DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.

Otago Witness, Issue 3823, 21 June 1927, Page 81

DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.

By

Judge Bodkin.

(Copyright. —For the Witness.) Cyrus Montague was a hawk, and Lord Lovel was a pigeon, and the hawk plucked the pigeon, as was natural. This commonplace performance was, however, complicated by the intervention of a woman. Both men had loved Betty Wingfield, the youngest and prettiest daughter of a penniless peer, and Betty had rejected Cyrus Montague and married Lord Lovel. This little incident gave the hawk a keener and more personal pleasure in plucking the pigeon. Now you must not by any means run away with the story that Cyprus Montague was a needy and disreputable adventurer or that Lord Lovel was a fool. Cyrus Montague, on the contrary, | was a very respectable person, indeed, a large land-owner, a Member of Parliament, very wealthy—though not quite as wealthy as Lord Lovel before the process of his plucking began. If ever a man got a fair start in the world Hairy, tenth Earl of Lovel was the man. No advantage, real or fictitious, was wanting. He was tall, strong, handsome, a noted athlete and proficient in almost every form of outdoor game and sport, of high rank in a rank-worshipping county, of enormous wealth which had accumulated during his minority, owner of one of the most beautiful places in all England, and finally married to the girl he loved and that girl a real good sort. What more could the heart of a man desire? Instead of which, to borrow a phrase that has become famous, “ he went about the country backing race horses.” In four lines of pungent doggerel Budyard Kipling has described the elegant simplicity of this sport:—

The horses run, the jockeys ride, The bookies bet, the owners own, But there are other things beside, And that’s a game best left alone.

Lord Lovel found it so. He was not a dull man; indeed, he was a rather bright man, as perhaps the sequel may show, but he started with a touching confidence in human nature—the most expensive commodity he could take with him on the turf. In the first few years he was plucked all round— everyone had a feather out of him. But "a bookmaker named Whaller—Sam Whaller—and Cyrus Montague, Esquire, aforesaid, did most of the plucking. At last, through their joint agency, he came to utter smash over the Derby. Cyrus Montague’s horse, High Flyer, was first favourite with odds on—such a favourite, indeed, that all the rest wAe outsiders. Lord Lovel, who stiii numbered Cyrus Montague amongst his intimate friends, had the straight tip from the owner, and backed the horse recklessly, following him through the shortening odds to a few days before the race. By Montague’s advice he did all his betting with Sam Whaller. “He’s a whale among minnows,” said Cyrus, “ and is best able to stand such a heavy knockdown blow as this is going to be. Besides he is a sure pay, he can afford to part.” But Lord Lovel did not get the chance to test the famous “ bookie’s ’’ paving capacity. The day before the race High Flyer was scratched, and it was Lord Lovel did the parting to Mr Whaller to the tune of over fifty thousand pounds. Whether Mr Cyrus Montague got any share of that huge booty it would be impertinent to inquire. The facts may, however, be stated. High Flyer -was scratched on the grounds that he had not stood training, but as he won the next big event for which he was entered at big odds it is possible the widespread sneers of the cynical yere not wholly unjustified.

Lord Lovel, if not ruined, was on the brink of ruin. His lordship was notoriously a good loser, and to the outside world he made no sign; but he was hard hit ana knew it. One person only he took into his confidence. “It is a cruel shame. Betty,” he said to his wife, "I could kick myself for your sake.

They were breakfasting tete-a-tete in a cosy snuggery in the huge castle which a Lovel had built half a dozen centuries ago, and a score of Levels had added to since then. One whole side of the little room was a bow window, which looked out over an immeasurable demesne with ’ the rustle of deer through the long green vistas, and a silver gleam far away where

a lake lay sleeping amongst the trees in the sunshine.

“ ’Tis not you that deserve kicking, Harry dear,” his wife said, poising a lump of sugar over the tea she had filled for him and touching it with her lips before she dropped it into the cup. They were honeymooning yet those two, though they were a year married, and Betty, Lady Lovel, was a mother as well as a wife. “ Oh! I know, little woman. It’s friend, Monty, you mean. He certainly doesn’t come well out of it, and I thought him as straight as a die.”

“ I never did, Harry. Do me that justice, and I always told you so.” “Told you so,” is not. a pleasant formula from whatever lips it comes, but Lord Lovel didn’t wince.

•' Y ° u were riK ht, little woman,” he said, “you were always right except when you married a silly ass like yours truly. Monty was very gone on you. Betty; sorry now you didn’t have him?” She crossed the room in make-belief anger, perched on the arm of his chair light and beautiful in her fluffy morning dress as a butterfly on a flower and boxed his ears playfully. “If you say that again 1 will order you to kick yourself as you just threatened for my sake.” But her playfulness was only on the surface.

