan gets right I think he'll win."
"And if not?"
"Roland."
"The Caulfield Cup winner?"
"Yes. He's a good horse—better than folks imagine."
"But his penalty?"
"He's a weight carrier. His trainer says he'd a stone in hand at Caulfield."
"That settles it," said Jerry.
After the Caulfield Cup, Hadwin took the horses to Flemington, where they were boxed at the top of the hill, at the Racecourse Hotel, where many good horses have had their quarters.
Thither Bellshaw went, when he had been to Scott's, and cleansed himself from the grime that accumulated coming from Albury to Melbourne. He was not popular at the hotel. His generosity was of the miserly kind, and everybody knew it. Still he was the owner of Barellan, the sensational horse of the hour, and people wondered if it would be a case of another Assassin, who was reported lame, and won easily.
The head waiter said, "It's just up to Bellshaw to plant a lame 'un on us, and then for the horse to come up smiling and win."
When Bellshaw arrived at the Racecourse Hotel he at once saw Hadwin, and there was a stormy scene.
"I told you he'd break down if you gave him such strong work," said Bellshaw.
"He hasn't broken down," retorted the trainer.
"Gerard told me he's dead lame."
"That's different to breaking down. He's not dead lame."
"Then what's the matter with him?"
"Limped when he pulled up, that's all."
"Isn't that enough the week before the race?" growled Bellshaw.
"It would be under certain circumstances, but it's not serious."
"You think he'll be fit to run?"
The trainer laughed.
"Of course he will. Who put that silly idea into your head?"
"Let's look at him."
They walked down the yard to Barellan's box.
"Bring him out," said Bellshaw.
Hadwin called the head lad and the horse was led out. He limped slightly. His near fore-leg was swollen.
"It doesn't look hopeless," said Bellshaw.
"It isn't. He'll be all right in a couple of days, and he's as fit as he can be. The rest will not do him any harm."
"I haven't seen Leigh yet," said Bellshaw.
"You'll have no difficulty in finding him."
"He'll have to come down handsomely over the sweep money."
"I don't think he will. I shouldn't be surprised if he declines to lay you at all."
"He'll do it. If he doesn't I'll scratch Barellan."
"You dare not. There would be a terrible outcry against you."
"What do I care? He's my horse; I can do as I like with him."
"If you scratch him you'll throw the Cup away."
"You're confident. What makes you so sanguine?"
"I know what he can do, and after Flash'srunning in the Caulfield Cup it is a good thing," returned the trainer.
"Don't say anything about the lameness being slight," said Bellshaw. "You're sure to have someone rooting round for information."
"Very well," said Hadwin, who intended doing as he thought fit.
At night Bellshaw went to the Show and saw Glen Leigh ride The Savage. He admired his skill; he could not help it.
After the performance he went round to see Glen Leigh and had a cool reception.
"I've come about the Sweep," he said. "You've drawn my horse."
"He's lame," answered Glen. "Just my luck. Will he run?"
"It all depends."
"Depends whether he's got over it by Tuesday?" said Glen.
"It depends on you."
"What have I got to do with it?"
"A good deal. You've drawn Barellan in the Sweep, and I expect a cut out of it."
"Do you, and how much do you expect?"
"Half of what you draw. That's fair."
Glen laughed as he said, "You don't want much. You'd better have the lot."
"It's a fair proposition," said Bellshaw.
"I drew Barellan and I shall stick to anything I get out of it," Glen replied.
"You mean you will give me nothing out of the Sweep?"
"Not a farthing," snapped Glen.
"Then do you know what I shall do?"
"No."
"I shall scratch him."
"A nice sportsmanlike proceeding that would be," said Glen.
"I don't run my horse for your benefit, or the benefit of the public."
"So I always understood," answered Glen.
"Consider it over. If you do not make me a fair offer by Saturday I'll strike him out on Monday."
"I don't think you will," said Glen, in a mildly irritating way.
"But I shall."
"Again I repeat I don't think you will."
"Why not?"
"Because I can advance some weighty reasons against your doing so."
"To which I shall not listen," said Bellshaw.
"To which I am certain you will listen, and, having heard them, will fall in with my views."
