"The great moment approaches!" Garden announced, and though he spoke with sententious gaiety, I could detect signs of strain in his manner. "Hannix's phone is going to be pretty busy during the last ten minutes of this momentous intermission, and I'd advise all of you to get your bets in before the post line comes across. There won't be any material changes, anyway; so speed the hopeful wagers."

    There was silence for several moments, and then Swift, looking up from his card, said in a peculiarly flat voice:

    "Get the latest run-down, Floyd. We haven't had one since the opening line, and there may be some shifts in the odds or a late scratch."

    "Anything you say, dear cousin," Garden acceded in a cynical, yet troubled, tone, as he drew down the switch to cut in the amplifier and picked up the black receiver. He waited for a pause in the announcements from Texas and Cold Springs, and then spoke into the transmitter:

    "Hello, Lex. Give me the run-down on the big one at Rivermont."

    From the amplifier came the now familiar voice:

    "I just gave the latest line there. Where've YOU been?...All right, here it is, but listen this time—6, 12, 12, 5, 20, 20, 10, 6, 10, 6, 4, scratch, 20, 2. Post, 4:10..."

    Garden cut out the amplifier and looked down at the new row of figures he had hastily scribbled beside the earlier odds.

    "Not very different from the morning line," he commented. "Heat Lightning, down two; Train Time, down three; Azure Star, up two; Roving Flirt, down one; Grand Score up from six to ten—what a picnic for the mater if he comes in! Risky Lad, up one—and that helps me. Head Start, down two; Sarah Dee, up one; and the rest as they were. Except Equanimity." He shot a quick look at his cousin. "Equanimity has gone from two-and-a-half to two, and I doubt if he'll pay even that much. Too many hopeful but misguided enthusiasts shoveling coarse money into the tote."[18]

    Garden got up, mixed himself a highball, and carried it back to the table. Having disposed of it, he turned about in his chair.

    "Well, aren't any of the master minds present made up?" He was a little impatient now.

    Kroon rose, finished the drink which stood on the table before him, and dabbing his mouth with a neatly folded handkerchief which he took from his breast pocket, he moved toward the archway.

    "My mind was made up yesterday." He spoke across the room, as if including every one. "Put me down in your fateful little book for one hundred on Hyjinx to win and two hundred on the same filly a place. And you can add two hundred on Head Start to show. Making it, all told, half a grand. That's my contribution to the afternoon's festivities."

    "Head Start's a bad actor at the post," advised Garden, as he entered the bets in the ledger.

    "Oh, well," sighed Kroon, "maybe he'll be a smart little boy and beat the barrier today." And he turned into the hall.

    "Not deserting us, are you Cecil?" Garden called after him.

    "Frightfully sorry," Kroon answered, looking back. "I'd love to stay for the race, but a legal conference at a maiden aunt's is scheduled for four-thirty, and I've got to be there. Papers to sign, and such rubbish. I'll try to get back though, if I don't have to read the bally documents." He waved his hand and, with a "Cheerio," continued down the hall.

    Madge Weatherby immediately picked up her cards and moved to Zalia Graem's table, where the two women began a low, whispered conversation. Garden's inquiring glance moved from one to another of the party.

    "Is that the only bet I'm to give Hannix?" he asked impatiently. "I'm warning you not to wait too long."

    "Put me down for Train Time," Hammle rumbled ponderously. "I've always liked that bay colt. He's a grand stretch runner—but I don't think he'll win today. Therefore, I'm playing him place and show. Make it a hundred each."

    "It's in the book," said Garden, nodding to him. "Who's next?"

    At this moment a young woman of unusual attractiveness appeared in the archway—and stood there hesitantly, looking shyly at Garden. She wore a nurse's uniform of immaculate white, with white shoes and stockings, and a starched white cap set at a grotesque angle on the back of her head. She could not have been over thirty; yet there was a maturity in her calm, brown eyes, and evidence of great capability in the reserve of her expression and in the firm contour of her chin. She wore no make-up, and her chestnut hair was parted in the middle and brushed back simply over her ears. She presented a striking contrast to the two other women in the room.

    "Hello, Miss Beeton," Garden greeted her pleasantly. "I thought you'd be having the afternoon off, since the mater's well enough to go shopping...What can I do for you? Care to join the madhouse and hear the races?"

    "Oh, no. I've too many things to do." She moved her head slightly to indicate the rear of the house. "But if you don't mind, Mr. Garden," she added timidly, "I would like to bet two dollars on Azure Star to win, and to come in second, and to come in third."