Is it so bad as all that Harry?” she queried the next moment with an anxiety in her voice she tried vainly to hide.

Couldn t well be much worse, my pet. I have had many hard knocks lately'; this last was a crusher. The place and land must go. My lawyer says I may be able to scrape a couple of thousand a year out of the run for you and the boy, I am sorry, Betty, I’m sorry for your sake and lns - 1 cannot say more than that, can I?” She was thoroughbred, that sliin, brown-eyed, little woman with the girlish curls and dimples. She did not Took him in the face, for she guessed tile tears were in his eyes. She guessed, too, the bitterness of his thoughts as he faced the prospect of being driven out by his own mad folly, with his wife and child, from the stately home of his ancestors which he held in such love and pride. At such a time the true woman has no thought of herself. “If it must be, it must be, Harry dear, and wc three can be happy together anywhere. But couldn’t you have one more try before you give in ? ” “Try at what, mv pet?” “At the turf.”

He jumped from his chair in his surprise and lifted her up by the arms till her face was level with his own, looked her straight in the eyes, kissed her, and set her down again. “ Why, you wonderful little woman,” he cried, “ you always warned me against betting and racing. I wish to the lord I had only had the sense to take your advice. Yon always said you hated' it.” “ So I do, but ”

“ Oh, there’s a ‘ but,’ is there ? ” “ I hate even more to think of your being driven out of this by that odious Cyrus Montague and his creature — what’s his name? —Whaller. I hate to

think of them cheating and ruining you and getting off scotfree. Oh, I know how he’ll gloat over it. I remember his look and the way he grunted when I threw him over for you. This was his revenge.”

“ There, I think, my pet, you do the amiable Monty more than justice. I should think a deal the better of him if you were right. Egad! he had reason to hate me, but I’m pretty sure it was the money he was after.” “ Both, both,” cried Betty, Lady Lovel. “ That is the reason he was so civil to

you after we were married and sent 's that nice present. That is why he took his jilting as you said, like a good fellow and a sportsman. He wanted to keep friends and ruin you.” “ Don’t rub ’t in too hard, Betty. I

see now what a silh ass I was.” “ Couldn’t you manage to get even with him? To try your luck once again agai his—this time with vour eves open ? ”

“ Egad you are a plucky little woman. A.e you ready to risk it?” “ Quite. Don’t let us sink into middle class respectability, Harry, whatever we do. Let us have a castle or cottage. I’ll cook the dinner and make the babies’ clothes and my own, and never grumble or growl. Just keep back a hundred a year and plunge witt the rest. I know you will w : this time, and I feel it down to my toe nails. Then we won’t have to go away after all.” She swept out her hand and embraced the whole wide, lovely landscape with a gesture that was a caress. “ I wish there was some sure way of winning,” she added irrelevantly. “ But there isn’t,” he said. “ I am sure there is if we were clever enough to find it out.” “ There can’t be, my pet. You see there are two people to a bet, and when one man wins another man loses. Suppose now they are both equally clever they cannot be both sure of winning except ”

He jumped to his feet again and clapped his thigh with the palm of his hand with a smack like a pistol shot. “ Egad, Betty, I have hit on a plan—a most amazing and splendacious plan. But I doubt if it would be quite fair even with sweeps like Montague and Whaller.” .

“Fair!” she cried indignantly. “Anything is too fair for them. They weren’t so squeamish about you. I have no patience with a man’s silly notion of his * honour ’ when he is dealing with rogues. Diamond cut diamond, I say, and you must be the diamond to cut this time, Harry. Tell me your ulan, sir, at once, I insist.’' . -

Thus commanded he couldn’t help himself. If the truth must out he was keen to have his clever notion appreciated without as yet aby serious thought of putting it in practice. She laughed aloud when he told her with a frank merriment that reminded him of the time when he first saw her from the stage of a private theatricals. He was playing a queer old woman to the life and fell instantly in Iqvc with the bright-faced little girl in the front row that applauded with hands, lips, and eyes.

“It will do splendidly, Harry. It just cannot fail,” she cried excitedly. “ You were so clever to think of it. Oh, what a pair of fools you will i take of them both!” He still demurred, but she kissed and laughed away his “ honourable ” scruples, and at last wiled a promise from him. “ I think it is rather neat,” he modestly admitted.

“ But whom will you get to help you, Harry?” she asked suddenly. “ I onlywish I could.”

