The next day, intent on persuading Porter to accept the money won over Diablo, Crane took a run down to Ringwood farm.

As Allis had foreshadowed, his visit was of no avail, so far as Porter's acceptance of the winnings was concerned.

With natural forethought Crane first talked it over with Mrs. Porter, but that good lady would have felt a sort of moral defilement in handling any betting money, much less this that seemed obscured in uncertainty as to its rightful ownership. She believed very much in Crane's bona fides, and had no doubt whatever but his statement of the case was absolutely truthful. But Allis had refused to accept the money; it would never do for her to go beyond her daughter's judgment. She even thought it unadvisable for Crane to discuss the matter with her husband; it would only worry him, and she was positive that, in his pride of independence, he would refuse to touch a penny that was not actually due him.

“But there's a payment on Ringwood due in a few days,” Crane argued, “and we must arrange for that at all events. If this money, which is rightfully your family's, could be applied on that, it would make a difference, don't you think?”

“I suppose John must settle it,” she said, resignedly; “perhaps you had better see him. I can't interfere one way or the other. I have no head for business,” she added, apologetically; “I'm not sure that any of us have except Allis. We just seem to drift, drift, drift.”

Crane stated the facts very plausibly, very seductively, to John Porter. Porter almost unreasonably scented charity in Crane's proposal. He believed that the bet was a myth; Crane was trying to present him with this sum as a compensation for having lost Diablo. It wasn't even a loan; it was a gift, pure and simple. His very helplessness, his poverty, made him decline the offer with unnecessary fierceness. If Allis had refused it, if she were strong enough to stand without this charity, surely he, a man, battered though he was, could pass it by. He had received a hopeful message from Allis as to Lucretia's chances in the Derby; they felt confident of winning. That win would relieve them of all obligations.

“I can't take it,” Porter said to Crane. “Allis is more familiar with the circumstances of the bet—if there was one—than I. It must just rest with her; she's the man now, you know,” he added, plaintively; “I'm but a broken wreck, and what she says goes.”

“But there's a payment on Ringwood falling due in a few days,” Crane remonstrated, even as he had to Mrs. Porter.

Porter collapsed, fretfully. He could stand out against prospective financial stringency, but actual obligations for which he had no means quite broke down his weakened energy. He had forgotten about this liability, that is, had thought the time of payment more distant. He would be forced to recall the money he had given Dixon to bet on Lucretia for the Derby, to meet this payment to the bank.

Quite despondently he answered the other man. “I had forgotten all about it; this shake-up has tangled my memory. I can pay the money, though,” he added, half defiantly; “it will hamper me, but I can do it.”

A sudden thought came to Crane, an inspiration. “I've got it!” he exclaimed.

Porter brightened up; there was such a world of confidence in the other's manner.

“We'll just let this Diablo money stand against the payment which is about due on Ringwood; put it in the bank to cover it, so to speak; later we can settle to whom it belongs. At present it seems to be nobody's money; it's seldom one sees a few thousand going abegging for an owner,” he added, jocularly. “You say it isn't yours; I know it isn't mine; and most certainly it doesn't belong to the bookmaker, for he's lost it fair and square. We can't let him keep it; they win enough of the public's money.”

Reluctantly, Porter gave a half-hearted acquiescence. He would have sacrificed tangible interests to leave the money that was in Dixon's hands with him to bet on Lucretia. It would be like not taking the tide at its flood to let her run unbacked when her chances of winning were so good, and the odds against her great enough to insure a big return.

It was after banking hours, quite toward evening, by the time Crane had obtained this concession. He had brought the winnings for John Porter's acceptance, should the latter prove amenable to reason. Now it occurred to him that he might leave the money with one of the bank staff, who could deposit it the next day.

Crane drove back to the village and went at once to the cashier, Mr. Lane's house. He was not at home; his wife thought perhaps he was still in the bank. Crane went there in search of him. He found only Mortimer, who had remained late over his accounts. From the latter Crane learned that the cashier had driven over to a neighboring town.

“It doesn't matter,” remarked Crane; “I can leave this money with you. It's to meet a payment of three thousand due from John Porter about the middle of June. You can put it in a safe place in the vault till the note falls due, and then transfer it to Porter's credit.”

“I'll attend to it, sir,” replied Mortimer. “I'll attach the money to the note, and put them away together.”

On his way to the station Crane met Alan Porter.

“I suppose you'd like a holiday to see your father's mare run for the Derby, wouldn't you, Alan?” he said.

“I should very much, sir; but Mr. Lane is set against racing.”

“Oh, I think he'll let you off that day. I'll tell him he may. But, like your mother, I don't approve of young men betting—I know what it means.”

He was thinking, with bitterness, of his own youthful indiscretions.

“If you go, don't bet. You might be tempted, naturally, to back your father's mare Lucretia, but you would stand a very good chance of losing.”

“Don't you think she'll win, sir?” Alan asked, emboldened by his employer's freedom of speech.

“I do not. My horse, The Dutchman, is almost certain to win, my trainer tells me.” Then he added, apologetic of his confidential mood, “I tell you this, lest through loyalty to your own people you should lose your money. Racing, I fancy, is very uncertain, even when it seems most certain.”

Again Crane had cause to congratulate himself upon the somewhat clever manipulation of a difficult situation. He had scored again in his diplomatic love endeavor. He knew quite well that Allis's determined stand was only made possible by her expectation of gaining financial relief for her father through Lucretia's winning the Derby. Should she fail, they would be almost forced to turn to him in their difficulties. That was what he wanted. He knew that the money won over Diablo, if accepted, must always be considered as coming from him. The gradual persistent dropping of water would wear away the hardest stone; he would attain to his wishes yet.

He was no bungler to attempt other than the most gently delicate methods.