Bellshaw was fast losing his temper. He had no idea what Leigh was driving at.
"I tell you again if you don't come down handsomely with the sweep money I'll strike him out."
"And I say you will not," retorted Glen.
Gerard came round to see Glen Leigh. Jerry Makeshift, and Tom Roslyn were with him.
"How's your horse?" Tom asked Bellshaw.
"Lame," snapped the owner of Barellan, who objected to being questioned by the representative of "Racing Life" or any other journalist.
"I'm quite aware of that, but as I presume you have seen him since your arrival, I thought perhaps you could give me some later information to wire to Sydney. There will be considerableexcitement over the mishap," said Tom in his most placid manner, at the same time wishing Bellshaw at the uttermost part of the earth.
"You know as much as I do," returned Bellshaw. "If he doesn't pull round by Monday he'll be struck out."
Glen Leigh looked at him with contempt. He knew Bellshaw would not be so anxious about the sweep money if Barellan were dead lame, a hopeless case.
"That won't be the reason he's struck out," said Glen and they all looked at him questioningly.
Bellshaw turned on him in a rage.
"It's a lie. Itwillbe because he's lame if he's struck out."
Glen laughed.
"You told me a few minutes ago you'd strike Barellan out if I did not give you a cut out of the sweep," he said.
Tom Roslyn smiled knowingly at Jerry as much as to say, "That's more like it."
"I say, Bellshaw, you'd never do a dirty thing like that?" said Nick.
"I've told you my horse is lame; I also told Leigh I expected a cut out of the sweep, and he said he wouldn't lay me anything. Do you think that's fair?" Bellshaw asked.
"He's drawn the horse; he can do as he likes. Personally I don't think an owner has any right to demand sweep money," said Tom.
"That's your opinion, is it? I expect you'd talk differently if you owned Barellan," sneered Bellshaw.
"If a lucky drawer of the sweep money offered me a portion I'd take it, but I'd never demand it," replied Tom.
"I mean to get some of it anyhow," declared Bellshaw.
"Then if Barellan will start on those conditions," said Tom, "he can't be so bad. I think I'll risk it and wire to that effect. It will relieve his backers."
"Wire if you like, but don't say I gave you the information."
"Not willingly, but putting one thing with another I think I am justified in wiring that your horse's lameness is not so serious as at first supposed," answered Tom.
"Then you'll be misleading the public, as you have done many a time."
"I never mislead the public, knowingly," said Tom.
"Through ignorance of facts," sneered Bellshaw. "Put it that way."
"You're not making a bed of roses for yourself by going on in this way," said Jerry. "You'll smart for it if you don't mind."
"You've been on the spree ever since you've been here," remarked Bellshaw. "I wonder what your boss would say if he knew."
"You can tell him if you wish. I fancy you'd get your change," retorted Jerry.
Turning to Leigh, Bellshaw said, "I've had enough of this talk. You let me know by Saturday what you are going to do, or I'll act as I said I would."
He left them and walked out of the office.
"The atmosphere's a bit purer now he's gone," said Tom. "Isn't he a bounder?"
"He is. I've a good mind to rub it into him next week. He's a good figure to caricature," answered Jerry.
"Let him alone. Don't waste your talent on him," said Nick.
"I'd better turn my attention to you, and call it 'The Philanthropist'," suggested Jerry smiling.
Nick laughed. He knew to what Jerry alluded.
"I've issued a challenge," he said, "or rather I am about to do so; you can wire it to the 'Life' if you wish to."
"What is it, boxing?"
"No, something more exciting. I'll wager two thousand pounds no one can produce a horse that will throw Glen Leigh in a quarter of an hour. There are conditions of course; it must be a throw, no lying down, and rolling over him, and so on."
"By Jove, that's plucky," said Tom. "He thinks a lot of your riding, Leigh."
"I do. He's the best roughrider in Australia, and that's saying a lot," affirmed Nick.
"We'll draw up the conditions," said Tom, "and I'll forward them."
"Give 'em a month from date in whichto find the animals," replied Nick. "We must limit it to six horses, one to be ridden each night. It will pack the place, bring grist to the mill, and it must come off in Sydney. I mean to give Leigh half the stake if he wins, as I feel sure he will."