    Every one smiled covertly, and Garden chuckled. "For Heaven's sake, Miss Beeton," he chided her, "whatever put Azure Star in your mind?"

    "Oh, nothing, really," she answered with a diffident smile. "But I was reading about the race in the paper this morning, and I thought that Azure Star was such a beautiful name. It—it appealed to me."

    "Well, that's one way of picking 'em." Garden smiled indulgently. "Probably as good as any other. But I think you'd be better off if you forgot the beautiful name. The horse hasn't a chance. And besides, my book-maker doesn't take any bet less than five dollars."

    Vance, who had been watching the girl with more interest than he usually showed in a woman, leaned forward.

    "I say, Garden, just a moment." He spoke incisively. "I think Miss Beeton's choice is an excellent one—however she may have arrived at it." Then he nodded to the nurse. "Miss Beeton, I'll be very happy to see that your bet on Azure Star is placed." He turned again to Garden. "Will your book-maker take two hundred dollars across the board on Azure Star?"

    "Will he? He'll grab it with both hands," Garden replied. "But why—?"

    "Then it's settled," said Vance quickly. "That's my bet. And two dollars of it in each position belongs to Miss Beeton."

    "That's perfect with me, Vance." And Garden jotted down the wager in his ledger.

    I noticed that during the brief moments that Vance was speaking to the nurse and placing his wager on Azure Star, Swift was glowering at him through half-closed eyes. It was not until later that I understood the significance of that look.

    The nurse cast a quick glance at Swift, and then spoke with simple directness.

    "You are very kind, Mr. Vance." Then she added: "I will not pretend I don't know who you are, even if Mr. Garden had not called you by name." She stood looking straight at Vance with calm appraisal; then she turned and went back down the hall.

    "Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Zalia Graem in exaggerated rapture. "The birth of Romance! Two hearts with but a single horse. How positively stunning!"

    "Never mind the jealous persiflage," Garden rebuked the girl impatiently. "Choose your horse, and say how much."

    "Oh, well, I can be practical, if subpoenaed," the girl returned. "I'm taking Roving Flirt to win...let's see—say, two hundred. And there goes my new spring suit!...And I might as well lose my sport coat too; so put another two hundred on him a place...And now I think I'll have a bit of liquid sustenance." And she went to the bar.

    "How about you, Madge?" Garden asked, turning to Miss Weatherby. "Are you in on this classic?"

    "Yes, I'm in on it," the woman answered with affected concern. "I want Sublimate, fifty across."

    "Any more customers?" Garden asked, entering the bet. "I myself, if any one is interested, am pinning my youthful hopes on Risky Lad—one, two, and three hundred." He looked across the room apprehensively to his cousin. "What about you, Woody?"

    Swift sat hunched in his chair, studying the card before him and smoking vigorously.

    "Give Hannix the bets you've got," he said without raising his head. "Don't worry about me—I won't miss the race. It's only four o'clock."

    Garden looked at him a moment and scowled.

    "Why not get it off your chest now?" As there was no response, he drew the gray telephone toward him and dialed a number. A moment later he was relaying to the book-maker the various bets entered in his ledger.

    Swift stood up and walked to the cabinet with its array of bottles. He filled a whiskey glass with Bourbon and drank it down. Then he walked slowly to the table where his cousin sat. Garden had just finished the call to Hannix.

    "I'll give you my bet now, Floyd," Swift said hoarsely. He pressed one finger on the table, as if for emphasis. "I want ten thousand dollars on Equanimity to win."

    Garden's eyes moved anxiously to the other.

    "I was afraid of that, Woody," he said in a troubled tone. "But if I were you—"

    "I'm not asking you for advice," Swift interrupted in a cold steady voice; "I'm asking you to place a bet."

    Garden did not take his eyes from the man's face. He said merely:

    "I think you're a damned fool."

    "Your opinion of me doesn't interest me either." Swift's eyelids drooped menacingly, and a hard look came into his set face. "All I'm interested in just now is whether you're going to place that bet. If not, say so; and I'll place it myself."

    Garden capitulated.

    "It's your funeral," he said, and turning his back on his cousin, he took up the gray hand set again and spun the dial with determination.

    Swift walked back to the bar and poured himself another generous drink of Bourbon.

    "Hello, Hannix," Garden said into the transmitter. "I'm back again, with an additional bet. Hold on to your chair or you'll lose your balance. I want ten grand on Equanimity to win...Yes, that's what I said: ten G-strings—ten thousand iron men. Can you handle it? Odds probably won't be over two to one...Right-o."