“ Oh, that will be all right enough,” he answered. “ There are lots of chaps will be glad of the job. Only I must find someone I can trust like myself. ByJove ”

“ Another idea, Harry?” “ A better one than the last.” “Tell it to me quickly?” “ Not this time, little woman. This is my private property.” “ Oh, you think a woman cannot keep a secret?”

“ No, but I think a man can, and to prove it I'll keep this.” “Well, keep it, keep it, you nastything. But remember to keep your promise, too. I must go and kiss babs now and tell him the good news., Mind, I trust your honour, Harry. You cannot go back on your word to a lady.” So Lord Lovel continued to plunge on the turf more vehemently, than ever, and the same ill-luck persistently attended him. Over and over again his “ friend ” Cyrus Montague thought he had got a knock-out blow this time, but his lordship came up smiling, paying in hard cash on settling day. It chanced that about this time a new “ bookie ” loomed up on the sporting horizon. Sam Whaller found he had a formidable rival in Emmanuel Groote. The new man was a Jew by his nose and his name, but that was all that was practically known of him. He was tall, thin, with a slight stoop, a long, well-trimmed grey beard of which he seemed particularly proud. He had very bright eyes, and a nose like a hawk. He soon made it plain that he had also good money and good information. He was cautious yet bold in his operations, often fixing the odds by his own judgment quite independent of the market, and generally justifying his judgment by the result. He won largely and settled promptly, and Lord Lovel, it was said, gave hi’. a good slice of his very profitable patronage. “ Manny ” Groote, as he was familial called, never attended a race meeting. He sat in his office like a spider waitin, tor flies. His betting was done by letter, telegraph, and telephone, and he 1 ad a large staff of well-paid and competent assistants. , , , . One story that got abroad made him famous. A* stone-broke swell on his way to New York to try his luck got a “moral certainty” from a friend when he was 100 miles out to sea. He was just in time to send a wireless telegram to Manny Groote an hour before the race, backing the outsider with the last £5O he had in the world. He found a cabled remittance for £lOOO from Manny Groote waiting for him on his arrival in New York.

Lord Lovel went from bad to worse. No chap, it was whispered in club and in betting ring, could stand his unbroken run of ill luck, and those “ in the know ” all agreed that the next big plunge must make a man or a mouse of him, with long odds on the mouse. This time it was a colt of his own that he backed for the Derby, backed him constantly, steadily, without flinch-

in" or hedging, until he ran him into the position of first favourite. There was a certain method in his madness. “Never Say Die” was undoubtedly a splendid colt —such a colt as rarely turns up in 10 years. But this year, as Lord Lovel’s ill luck would have it, there was a dangerous rival in “ Neck or Nothing ” — Mr Cyrus Montague’s nomination. Mr Montague kept his horse dark till a month before the race, and got his money on •by commission at long odds, while Lord Lovel, after his fashion, advertised his “ good thing ” to all the world. Indeed, it was due to Manny Groote that his lordship was able to get a decent price about the colt. Mr Groote from the first led the opposition to “ Never Say Die,” taking all-comers for any amount. When his book was made, Mr Cyrus Montague favoured his own nomination tremendously, and openly laughed at ’.lie chances of the favourite. “ Never Say Die,” he confessed, was a smart colt, but he couldn’t stay. Five furlongs was his distance; he would be in trouble a good half-mile from home. Meeting Lord Lovel at Tattersail’s, he frankly propounded his opinion of the favourite to the owner.

“Ready to back your opinion, Monty?” said Lord Lovel, picking up a little goldcornered note book that dangled at bis watch-chain.

“ To any amount you please, my lord,” said Mr Cyrus Montague. “ Then,” said Lord Lovel, “ “i’ll back my colt for £25,000 at the odds.” The odds were two to one at the time.

Even Cyrus Montague was appalled by this colossal bet. He stood silent and amazed, his underlip drooping, till one of the bystanders whispered to another; “Funked, by Jove; Lovel has funked him.” Then he spoke out, “Double, if you like, Lord Lovel?” “ Thanks, no,” said Lord Lovel as coolly as ever. “ You’ll find £50,000 quite enough to pay, Monty.” A couple of days later it was whispered in the innermost of racing circles that a jockey named “Crooked Jim,” the smartest and smallest of his tribe, who had been suspended for foul riding, was found hidden in the hay of the favourite’s manger armed with a hypodermic syringe. He was caught, so it was said, by the owner himself, who merely whipped him soundly and sent him howling from the vard.