"What do you say, Leigh?" asked Tom.
"I'll accept with pleasure; I'll ride anything they like to bring in," answered Glen.
"Good man," said Tom. "There'll be some sport. You'll have your work cut out."
Glen smiled confidently.
It was Saturday night, and Glen Leigh had sent no word to Bellshaw about the sweep money.
Bellshaw waited impatiently in his private room at the hotel, fretting and fuming.
"If he thinks I don't mean what I said he's mistaken," he muttered. "I'll scratch him right enough. He can't have a very big chance. He limped a bit this morning. He'll have to run in bandages if he starts; that doesn't look very well for a Cup horse. I'm not going to give him all the spoil—not me."
It was ten o'clock and still no word from Glen Leigh. Bellshaw thought he would come round after the show, but he did not.
"I'll wait until Sunday night," thought Bellshaw. "I can go round on Monday morning and scratch him."
Ivor Hadwin went to the show on Saturday night and saw Glen Leigh. He was very anxious about what Bellshaw would do over Barellan, and tried his utmost to persuade Glen to see him about it.
"He'll not scratch him," said Glen. "He dare not."
"You don't know him. He'd do it just to spite you."
"Then he's a fool to throw away a chance of winning the Melbourne Cup out of sheer spite."
"Will you call on him to-morrow morning?" asked the trainer.
"What's the good? There'll only be a scene," replied Glen.
"Think of me, Leigh, the anxiety I've had over the horse for weeks, all the trouble, and now the job of getting him to the post after his lameness. It's heartbreaking," said Hadwin.
Glen relented. For the trainer's sake he would see Bellshaw and try and persuade him not to scratch Barellan, but he was firmly resolved not to yield any sweep money.
"Very well, I'll see him. I think I have a persuasive way, and I'll try it on him," answered Glen.
The trainer brightened visibly.
"You're a good 'un. I'll not forget it," he said.
About eleven o'clock on Sunday morning Glen Leigh was announced.
Bellshaw smiled when he heard the name of his visitor.
"Show him up," he said, and added to himself, "I thought he'd never be such an ass as to throw a chance away."
Glen entered the room. The only greeting he gave was a nod. He took a chair without being asked, and threw his hat on the table, then leaned back and looked at Bellshaw.
"So you've come to your senses," said Bellshaw. "It's lucky for you the office was closed on Saturday night, or my orders to scratch Barellan would have gone in. There's the letter," and he threw it across the table to him.
Much to Bellshaw's surprise, which quicklychanged to anger, Glen Leigh tore it up and let the pieces flutter on the table.
"Damn your impertinence. What do you mean by that?" roared Bellshaw.
A tap at the door. A waiter put in his head.
"Did you call, sir?"
"No—get out," foamed the angry man.
Glen smiled exasperatingly.
"What do you mean by it?" asked Bellshaw again.
"It's a silly useless letter, because you will not scratch Barellan," answered Glen.
Bellshaw simmered down. Leigh had come to make terms; they must be liberal.
"Useless because you are going to make a proposal," said Bellshaw.
"I have a proposal to make?"
"How much will you give me out of the sweep?"
"Nothing," was the unexpected answer.
Bellshaw flared up again, swore roundly, talked fast and furiously, all to no purpose. Leigh sat immovable, lit a cigar and waited until he was exhausted.
"Would you like to hear my proposition?" asked Glen calmly.
"Not if it doesn't refer to sweep money."
"You'd better, for your own sake. It's rather important to you," said Glen.
"Nothing you have to say, outside the matter at issue, can interest me," returned Bellshaw.
Glen smiled at him. It was the most irritating thing he could do.
"I shall sit here until you listen to what I have to say," he said.
His manner was determined. He looked stubborn, and was more than a match for Craig Bellshaw, as far as strength went. He got up and locked the door, putting the key in his pocket.
"What I have to say you would not like anyone to hear. Besides I don't want you to bolt out of the room."
"Get along with it then," growled Bellshaw, "but I assure you beforehand you are wasting your time."