    He replaced the receiver and tilted back in his chair just as Swift, headed for the hall, was passing him.

    "And now, I suppose," Garden remarked, without any indication of raillery, "you're going upstairs so you can be alone when the tidings come through."

    "If it won't break your heart—yes." There was a resentful note in Swift's words. "And I'd appreciate it if I was not disturbed." His eyes swept a little threateningly over the others in the room, all of whom were watching him with serious intentness. Slowly he turned and went toward the archway.

    Garden, apparently deeply perturbed, kept his eyes on the retreating figure. Then, as if on sudden impulse, he stood up quickly and called out: "Just a minute, Woody. I want to say a word to you." And he stepped after him.

    I saw Garden put his arm around Swift's shoulder as the two disappeared down the hall.

    Garden was gone from the room for perhaps five minutes, and in his absence very little was said, aside from a few constrained conventional remarks. A tension seemed to have taken possession of every one present: there was a general feeling that some unexpected tragedy was impending—or, at least, that some momentous human factor was in the balance. We all knew that Swift could not afford his extravagant bet— that, in fact, it probably represented all he had. And we knew, too, or certainly suspected, that a serious issue depended upon the outcome of his wager. There was no gaiety now, none of the former light-hearted atmosphere. The mood of the gathering had suddenly changed to one of sombre misgiving.

    When Garden returned to the room his face was a trifle pale, and his eyes were downcast. As he approached our table he shook his head dejectedly.

    "I tried to argue with him," he remarked to Vance. "But it was no use; he wouldn't listen to reason. He turned nasty...Poor devil! If Equanimity doesn't come in he's done for." He looked directly at Vance. "I wonder if I did the right thing in placing that bet for him. But, after all, he's of age."

    Vance nodded in agreement.

    "Yes, quite," he murmured dryly, "—as you say. Really, y' know, you had no alternative."

    Garden took a deep breath and, sitting down at his own table, picked up the black receiver and held it to his ear.

    A bell rang somewhere in the apartment, and a few moments later Sneed appeared in the archway.

    "Pardon me, sir," he said to Garden, "but Miss Graem is wanted on the other telephone."

    Zalia Graem stood up quickly and raised one hand to her forehead in a gesture of dismay.

    "Who on earth or in the waters under the earth can that be?" Her face cleared. "Oh, I know." Then she stepped up to Sneed. "I'll take the call in the den." And she hurried from the room.

    Garden had paid little attention to this interruption: he was almost oblivious to everything but his telephone, waiting for the time to switch on the amplifier. A few moments later he turned in his chair and announced:

    "They're coming out at Rivermont. Say your prayers, children...Oh, I say, Zalia," he called out in a loud voice, "tell the fascinating gentleman on the phone to call you back later. The big race is about to start."

    There was no response, although the den was but a few steps down the hall.

    Vance rose and, crossing the room, looked down the hallway, but returned immediately to his table.

    "Thought I'd inform the lady," he murmured, "but the den door is closed."

    "She'll probably be out—she knows what time it is," commented Garden casually, reaching forward to throw on the amplifier.

    "Floyd darling," spoke up Miss Weatherby, "why not get this race on the radio? It's being broadcast by WXZ. Don't you think it'll be more exciting that way? Gil McElroy is announcing it."

    "Bully suggestion," seconded Hammle. He turned to the radio, which was just behind him, and tuned in.

    "Can Woody still get it upstairs?" Miss Weatherby asked Garden.

    "Oh, sure," he answered. "This key on the amplifier doesn't interfere with any of the extension phones."

    As the radio tubes warmed up, McElroy's well-known voice gained in volume over the loud speaker:

    "...and Equanimity is now making trouble at the post. Took the cue from Head Start...Now they're both back in their stalls—it looks as if we might get a—Yes! They're off! And to a good even start. Hyjinx has dashed into the lead; Azure Star comes next; and Heat Lightning is close behind. The others are bunched. I can't tell one from the other yet. Wait a second. Here they come past us—we're up on the roof of the grandstand here, looking right down on them—and it's Hyjinx on top now, by two lengths; and behind her is Train Time; and—yes, it's Sublimate, by a head, or a nose, or a neck—it doesn't matter—it's Sublimate anyway. And there's Risky Lad creeping up on Sublimate...And now they're going round the first turn, with Hyjinx still in the lead. The relative positions of the ones out front haven't changed yet...They're in the backstretch, and Hyjinx is still ahead by half a length; Train Time has moved up and holds his second position by a length and a half ahead of Roving Flirt, who's in third place. Azure Star is a length behind Roving Flirt. Equanimity is pocketed, but he's coming around on the outside now; he's far behind but gaining; and just behind him is Grand Score, making a desperate effort to get in the clear..."

