He smiled sardonically, and watched the teeming crowd below as the aeroplane circled over the course and then prepared to land in a near-by field. Despite the fact that he had taken a great deal of trouble to make sure he reached Lingfield, he did not feel the same fascination as he had done a few months before. There was something lacking in the appeal of racing and betting; only the gambler’s instinct in him urged him on.
4.00 p.m. Lord Fauntley — plain Hugo Fauntley a few years before — grey-hatted and grey-haired, was fretting nearly as much as the horses at the tape. Mannering, next to him, was smiling easily, hands in pockets and cigarette in the corner of his mouth. The crowd was humming; the raucous voices of the bookies laying their last-minute odds were high above the hum. The line of horses was level at last, and the tape went up.
The crowd roared, and Lord Fauntley bit his lip.
And then the din subsided until it was like distant thunder, with only those spectators near the rails catching the beat of the horses’ hoofs thudding against the sun-baked turf. Mannering heard Fauntley shifting from one foot to the other, and smiled.
“Where is she, Mannering, where is she?” Fauntley stammered. “I didn’t see — I’m still as nervous as a kitten at this game, and I’ve been in it more years than I can remember. Where
“She had number five,” said Mannering, “and started well. Blackjack dropped to fours, did he?”
“Yes — damn Blackjack !”
“But not Feodora.” Mannering grinned, and swept the course through his glasses. He saw the yellow and red of Simmons, on Feodora; he was riding his mount well. Feodora was running fourth, between a little bunch in the lead, and the rest of the field was huddled together twenty yards behind.
“Will she . . .” began Fauntley.
“She’s capable of it,” said Mannering. “She’s moving up. . . The Setter’s dropped behind . . .”
“Where are my glasses ?” muttered Fauntley. “I never can find the darned things.”
“Shouldn’t stuff ‘em in your pockets,” said Mannering.
He smiled to himself, knowing that Lord Fauntley, with five hundred on Feodora, could have laid five thousand or fifty thousand, and taken a loss without being worried. There would be a certain amusement to be derived from separating Lord Fauntley from the Liska diamond, for instance.
“You had a job getting the Liska,” Mannering said aloud.
“Damn the Liska! Where’s Feodora ?”
“Second at the mile and a half.”
“Second, eh ? And she’s a stayer — I know she’s a stayer.”
“Marriland is coming up,” said Mannering thoughtfully.
He was thinking less of Feodora and Marriland, battling now towards the two-mile post ready for the straight run home, than of Lord Fauntley and the Liska diamond. The Post that morning had recorded, with its superb indifference, that Fauntley had outbidden Rawson for the diamond at the figure of nine thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds. The Liska would eventually adorn the plump neck of the peeress, and it was difficult to imagine a less worthy resting-place — or so Mannering believed. H’m ! A particularly foolish train of thought.
Was it? Fauntley could stand the loss.
“Where is she?” muttered Fauntley irritably. “Damn it, Mannering, you know my eyes aren’t what they were.”
“Still second,” said Mannering, “and turning into the straight! Ah! Simmons is touching her. Good boy, Simmons ! She’ll do it.”
The excitement of the finish stirred him now. Feodora and Marriland pounded along the hard track, with the rest of the bunch fighting for third place. The murmur of the crowd was fiercer now, and the sea of white faces turned towards the two horses. Feodora’s jockey was using his whip, flicking his horse’s flank. Jackson, on Marriland, was hitting his mount. Mannering was watching the faces of the two jockeys through his glasses. Simmons’s tense, expectant, hopeful, and Jackson’s grim almost to fierceness. Yard by yard the battle was fought, with the winning-post within a hundred yards — ninety — eighty . . .”
“Neck-and-neck,” muttered Fauntley nervously.
“She’ll do it,” said Mannering. “Gome on, Simmons — another yard — you’re in the lead.”
Fifty yards to go — forty — thirty . . .
Lord Fauntley hopped on one foot, then on the other. Mannering’s eyes were very hard and bright. Simmons was almost home.
“Hey!” bellowed Lord Fauntley. “Hey! Hurray 1 She’s won! Feodora, Feodora . . .” He remembered himself suddenly, and scowled, “Sorry, Mannering — excitement. Hal She won, then, she won! Do well ?”
“Fair,” said Mannering. For some reason, one that he could hardly understand, he was tempted to exaggerate his winnings. “I had a thousand with Blackjack, doubled with Feodora.”
“A thousand? Doubled?” Fauntley choked.
“H’m-h’m,” said Mannering, and laughed.
7.00 p.m. “Met that astonishing fellow Mannering,” said Lord Fauntley, as he kissed his wife and dropped into an easy-chair. “Parker — a whisky, with plenty of soda. Astonishing fellow, m’dear — had six thousand on Feodora, and didn’t turn a hair.”
“Six thousand!” gasped Lady Fauntley. “Why, the man must be a — a veritable — mustn’t he ?”
“Seems so, seems so,” admitted Fauntley. “Parker, I want that to-day. Not a hair, m’dear — never seen anyone take it easier than he did. Talked about the Liska diamond hallway through the race. Parker!”
“Soda — and whisky, m’lord,” said Parker.
“Ha! Parker, Mr John Mannering will be here for dinner.”
“Very good, m’lord,” said Parker. He went downstairs to relate the latest information, knowing well that the visit of Mannering would pleasantly excite the feminine members of the staff.
Meanwhile Fauntley sipped his whisky and waited for his wife to voice appreciation of his effort.
“You invited him to dinner?” Lady Fauntley preened herself, and patted her husband’s hand. “That will show Emmy that she doesn’t have all the good fortune, Hugo. How thoughtful of you to invite him!”
“Always thoughtful for you, m’dear.” Fauntley patted his wife’s hand in turn, finished his whisky-and-soda, and smiled. “I think you could wear the Liska to-night. I didn’t know Mannering was interested in stones, but he seems to be, and if he is he’ll notice it.”
“I’m sure he will,” said Lady Fauntley. “Hugo, do you think we ought to phone Lorna and tell her ?”
“Lorna ?” Lord Hugo thought suddenly of his daughter, who was not merely single, but apparently satisfied to remain unnoticed by men, eligible or otherwise. She was the despair of the Fauntley family, for she had a distressing habit of saying what was in her mind, and caring nothing for consequences. “Well — I don’t want the fellah upset, m’dear. Lorna’s got some funny ways . . .”
“But she adores him! She said this morning that if we could find a man like Mannering she might think of — of . . . Of course, I’m not fond of her modern ideas, Hugo, but she means well; I’m sure she does. I’D telephone her, dear.”
7.15 p.m. The telephone in Lorna Fauntley’s studio rang as Lorna was deliberating over crimson lake or crimson pure for the sash on the portrait of Lady Anne Wrigley.