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"No doubt," Harry Luttrell returned. "But I am no longer sure that I am going to post it." The letter to his friend at the War Office contained an earnest prayer that a peremptory telegram should be sent to him at Rackham Park, at an early hour on the next morning, commanding his return to London. He looked up at Joan. "You despise racing, don't you?" "I am going to Gatwick to-morrow."
She was standing upon the lawn at Gatwick with her face towards the line of bookmakers upon the far side of the railings. These men were shouting at the full frenzy of their voices, in spite of the heat and the dust. The ring was crowded, and even the enclosure more than usually full. "But you won't get any price," Harold Jupp continued, and he waved an indignant arm towards the bookmakers.
Luttrell had written to Lady Splay to say that he would try to motor to Gatwick in time for the last races; and that he would look out for Jupp and Dennis Brown, whom he had already met earlier in the week at a dinner party given by Martin Hillyard. "There's no sign of him," Harold Jupp answered. There were two more races, but the party from Rackham Park did not wait for them.
I can't say I see anything sinister in it myself." "Neether can I, sir. In fact I said as much. 'Come, Gatwick, I said, 'what's to do here? What's the reason of your prejudice for I can call it no more than that? But, no! no explanation was forthcoming. And I was merely reduced, as I am now, to a shrug of the shoulders, and a cui bono.
Thus the very spirit of summer seemed to inform the gathering. Saturday brought up no clouds to darken the clear sky. Harold Jupp and Dennis Brown actually scored four nice wins at Gatwick on horses which, to celebrate the week, miraculously ran to form.
"But I took a thousand to ten about Fo'-Pound-the-Second at Gatwick on Saraday. Told Mar, too. And she never said No. Look to me like a sign like." He blinked up at the young man. "You ain't clean'd out, sir, are you not mopped up with the sponge?" he asked anxiously. "There'll be a few thousands left when it's finished, I guess," replied the other. The old man lifted on his stockinged toes.
The second letter had been sent from Rackham Park, and in it Millie Splay wrote: "We have not heard from you for years. Will you be in England this August? We are trying to gather again our old Goodwood party. Both Dennis Brown and Harold Jupp will be home on leave. There will be no Goodwood of course, but there is a meeting at Gatwick which is easily reached from here.
During the racing season Baxendale generally managed to avoid golf and go down to Sandown or Kempton or Gatwick instead; he said he got just as much air and exercise there, and there was always a chance of paying your expenses. Sometimes he succeeded, as he was very careful; but whenever he failed he would say he'd chuck it up altogether, the game wasn't worth the candle.
It's Gatwick today. Dash! I might have saved you a journey." "Oh, it doesn't matter. In my business there is no call for hurry." Elkin looked around. "Where's our friend, the 'tec?" he said. "I think you're wrong about 'im, meanin' Mr. Peters," said Tomlin. "'E's 'ere for a noospaper, not for the Yard." "That's his blarney," smirked Elkin.
Yes, they would turn to her! She looked desperately towards the great staircase with its broad, shallow steps which ran up round two sides of the hall. Millie Splay was actually beginning to turn to her, when Dennis Brown came unconsciously to her rescue. "We looked out for you at Gatwick," he said. "I only just reached the race course in time for the last race," said Harry Luttrell.
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