No one, of course, guessed the author of this audacious attempt to hobble the favourite. It was merely a coincidence that , next day Mr Cyrus Montague and Mr Sam Whaller began to edge. All the bookies by this time were full up of the favourite, except Mr Emmanuel Gioote, who was still willing to give the odds, though he shortened them°a trifle when they took him into five figures. Mr Montague could not quite cover his huge bet with Lord Lovel, but came close to it. Mr Whaller stood to win in any event. He was to pay £OO,OOO if the favourite won, but he was to get £65,000 from Mr Emmanuel Groote in the same event. If the horse lost he landed a bi" haul. °

Derby Day dawned bright and fair, and all London emptied itself out on the Downs. Every county in England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales sent its contingent to swell the colossal gathering. Across the Channel and over the Atlantic came eager visitors by the thousand. It was a specially exciting Derby. rse\er before had two such equal and such splendid colts run for the blue ribbon. But it was the dramatic duel between Lord Lovel and Mr Cyrus Montague, of which the details had somehow crept abroad, that gave its most fascinating and personal interest to the race.

The two rivals showed up well on the day of the race. Mr Cyrus Montague was dressed in a perfectly-fitting frock coat and a shiny hat, as fleck and wellgroomed as his own colt. Lord Lovel was in rough tweed with a 20-guinea Panama dropped anyway on his fair, curly head. “ The hawk and the pigeon,” muttered more than one voice as the two met and saluted in full view of the grand stand.

The comparison was not inapt. Lord Lovel was a tall man for his age, tall and strong, but his face was the face of a handsome schoolboy with men— anile and innocent blue eyes. Cyrus Montague was a big man, too, stoute’*, though not so tall as Lord Lovel, swarth, keen-eyed, thin-lipped, a man to hold his own and a little more than his own in any company.

Lord Lovel was careless as a schools boy on a holiday. No one to look at him or to hear him as he flung his smiles and jests around would guess that the issue of an hour meant wealth or ruin for him. It was not quite so with his rival. On ordinary occasions, indeed, Cyrus Montagne was imperturbable as a sphinx, and lost and won with the same changeless calm. But the colossal sum now at stake made even his iron nerves twitch. He puffed .hard at ;.n unlit cigar, his hand trembling as he raised his race glasses to his eyes.

The fateful moment has come. A bell jangles and silence and strained attention come suddenly on all that mighty crowd. A moment before the grand stand was a quick changing kaleidoscope of colour. Suddenly it settled down t- a vast parterre of vivid flowers as variegated but as motionless.

“ They’re off !” The words whispered or shouted send a shiver of hope or fear through every heart. At the far end of the wide Downs the horses burst into sudden motion. At first a mere cloud of changing colours. But the racing glasses begin to pick out the horses that fly swift as a bird's flight over the smooth green of the course. “ Neck Or Nothing ” has got well : vay, and holds the lead. A long, raking black he gallops literally in the French phrase “ belly to ground,” and seems in going to devour the way. His joekey is a mere red speck perched on his shoulders. Thirty paces behind shut up in the ruck gallops the favourite —a dark chestnut, small, compact, aud clean-limbed as a red deer. His rider’s light blue jacket is seen or hid in gleam or shadow as other horses pass or drop behind, but he never quickens or slackens his pace by the fraction of a second, never increases or lessens his distance from the leader by a yard. Half a mile from home ! The eyes that watch the favourite so eagerly through ten thousand levelled glasses see the speck of blue begin to move amongst the dots of colour. It slips past a green and yellow. The horses are thick in front, hut the cleverest jockey in England is on the favourite’s back. He glides in and out through the galloping throng, easily, dexterously as a skilful dancer pilots his partner through a crowded ballroom. Now he is clear of the ruck he. is racing on th< open sward. A quarter of a mile from home ! The chestnut has challenged the black for tin lead, and there is nothing else in the race. Bravely the black answers the challenge ; th* horses seem to fly—the black head andthe chestnut stretched level together, nose to nose. Along the railings they come through rows of spectators, pale and frantic with excitement, while ten thousand voices thunder out their names.

The rider in blue sits still death ; the Cider in red lifts his whip and strikes sharp and hard on the qtafvering flanks of the black. There is no answering spurt pf speed. He shifts the whip to his left han-d and strikes again, but the horse s powers are already strained to the uttermost to hold his own. . A hundred yards from home. . Ihe favourite’s jockey for the first time in the race calls upon his horse, just tickles his flank with the silk and the call is answered. The chestnut’s muzzle shows a thin line in front of the black. The chestnut head follows the muzzle slowly; slowly, though they are racing 40 miles an hour; the whole horse clear of the black eclipse and is outlined on the grass turf, racing alone. Before the pulse can beat or eyelid wink, the favourite is past the post, a winner by a length. Then from the frenzied crowd his name goes un in one tremendous shout that seems to shake the skies. Bright and debonnaire. Lord Lovel step„ to his horse’s head to lead him to the weighing yard. In* that moment of triumph he glances back to where a light blue scarf waves frantically from a corner of the stand, and rejoices in his victory for his wife’s sake more than for his own.