"Oh no, I am not. You'll say so when I'vedone. You'll consider it rather a clever move on my part and that the time was very well occupied. It's about a woman," blurted out Glen suddenly.
Craig Bellshaw felt as though an electric current had passed through him. The remark was so unexpected, meant so many things, and he was utterly in the dark. He stared at Glen, who still smiled as he said, "I thought you'd be surprised. Do you know what became of the young woman you took away from Mintaro and left in the open to die?"
"You're raving. There never was a young woman at Mintaro," said Bellshaw hoarsely.
"Oh yes, there was. You drove her away in your buggy, emptied her out, and left her insensible while you drove away. You told me about it the night you walked in your sleep; at least all you knew. You acted well, very well indeed. You illustrated in a remarkably clear way how you attempted to throttle her. You also showed me how you were dragging her to some water hole, but thought better of it, and left her to die of hunger. I heardyou speak to your horses so knew you must have taken her there in a buggy. It's a bad plan to walk in your sleep when you've a murder on your conscience," said Glen.
Bellshaw glared at him like a caged tiger.
"Murder," he hissed. "Be careful what you say."
Glen took no notice of his remark.
"Do you know what became of the woman?" he asked.
"There was no woman."
"Don't deny facts. It's a waste of breath. Doesn't Backham know there was a woman at Mintaro? Don't all your hands know?"
Bellshaw was silent. Glen was rubbing it in strong.
"There's awful evidence against you to prove she was at your place. We'll take that for granted; we'll also take it for granted you left her in the wilderness to die—you brute," said Glen, who could hardly restrain his feelings.
Bellshaw writhed, but did not speak. He waited to hear more.
"Do you know what became of the woman?"
"I tell you there was no woman."
"There's ample proof that you lie," answered Glen, "so I'll pass that. I found her in my hut when I rode back from the fence."
He gave Bellshaw a graphic account of what happened and how Jim Benny came to assist him.
Then he looked hard at Bellshaw as he placed his hands on the table and stood up, leaning over until his face was within a few inches of the squatter's.
"She died in my hut," said Glen. "You are her murderer; you can't get away from that."
Bellshaw shivered. He believed what Glen Leigh said. It was not true, but there was every justification for making the statement to punish him.
"She confessed how she came there and everything you had done to her before she died," went on Leigh. "Jim Benny knows it; Bill Bigs knows it; they were there. The evidence is strong enough, if not to hang you, to send you to penal servitude for life."
Bellshaw tried to laugh, but was thoroughly frightened. He had often wondered what had become of the woman. The story sounded probable. She might have wandered as far as Leigh's hut. During the few minutes' respite Bellshaw thought of a way to retaliate.
"You shot Joe Calder," he said.
Glen being innocent, laughed. Bellshaw must have been dull if he did not see his shot had not gone home.
"I did not. I shouldn't wonder if you had a hand in it," retorted Glen.
"He was a friend of mine."
"You'd as soon leave a shot in a friend as an enemy if he was in your way," said Glen.
"Why have you told me this silly story?"
"In the first place because I want to bring home to you that if Jim Benny, Bill Bigs and myself bring a charge against you of causing the death of this woman, you'll be in the hands of the police instead of witnessing the Melbourne Cup. In the second place if you scratch Barellan you will have no mercy shown you. We shall act at once," replied Glen.
Bellshaw saw the drift of it all. He was cornered. It was a clever move. He would have to run the horse. The evidence of three men who saw the woman die, and heard her charge against him, would be serious—too serious for him to face in public. Even if he escaped punishment he would be branded with infamy for life.
"You'll not scratch Barellan?" said Glen.
"I shall if I get no sweep money from you."
"I say you will not scratch the horse," Glen repeated.
"Supposing I do."
"Then you will be taken into custody at once on the charge I mentioned."
"And if I run him?"
"You shall be free to do what you will. Your conscience will punish you; it has done already. I saw that at Mintaro. You were afraid—a coward," said Glen.
"You will stand me a thousand out of the sweep?"
"Not a farthing."
Bellshaw would like to have shot him.
"What guarantee have I that you will be silent?" he asked.
"I give you my word," returned Glen.
