IT is impossible for a man to change the habits of a lifetime, especially when he has reached the age to which Sir George Haredale had attained. He tried hard to justify himself in his present embroilment. He juggled with his conscience, but the ways of the transgressor are hard, and the master of Haredale Park was having anything but a good time. He knew that he was doing wrong, that he was about to commit something in the shape of a crime. When a man has pledged himself to this kind of thing, it is marvellous how circumstances combine to help him.

On the face of it things were not going well. The victory of the Blenheim colt in the Champion Stakes was a blow to him. He had expected the colt to lose, thereby giving him occasion to scratch it. If this had turned out as he had expected, he would have been the object of popular sympathy and his reputation as a sportsman and an honourable man would have been enhanced. But to his surprise and vexation, the colt had proved his sterling worth and within the last few hours the public had established him more firmly than ever in the betting. There was always the chance, of course, that the race would leave its mark on the colt and that some ill effects might supervene, in which case the original programme could be carried out without exciting the suspicions of the many-headed.

This was precisely what did happen. Three days later Mallow came into his employer's study with a long face and the information that the colt's lack of condition was rather more manifest than before. For once in a way Mallow was not polite and forgot the respect due to his master.

"It's just as I told you, Sir George," he exclaimed. "The colt's been ruined. I don't say it isn't possible to get him fit in time for the Derby, because he's a wonder. But if you had tried to ruin the horse you couldn't have gone about it in a better way. I can almost cry when I think of it."

"You are forgetting yourself, Mallow," Sir George said.

"Oh, maybe I am, sir, maybe I am. I have been dealing with fools and knaves all my lifetime, and I ought to be accustomed to them by now. I feel as if I had been a party to cutting that colt's throat. You don't deserve to have a horse like that in your stable; you don't deserve to win another race as long as you live."

Sir George was vastly indignant. He wanted to know if Mallow realized whom he was talking to. But Mallow was in no mood for politeness and told his employer a few home truths. He sketched graphically what the better-class sportsmen would say when they realized what had happened. It was useless to be angry, all the more so because he knew that every word Mallow spoke was true. On the spur of the moment he had intended to give Mallow instructions to have the horse struck out of all his three-year engagements, but looking his irate servant in the face he lacked the pluck to do so. So he proceeded to compromise.

"At the worst," he said with some dignity, "it was only an error in judgment. If you can get the colt fit again before the Derby the public will have no grievance against me. They will win their money and that's all they care about."

Mallow appeared to be somewhat mollified.

"Then things are to go on as they are, Sir George?" he asked. "There has been a lot of mischief done, but it is not yet too late. But it is no use crying over spilt milk."

This was going rather too far and too fast. Sir George's fears were aroused again.

"Your instructions are not quite indefinite," he corrected. "We will let the matter stand over for a week. At the end of that time we will see the colt's condition. If there is no material change for the better, then I must scratch him." With this perforce Mallow had to remain content and went out muttering to himself. He wanted to know what Sir George was driving at and what this new policy meant. The trainer had a shrewd idea, though he hardly dared to whisper it even to himself. Still, a week was a week, and much might be done in that time. Besides, if necessary, he knew Raffle had a great card to play. For some reason or other Sir George wanted the colt scratched and Mallow had no difficulty in laying this somewhat shady diplomacy on the shoulders of Raymond Copley.

Meanwhile, the week drifted on and things remained in much the same position at Haredale Park. Sir George had said nothing more to his daughter, neither had she alluded to the detestable topic. But she was ready to take a step which would have considerably alarmed her father had he known of it. Copley was away on business. He came back on Saturday and made his way across to Haredale Park after dinner. In the drawing-room he was coldly informed that Sir George was in the library. He appeared to take this curt dismissal in good part and went off in search of Sir George whom he found sitting moodily over the fire.

"Where have you been lately?" the Baronet asked.

"Oh, my dear sir," Copley explained, "you forget that I have my business to look after. I have been exceedingly busy. When things take a turn for the better that is the time to follow your fortune closely. During the last few days I have been making money with both hands."

It appeared to be no idle boast, for Copley was looking less gloomy than usual. Fortune was smiling upon him again. He and his confederates had had a rare haul over the Longhill Handicap. They were in funds, and unless things went very wrong indeed by the time the Derby was over they would be all rich men. But Sir George guessed nothing of this. He was only sorry to think that May should be so obstinate in refusing to take her share in the spending of these phenomenal riches.

"I am exceedingly glad to hear it," he said.

"Oh, thank you very much. You see, fortune cuts all round. What's good for me is good for you. In the first place, you can make your mind easy about that affair of Absalom & Co., because they won't trouble you any more. After the Derby we need not worry ourselves as to money matters. That brings me to my reason for coming here this evening. I understand that the colt has broken down permanently. From what I see in the papers there is not the remotest chance of his winning a race as a three-year old."

"It looks like it," Sir George answered. "At the same time, Mallow doesn't share my opinion. He is very obstinate." "Oh, what the devil does it matter what he says or thinks?" Copley said impatiently. "He is only a servant. Surely you can do what you like with your own. Besides, in this matter the opinion of the whole racing world will sustain you. At the worst people can only say that you have made an error in judgment. The Press recognizes that you have acted like a good fellow and a sportsman in running this risk simply with the object of taking the public into your confidence. They don't know, of course, that you don't want the horse to win, nor what a surprise the Mirst Park victory was to you. And on the top of that they tumble over one another to back the colt, and if he doesn't start at all they are to blame. Still, it has been a good thing for me. I have laid against your animal thick and thin and after the Derby is over I shan't need to do any more work."

Sir George made no reply. He sat gazing dubiously into the fire. Looking back at the course of events, he could hardly see how he had got himself into this mess. He ought to have refused to listen to Copley, and should have supported the opinion of such a sound judge as Raffle. Besides, he had never won a Derby in his racing career, and it seemed to him that he was wasting a splendid chance. But it was too late to repent, too late to draw back, and all Sir George could hope was that no one would ever have an inkling of his shame. He did not know, neither did Copley, that May was standing in the doorway. She had come in for something she required. Her evening shoes had made no sound on the thick carpets, and she had heard every word that was said. Not that she intended to play the eavesdropper. But one remark of Copley's had fascinated her and she stood as if rooted to the spot.

She knew her ears did not deceive her. She had been brought up all her life in an atmosphere of racing. She knew almost as much about it as Raffle himself. The thing was plain and a wave of shame and humiliation rushed over the girl as she stood there drinking in every word.

She could not blind herself to the truth. She could not get away from the fact that her father was a conscious participant in a disgraceful action. It mattered little that her father was in Copley's hands, or that Copley had suggested the whole thing. The shock was none the less painful. It seemed incredible that a man in Sir George's position should stoop so low as this. These plots had happened before and no one had spoken of them with greater contempt than had Sir George. Now was he self-confessed as a principal in one of the shadiest of them all.

May stole away. For a moment she had been on the point of an outburst. But perhaps it would be better to wait and speak to her father quietly later, to try to find some means of averting this dreadful dishonour.

"I cannot stay here," she murmured. "The atmosphere poisons me. I must get away, I must get away."