    At this point in the broadcast Zalia Graem appeared suddenly in the archway and stood with her eyes fixed on the radio, her hands sunk in the pockets of her tailored jacket. She rocked a little back and forth, her head slightly to one side, wholly absorbed in the description of the race.

    "...They're rounding the far turn. Equanimity has improved his position and is getting into his famous stride. Hyjinx has dropped back and Roving Flirt has taken the lead by a head, with Train Time second, by a length, in front of Azure Star, who is running third and making a grand effort...And now they're in the stretch. Azure Star has come to the front and is a full length in the lead. Train Time is making a great bid for this classic and is still in second place, a length behind Azure Star. Roving Flirt is right behind him. Hyjinx has dropped back and it looks as if she was no longer a serious contender. Equanimity is pressing hard and is now in sixth place. He hasn't much time, but he's running a beautiful race and may come up front yet. Grand Score is falling by the wayside. Sublimate is far out in front of both of them but is not gaining. And I guess the rest are out of the running...And here they come to the finish. The leaders are straight out—there won't be much change. Just a second. Here they come...AND...the winner is AZURE STAR by two lengths. Next is Roving Flirt. And a length behind him is Train Time. Upper Shelf finished fourth...Wait a minute. Here come the numbers on the board—Yes, I was right. It's 3, 4, and 2. Azure Star wins the great Rivermont Handicap. Second is Roving Flirt. And third is Train Time..."

    Hammle swung round in his chair and shut off the radio.

    "Well," he said, releasing a long-held breath, "I was partly right, at that."

    "Not such a hot race," Miss Graem remarked with a toss of her head. "I'll just about break even. Anyway, I won't have to join a nudist colony this spring...Now I'll go and finish my phone call." And she turned back down the hall.

    Garden seemed ill at ease and, for the second time that afternoon, mixed himself a highball.

    "Equanimity wasn't even in the money," he commented, as if to himself..." But the results aren't official yet. Don't let your hopes rise too high—and don't despair. The winners won't be official for a couple of minutes—and there's no telling what may happen. Remember the final race on the get-away day of the Saratoga meet, when all three placed horses were disqualified?..."[19]

    Just then Mrs. Garden bustled into the room, her hat, fox scarf, and gloves still on, and two small packages tucked under her arm.

    "Don't tell me I'm too late!" she pleaded excitedly. "The traffic was abominable—three-quarters of an hour from 50th Street and Fifth Avenue...Is the big race over?"

    "All over but the O.K., mater," Garden informed her.

    "And what did I do?" The woman came forward and dropped wearily into an empty chair.

    "The usual," grinned Garden. "A Grand Score? Your noble steed didn't score at all. Condolences. But it's not official yet. We'll be getting the O.K. in a minute now."

    "Oh, dear!" sighed Mrs. Garden despondently. "The only foul claimed in a race I bet on is against my horse when he wins—and it's always allowed. Nothing can save me now. And I've just spent an outrageous sum on a Brussels lace luncheon set."

    Garden cut in the amplifier. There were several moments of silence, and then:

    "It's official at Rivermont. O.K. at Rivermont. Off at 4:16. The winner is number 3, Azure Star. Number 4, Roving Flirt, second; and number 2, Train Time, third. That's 3, 4, and 2—Azure Star, Roving Flirt, and Train Time. The running 2:02 and one-fifth—a new track record. And the mats: Azure Star paid $26.80, $9.00 and $6.60. Roving Flirt, $5.20 and $4.60. Train Time, $8.40...Next post at 4:40..."

    "Well, there it is," said Garden glumly, throwing back the switch and making rapid notations in his ledger. "Sneed, our admirable Crichton, makes six and a half dollars. The absent Mr. Kroon loses five hundred, and the present Miss Weatherby loses one hundred and fifty. Our old fox hunter is ahead just two hundred and twenty dollars, with part of which he can buy me a good dinner tomorrow. And you, mater, lose your two hundred dollars—very sad. I myself was robbed of six hundred berries. Zalia—who gets her sizzling tips from the friend of a friend of a distant relative of the morganatic wife of a double-bug rider—is one hundred and twenty dollars to the good—enough to get shoes and a hat and a handbag to match her new spring outfit. And Mr. Vance, the eminent dopester of crimes and ponies, can now take a luxurious vacation. He's the possessor of thirty-six hundred and forty dollars— of which thirty-six dollars and forty cents goes to our dear nurse. ...And Woode, of course..." His voice trailed off.