"That is nothing to me."
"But it is to me, and you will have to accept it."
"I will not."
"You will run Barellan?"
"No."
"I have another witness," said Glen at a venture.
"Go on. I am amused," answered Bellshaw, fighting hard before he gave in. He must save his face by making some show of resistance.
"Lin Soo," said Glen.
The effect of the mention of this name on Bellshaw was remarkable. He gasped and seemed on the point of choking, sank back in the chair, his hands hanging down.
Leigh opened the door and went downstairs for some brandy. This revived Bellshaw and he looked round in a frightened way.
"You will run Barellan?" asked Glen.
Bellshaw murmured a faint "Yes." He was beaten.
There was tremendous excitement in Melbourne on the eve of the Cup. The Victoria Club was thronged, a stream of people constantly passing up and down the stairs on to Bourke Street. On the pavement the crowd was dense, and it was difficult to push along. Many of the tobacconists' shops were tenanted by bookmakers and heavy wagers were recorded in them. Nick Gerard was busy at the Club; he had a heavy book on the race, and had laid the favourite, Roland, the winner of the Caulfield Cup, heavily. Barellan was one of his best horses; he had not laid much against him. Ivor Hadwin gave him a glowing account of his candidate. On Monday morning Glen relieved the trainer's mind by telling him he need have no doubt about Bellshaw running the horse.
"Then you must have laid him a lump out of the sweep," said the trainer.
"Not a penny," answered Leigh.
"Then how did you work it?" asked the trainer amazed.
"I managed it after a tussle, but I can't tell you how," replied Glen.
Wagering was fast and furious at the Club. Barellan's lameness disappeared as if by magic and there were many people who thought the whole thing a fake, and of course blamed Bellshaw. He was unpopular, and made no secret that he ran his horses as he liked, without consideration for anyone. When he came into the Club he was not greeted heartily as a popular owner would have been. Hardly anyone spoke to him until one or two bookmakers asked him if he wished to back his horse.
Nick Gerard crossed over the room.
"I suppose you've persuaded Leigh to give you some of the sweep money?" he said.
"Not a fraction. It's a mean, dirty action on his part, but as the horse is so well backed I shall run him," replied Bellshaw.
"It's something out of the common for you to consider backers," said Nick. "Have you got all your money on?"
"All I want. If he hadn't gone lame I'd have had more on; it's not worth the risk now."
The street was crowded until midnight, when the bulk of the people wended their way homewards.
Jerry Makeshift and Tom Roslyn walked down Collins Street together, discussing the chances of the probable runners in the Cup.
"What have you sent on as your final?" asked Jerry.
"Barellan and Roland," answered Tom.
"Why Barellan?"
"I rather fancy him. I saw him this morning. Hadwin told me the horse was all right again, and that the lameness disappeared as suddenly as it came."
"Still it can't have improved his chance for the Cup," said Jerry. "I wonder how Leigh induced him to run the horse. He says he hasn't laid him anything out of the sweep."
"I'm glad of it. There's too much fleecinggoes on. When a man is lucky enough to draw a horse it's hard lines he should be robbed out of a lot of it."
"It's been the practice for so long, owners appear to regard it as a right," said Jerry.
"It's just as well they should find out it is not," replied Tom.
The two friends parted and Jerry went on to the Federal.
Next morning it was beautifully fine, and from an early hour huge crowds wended their way to Flemington. Towards noon Spencer Street Station was crammed. All the specials were full.
There is no finer racing picture in the world than Flemington on Cup Day. Even Royal Ascot pales before it in many respects. It is the luxury of racing in comfort that makes Flemington, and most Australian courses, attractive. There is room for everybody; there is no jostling or overcrowding, and the cost is moderate. Everything is done to enhance the pleasure of the public, who are not treated with the scant courtesy meted out to them grudgingly in England.
