d the boy
get money to cover up his theft?

It had seemed to Mortimer a foolish, desperate thing to risk money on
anything so uncertain as a horse race; but here was at stake the honor
of a bright, splendid young man--even the happiness of his parents,
which the poor, deluded boy had wagered on one horse's chance of winning
against six others. It was terrible. Mortimer shuddered, and closed his
eyes when he thought of the misery, the shame, that would come to Allis
and her mother when they knew, as they must, if Crane's horse were
beaten, that the son was a thief. Oh, God! why couldn't he find the boy
and save him before it was too late? Probably Alan had already betted
the money; but even if that were so, he had vain visions of forcing the
man who had received the stolen thousand to disgorge. No one had a right
to receive stolen money; and if necessary, Mortimer would give him to
understand that he was making himself a party to the crime.

But the mere fact that he couldn't find Alan Porter rendered him as
helpless as a babe; he might as well have remained in the bank that day.
How willingly he would have hastened back and replaced the money if he
but had it. For Allis's sake he would have beggared himself, would have
sacrificed a hundred times that sum to save her from the unutterable
misery that must come if her brother were denounced as a felon. The love
that was in him was overmastering him.

He was roused from his despondent train of thought by speech that struck
with familiar jar upon his ear. It was the voice of the man who had
descanted on the pleasures of betting during their journey from New
York.

"What dye t'ink of it, pard?" was the first salutation.

Mortimer stammered the weak information that he didn't know what to
think of it.

"Dere ain't no flies on us to-day--I'm knockin' 'em out in great shape.
Can't pick a loser, blamed if I can. I've lined up for a cash-in tree
times, an' I'll make it four straight, sure. Larcen'll come home all
alone; you see if he don't."

"I hope so," rejoined Mortimer.

"I say, Mister Morton, put down a bet on him--he's good business; put a
'V' on, an' rake down fifty--dat'll pay your ex's. De talent's goin' for
De Dutchman, but don't make no mistake about de other, he'll win."

In an instant the young man knew why this persistent worrier of a
tortured spirit had been sent him. Fate gave him the cue; it whispered
in his ear, "Put down a hundred--you have it--and wi