The Mystery at Saratoga

“Did the rumors and the argument you overheard make you suspicious of Mr. Worthington or Mr. Stinson?”
    “Both,” Regan replied. “The facts against Stinson are that he’d never really had a great horse to work with before, and he believed 1 very much in Gadfly. So he could have drugged the horse, knowing that the finding of the drugs in the horse’s system would disqualify any claim. He wouldn’t have figured, of course, that the six-month suspension would completely ruin the horse’s spirit and bring his racing career to an early end.
    “My reasons for suspecting Worthington are a little more complicated, because he’s a more complex man. One thing that’s occurred to me is that his finances could have taken a turn for the better right before the race, so he’d have been able to take the risk of keeping Gadfly for a while to see if the knee did respond to treatment.”
    “But then couldn’t he have just withdrawn the horse from the race?” Honey asked.
    “He could have,” Regan said. “But you have to remember that Mr. Worthington is a very rich and powerful man. He’s used to giving orders, not taking them. And he knows that Carl Stinson is the backbone of Worthington Farms. If he did decide that he didn’t want Gadfly claimed, he could have drugged the horse to break the trainer’s spirit.”
    “Huh?” Trixie asked, totally confused. “According to racing regulations, the trainer of a horse that is drugged is automatically considered responsible, and he’s suspended from the track pending an investigation. By drugging Gadfly, Worthington would get revenge on Stinson for arguing with him, and at the same time he’d make it financially impossible for Carl to leave, since the six-month suspension from racing would also mean a six-month loss in his commissions from the horses’ earnings.”
    “Whew!” Trixie exclaimed for the third time.
    Regan chuckled wryly. “I told you the reasons for my suspicions are complicated. I think you can see why I wasn’t too eager to hang around and try to explain my theories to the racing commission. It would have been the jumbled theories of a seventeen-year-old groom against the reputations of a wealthy horse owner and an established, respected trainer.
    “It was natural for them to suspect me, in a way. I was young, I came to work for Worthington and Stinson out of nowhere, and I was the only person aside from them who had access to Gadfly right before the race. I knew I was innocent, but I also knew it would be hard to prove. And the only two people in the world who could have an interest in defending me against the charges were the same two people that I myself suspected of the crime.” Regan was silent for a moment. He swirled the last of his coffee in the bottom of the cup, staring at the circling liquid. He set the cup down on the table with a bang, then concluded, “So I ran.”
    “But you came back,” Trixie said softly.
    Regan nodded. “When I heard that Worthington was coming to the Manor House, the whole thing came flooding back over me—all the fear and confusion I’d felt seven years ago. But then I stopped and thought about it, and I realized that I’m not a scared, confused kid anymore. I’m a man, with friends and responsibilities. For their sake, and for mine, I knew I couldn’t live with the suspicions anymore. So I came back to clear my name.”
    “Have you found any evidence yet to help you do that?” Trixie asked eagerly.
    “No,” Regan said shortly. “This red head of mine makes me pretty recognizable. I haven’t been able to do as much snooping as I’d like because I’m afraid someone I knew seven years ago might spot me and turn me in. Then I’d be right back where I started.
    “About the only thing of interest I’ve turned up might turn out to be a coincidence. Seven years ago, there was a tough-looking fellow hanging around the Worthington stables. I never knew his name or figured out what his connection with Worthington was, if there was one. But I got the feeling that he was up to no good. And yesterday when I went to the track, I spotted him again.”
    “Are you sure it was the same man?” Honey asked. “Seven years is a long time, after all.”
    “There’s no mistaking this guy,” Regan told her. “He has a long, ugly scar running down the side of his face.”
    “I saw him!” Trixie exclaimed. “I saw him yesterday at the track, too. Remember, Honey? The same cabdriver who told us about