    "What did Woody do?" demanded Mrs. Garden, sitting up stiffly in her chair.

    "I'm frightfully sorry, mater,"—her son groped for words—"but Woody didn't use his head. I tried to dissuade him, but it was no go..."

    "Well, what did Woody do?" persisted Mrs. Garden. "Did he lose much?"

    Garden hesitated, and before he could formulate an answer, a paralyzing sound, like a pistol shot, broke the tense silence.

    Vance was the first on his feet. His face was grim as he moved rapidly toward the archway. I followed him, and just behind came Garden. As I turned into the hallway I saw the others in the drawing-room get up and move forward. Had the report not been preceded by so electric an atmosphere, I doubt if it would have caused any particular perturbation; but, in the circumstances, every one, I think, had the same thought in mind when the detonation of the shot was heard.

    As we hurried down the hall Zalia Graem opened the den door.

    "What was that?" she asked, her frightened eyes staring at us.

    "We don't know yet," Vance told her.

    In the bedroom door, at the lower end of the hall, stood the nurse, with a look of inquiring concern on her otherwise placid face.

    "You'd better come along, Miss Beeton," Vance said, as he started up the stairs two at a time. "You may be needed."

    Vance swung into the upper corridor and stopped momentarily at the door on the right, which led out upon the roof. This door was still propped open, and after a hasty preliminary survey through it, he stepped quickly out into the garden.

    The sight that met our eyes was not wholly unexpected. There, in the low chair which he had pointed out to us earlier that afternoon, sat Woode Swift, slumped down, with his head thrown back at an unnatural angle against the rattan head-rest, and his legs straight out before him. He still wore the earphone. His eyes were open and staring; his lips were slightly parted; and his thick glasses were tilted forward on his nose.

    In his right temple was a small ugly hole beneath which two or three drops of already coagulating blood had formed. His right arm hung limp over the side of the chair, and on the colored tiling just under his hand lay a small pearl-handled revolver.

    Vance immediately approached the motionless figure, and the rest of us crowded about him. Zalia Graem, who had forced her way forward and was now standing beside Vance, swayed suddenly and caught at his arm. Her face had gone pale, and her eyes appeared glazed. Vance turned quickly and, putting his arm about her, half led and half carried her to a large wicker divan nearby. He made a beckoning motion of his head to Miss Beeton.

    "Look after her for a moment," he requested. "And keep her head down." Then he returned to Swift. "Every one please keep back," he ordered. "No one is to touch him."

    He took out his monocle and adjusted it carefully. Then he leaned over the crumpled figure in the chair. He cautiously scrutinized the wound, the top of the head, and the tilted glasses. When this examination was over he knelt down on the tiling and seemed to be searching for something. Apparently he did not find what he sought, for he stood up with a discouraged frown and faced the others.

    "Dead," he announced, in an unwontedly sombre tone. "I'm taking charge of things temporarily."

    Zalia Graem had risen from the divan, and the nurse was supporting her with a show of tenderness. The dazed girl was apparently oblivious to this attention and stood with her eyes fixed on the dead man. Vance stepped toward her so that he shut out the sight that seemed to hold her in fascinated horror.

    "Please, Miss Beeton," he said, "take the young lady downstairs immediately." Then he added, "I'm sure she'll be all right in a few minutes."

    The nurse nodded, put her arm firmly about Miss Graem, and led her into the passageway.

    Vance waited until the two young women were gone: then he turned to the others.

    "You will all be so good as to go downstairs and remain there until further orders."

    "But what are you going to do, Mr. Vance?" asked Mrs. Garden in a frightened tone. She stood rigidly against the wall, with half-closed eyes fixed in morbid fascination on the still body of her nephew. "We must keep this thing as quiet as possible...My poor Woody!"

    "I'm afraid, madam, we shall not be able to keep it quiet at all." Vance spoke with earnest significance. "My first duty will be to telephone the District Attorney and the Homicide Bureau."

    Mrs. Garden gasped, and her eyes opened wide in apprehension.

    "The District Attorney? The Homicide Bureau?" she repeated distractedly. "Oh, no!...Why must you do that? Surely, any one can see that the poor boy took his own life."

    Vance shook his head slowly and looked squarely at the distressed woman.

    "I regret, madam," he said, "that this is not a case of suicide. ...It's murder!"