The lawn and stand were a grand sight before racing commenced. The hill at the back, overlooking the stand, was a mass of people, yet there was ample room to move about. The beds on the lawn were gay with brilliant-hued flowers. The grass was splendidly green; there was no dust or dirt, no fear of new and wondrously devised ladies' costumes being damaged in an hour. Despite the heat, it was one of November's hottest days, people looked cool. There was plenty of shade. Cosy tables for luncheon parties were laid beneath arbours of vines, whose leaves afforded a refreshing covering. Here scores of parties chatted and made merry, talking over the prospects of the horses in the great race of the year. Coaches, with fine teams, came driving in. There were no motor cars, and the scene was far more picturesque without them. On the flat the huge crowd assembled. It was evident there would be a record attendance.
The Governor and his Lady arrived and were greeted with rousing cheers as they stepped from their carriage and walked across thelawn to the reserved box on the grand stand.
The bookmakers, located between the lawn and the paddock, were not cooped up in an iron cage like animals in a zoological collection. Wagering could be done in comfort. There was no fighting to get money, no scrambling. Everything was decent and in order.
Nick Gerard stood with his back to the rails, against the stewards' and official enclosure and his clerks were seldom still. The leviathan had a big book, and could afford to lay any horse asked for, but a casual observer might have noticed he was in no particular hurry to put Barellan's name down. He laid against Roland whenever he got a chance, but the horse was so heavily backed he came down to five to one before the first race was decided.
A whole string of horses figured in the betting, and there were thirty-one runners in the field, or would be if all started.
Isaac, the winner of the Derby on the previous Saturday, had plenty of friends. He was ridden by Nicholl in that race, and the jockey considered he had an excellent chance.
He had been asked to ride him in the Cup,but had to decline because he was engaged for Barellan.
Luke Nicholl was conscientious. He liked the trainer of Barellan, and since he had known Glen Leigh he had been on very friendly terms with him. Barellan's temporary lameness came as a blow to the jockey, as he might have had the mount on any horse in the race he could do the weight for.
Ivor Hadwin, however, had somewhat relieved his mind when he told him Barellan moved in his accustomed style, and he had but little fear about his lasting out the race.
"You'll ride him carefully," he said. "No need to tell you that. Nurse him until you are well in the straight; then let him come along as fast as you like. I got a clever man to bind his hoof. It's a bit brittle, and he'll run in bandages, but take my word for it, whatever beats him will win. I fear nothing, Luke."
This was reassuring and Nicholl looked like not only riding the Derby and Cup winners but also landing his first Melbourne Cup. For the leading jockey he had had bad luck in the race, having been placed half a dozen times.He could never quite get home. He hoped Barellan would accomplish that for him.
As he went into the paddock he encountered Glen Leigh.
"I hope you'll win," said Glen. "It means a lot to me, as you know. If Barellan gets home you shall have five hundred."
Luke thanked him, and said he'd do his best, telling him what Hadwin said.
"That sounds all right," returned Glen smiling, "let's hope he's hit the mark."
"You'd better have a bit on my mount in this race," said the jockey. It was the Railway Handicap, six furlongs, fifteen runners.
"What are you on?" asked Glen.
"Pioneer," replied Luke. "There he is. I must hurry up."
Glen turned back into the ring, and walked to Gerard.
"What price Pioneer?" he asked.
Nick looked at him and smiled.
"Eight to one," he answered.
"Eight fivers," said Glen, handing him a note.
There was a few minutes' slackness and Gerard said, "What makes you fancy Pioneer?"
"Nicholl's riding him. He told me to have a bit on."
"His luck's in," said Nick, who sent one of his clerks to put fifty on Luke's mount.
Glen Leigh met Bill Bigs and induced him to back Pioneer, also Jim Benny, and they went on the stand to see the race.
Many people knew Glen Leigh as the daring rider in the Buckjumping Show; and he was a tall, athletic, handsome man. Many bright eyes were levelled at him as he moved about.
"What's Pioneer's colours?" asked Bill.
Glen looked at his race book.
"White, black cap," he said.
He had no sooner spoken than the horses were off, racing up the straight at top speed. It was a regular Newmarket Handicap on a small scale.
Soon after crossing the tan the white jacket came to the front.
"That's Pioneer!" exclaimed Bill.
"He's in front and he'll stop there," said a man behind him.
"I hope he does."
"So do I. He's a speedy horse, and good enough for a Newmarket."