It chanced on settling day that Mr Cyrus Montague and Mr Samuel Whaller walked together to the office door of Mr Emmanuel Groote. They found an angry and excited crowd surging round the place, and, standing a little aside, Lord Lovel, placidly smoking a cigar. In large, bold letters, a wag, probably less hard hit than his fellows, had chalked on the dark green paint of Mr Groote’s office door the following words: — “The Derby.” Ist: “ Never Sav Die.’’ 2nd: “Neck or Nothing.” 3rd: “ Carrier Pigeon.” Also ran: “ Manny Groote.” Yes. The highly-respectable commission agent, Mr Emmanuel Groote, baa run, flown, vanished, melted into thin air, leaving not a track behind. In vain the sporting hue and cry was raised. No trace of him could be found. Books, man, and money had utterly disappeared. -_Yet Emmanuel Groote was not a common “welsher.” A few days later, every man—there were not many, after all—who won from him. with two exceptions, had a cheque posted in London on a small provincial bank for the full amount of their winnings. There were, a s has been - said, two exceptions. But those two were far the heaviest winners of the crowd. Of the hundred thousand pounds and upwards they had between them won from Emmanuel Groote, Cyrus Montague and Sam Whaller never realised a farthing.

Lady Betty Lovel is seated alone in the snuggery of the stately ancestral home where we first met her—the home once more securely her husband's and her own.

A bright fire blazes in the hearth—a bright electric lamp throws its light on the magazine she is reading. The door opens softly, she lets the magazine drop, and looks up with a cry of surprise. A man has come into the room—a tall, thin, elderly man with a stoop, a long, well-trimmed board, very bright eyes, and a no>se like a hawk.

Lady Lovel recognises Mr Emmanuel Groote—she had met him twice before, the first time he was the bearer of a line of introduction from her husband. “ Oh ! how you startled me I” faltered Lady Betty. “ I thought you had dis-ap-peared.” “So I had.” ho answered softly. “ I’m sorry, my lady, to have startled you. but I came to say farewell. Mr Emmanuel Grote bids good-bye for ever to Lady Betty Lovel.”

He nluckcd off the grey beard and false nose, his back straightened, his shoulders cs'-mod ns he snoke, and there stood reX 1 :"'' 1 the athletic and smiling face of Lovel. z.ady Betty sank back in her chair, dumb and motionless with utter amazement. Slowly at last the words were panted out in a kind of breathless whisn-'r: “ Oh. Harry, so it's you all the time!”

“ As you wisely observe, Betty.” he answered coolly, “so it’s me all the time, ft always was me and never anyone else. It’s a high compliment - that you never

guessed.” “ But ” she began. ” But how was it managed, you want to know. It was as simple as kfess hands.” He lifted the little, white hand that lay limp in her lap and kissed it. “ When Lord Lovel lost. Mr Groote won, and kindly paid his noble friend’s loss out of his own gains. When, at long last. Lord Lovel won. he froze on to his winnings, and Mr Groote vanished into thin air.”

“ But ” she began again, and again he interrupted her. “ Don’t fret, little woman. Our departed friend, Mr Emmanuel Groote, was not wholly a rogue. Not a soul lost a farthing by Mr Groote’s disappearance., except that brace of scoundrels, Montague and Whaller.”

For a moment there was an angry glint in Lord Level’s eyes as he said the names, but it softened to laughter at the thought of his triumph.

“ With them it was clearly a case of diamond cut diamond, the biters bit. Even about them I had a kind of scruple at first. But when that little devil, ‘ Crooked Jim.’ confessed they had set him on to nobble ‘ NcVer Say Die,’ my scruples disappeared. You should have seen their faces, Betty, at the office door when •they found the quick-change fM-tist, Mr Groote, had disappeared. Only you in all the world, my dear, know where he went to. You have witnessed his last appearance ©n any stage, Mr Groote has abandoned

the turf.” He tossed wig, beard, and false nose together into the fire, where they fizzled and flashed up in a sudden blaze. “ Lord Lovel,”' he added, “ follows the good example”—and he tossed his betting book into the flames. “ Now, my dear little wife, will you kindly send for the baby. As heir-at-law he will be glad to know the family estates and heirlooms are safe.”