She broke off suddenly and turned to the silent Garrison. “Did you go much to the track up North?” She was looking straight at him.
“I--I--that is--why, yes, of course,” he murmured vaguely. “May I see it?”
He took the book from her unwilling hand. A full-page photograph of Sis was confronting him. He studied it long and carefully, passing a troubled hand nervously over his forehead.
“I--I think I've seen her,” he said, at length, looking up vacantly. “Somehow, she seems familiar.”
Again he fell to studying the graceful lines of the thoroughbred, oblivious of his audience.
“She is a Southern horse,” commented Mrs. Calvert. “Rather she was. Of course you-all heard of her poisoning? It never said whether she recovered. Do you know?”
Garrison glanced up quickly, and met Sue Desha's unwavering stare.
“Why, I believe I did hear that she was poisoned, or something to that effect, now that you mention it.” His eyes were still vacant.
“You look as if you had seen a ghost,” laughed Sue, her eyes on the magnolia-tree.
He laughed somewhat nervously. “I--I've been thinking.”
“Is the major going in for the Carter this year?” asked the girl, turning to Mrs. Calvert. “Who will he run--Dixie?”
“I think so. She is the logical choice.” Mrs. Calvert was nervously prodding the gravel with her sunshade. “Sometimes I wish he would give up all ideas of it.”
“I think father is responsible for that. Since Rogue won the last Carter, father is horse-mad, and has infected all his neighbors.”
“Then it will be friend against friend,” laughed Mrs. Calvert. “For, of course, the colonel will run Rogue again this year--”
“I--I don't think so.” The girl's face was sober. “That is,” she added hastily, “I don't know. Father is still in New York. I think his initial success has spoiled him. Really, he is nothing more than a big child.” She laughed affectedly. Mrs. Calvert's quiet, keen eyes were on her.
“Racing can be carried to excess, like everything,” said the older woman, at length. “I suppose the colonel will bring home with him this Mr. Waterbury you were speaking of?”
The girl nodded. There was silence, each member of the trio evidently engrossed with thoughts that were of moment.
Mrs. Calvert was idly thumbing over the race-track annual. “Here is a page torn out,” she observed absently. “I wonder what it was? A thing like that always piques my curiosity. I suppose the major wanted it for reference. But then he hasn't seen the book yet. I wonder who wanted it? Let me--yes, it's ended here. Oh, it must have been the photograph and record of that jockey, Billy Garrison! Remember him? What a brilliant career he had! One never hears of him nowadays. I wonder what became of him?”