
* A Project Gutenberg Canada Ebook *

This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few
restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make
a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different
display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of
the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please
check gutenberg.ca/links/licence.html before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be
under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada,
check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER
COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD
OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

Title: Educated Evans
Author: Wallace, Richard Horatio Edgar (1875-1932)
Author [introductory paragraph]: Anonymous
Date of first publication [novel]: 1924
Date of first publication [introductory paragraph]:
   1929 or earlier, but not earlier than 1924
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Collins, 1929
Date first posted: 25 September 2014
Date last updated: 25 September 2014
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1204

This ebook was produced by Al Haines


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.






The Master of Mystery has become the Master of Mirth!  In _Educated
Evans_ Edgar Wallace has forsaken the Realm of Crime for the Kingdom of
Mirth!  His story of Evans, the little cockney tipster, is full of
amusing incidents of love and adventure set amidst the bustle and
excitement of the racecourse.  Edgar Wallace provides a thrill of
another sort!




  _Also by Edgar Wallace_

  THE LONE HOUSE MYSTERY
  THE GOLDEN HADES
  MORE EDUCATED EVANS




  EDUCATED EVANS

  _by_

  EDGAR WALLACE

  Author of "The Lone House Mystery,"
  "The Golden Hades," etc.



  LONDON 48 PALL MALL
  W. COLLINS SONS & CO LTD
  GLASGOW SYDNEY AUCKLAND




  Re-Issue
  Copyright, 1929.



  _Printed in Great Britain._




  CONTENTS


  EPISODE I.  THE BROTHERHOOD
     "    II.  MR. HOMASTER'S DAUGHTER
     "    III.  THE COOP
     "    IV.  THE SNOUT
     "    V.  MR. KIRZ BUYS A 5 SPECIAL
     "    VI.  MICKY THE SHOPPER
     "    VII.  THE DREAMER
     "    VIII.  THE GIFT HORSE
     "    IX.  STRAIGHT FROM THE HORSE'S MOUTH
     "    X.  THE GOODS
     "    XI.  THE PERFECT LADY
     "    XII.  THE PROUD HORSE
     "    XIII.  THROUGH THE CARD




I

THE BROTHERHOOD

Inspector Pine was something more than an Inspector of Police.  He was
what is known in certain circles as a Christian man.  He was a lay
preacher, a temperance orator, a social reformer.  And if any man had
worked hard to bring Educated Evans to a sense of his errors, that man
was Inspector Pine.  He had wrestled with the devil in Mr. Evans'
spiritual make-up, he had prayed for Mr. Evans, and once, when things
were going very badly, he had induced Mr. Evans to attend what was
described as "a meeting of song and praise."

Educated Evans respected the sincerity of one whom he regarded as his
natural enemy, but discovering, as he did, that a "meeting of praise
and song" brought him no financial advancement, he declined any further
invitations and devoted his energies and excursions to picking up
information about a certain horse that was running in a steeplechase at
Kempton Park on Boxing Day.

Nevertheless, Inspector Pine did not despair.  He believed in restoring
a man's self-respect and in re-establishing his confidence; but here he
might have saved himself a lot of trouble, for the self-respect of
Educated Evans was enormous, and he was never so confident as when,
after joining in a hymn, two lines of which ran:

  The powers of darkness put to flight,
  The day's dawn triumphs over night,

he accepted the omen and sent out to all his punters "Daydawn--inspired
information--help yourself."  For, amongst other occupations, Educated
Evans was a tipster, and had a clientle that included many publicans
and the personnel of the Midland Railway Goods Yard.

One day in April, Educated Evans leant moodily over the broad parapet
and examined the river with a vague interest.  His melancholy face wore
an expression of pain and disappointment, his under-lip was out-thrust
in a pout, his round eyes stared with a certain urgent agony, as though
he had given them the last chance of seeing what he wanted to see, and
if they failed him now they would never again serve him.

So intent was he that one who, although a worker in another and, to
Evans, a hateful sphere, bore many affectionate nicknames, was able to
come alongside of him and share his contemplation without the sad man
observing the fact.

Fussing little tugs, lethargic strings of barges, a police-boat slick
and fast--all these came under the purview of Educated Evans, but
apparently he saw nothing of what he wanted to see, and drew back with
an impatient sigh.

Then it was that he saw his companion and realised that here, on the
drab Embankment, was one whom he had imagined to be many miles away.

The new-comer was a tall man of thirty, broad-shouldered, power in
every line of him.  He was dressed in black, and a broad-rimmed felt
hat was pulled over his eyes.  He was chewing a straw, and even if Mr.
Evans had failed to identify him by another means, he would have known
"The Miller"--whose other name was William Arbuthnot Challoner--by this
sign.

"Why, 'Miller,' I thought you was dead!  And here was I speculatin'
upon the one hundred and ninety million cubic yards of water that
passes under that bridge every day, and meditatin' upon the remarkable
changes that have happened since dear old Christopher Columbus sailed
from that very pier, him and the Pilgrim Fathers that discovered
America in Fifteen Seven Nine----"

"The Miller" listened and yet did not listen.  The straw twirled
between his strong teeth; his long, saturnine face was turned to the
river; his thoughts were far away.

"A lovely scene," said Mr. Evans ecstatically, indicating the smoky
skyline; "the same as dear old Turner used to paint, and Fluter----"

"Whistler," said his companion absently.

"Whistler, of course--dear me, where's my education!"  Mr. Evans rolled
his head in self-impatience.  "Whistler.  What a artist.  'Miller'--if
you'll excuse the familiarity.  I'll call you Challoner if you're in
any way offended.  What--a--artist!  There is a bit of painting of his
in the National Gall'ry.  And another one in the--the Praydo in Madrid.
Art's a perfect weakness with me--always has been since a boy.  Do you
know Sergeant?  Great American painter.  One of the greatest artists in
the world.  An' do you know the celebrated French artist, Carrot?"

"Do you know," began "The Miller," speaking deliberately, and looking
at the river all the time, "do you know where you were between 7.30
p.m. and 9.15 p.m. on the night of the eighth of this month?"

"I do," said Educated Evans promptly.

"Does anybody else know--anybody whose word would be accepted by a
police magistrate gifted with imagination and a profound distrust of
the criminal classes?"

"My friend, Mr. Harry Sefferal," began Evans, and "The Miller" laughed
hollowly and with an appearance of pain.

"You have only to put your friend in the witness-box," he said, "you
have only to let the magistrate see his sinister countenance to be
instantly remitted to Dartmoor for the remainder of your life.  Harry
Sefferal could only save you from imprisonment if you happened to be
charged with murder.  Reading his evidence, the hangman would pack his
bag without waiting for the verdict.  Harry Sefferal!"

Mr. Evans shrugged.

"On the evening in question it so happened that I was playing a quiet
game of solo in the company of a well-known and respected tradesman,
Mr. Julius Levy----"

"You're a dead man!" groaned "Miller." "Julius Levy is the man who put
the "u" into 'guilty.'  Know Karbolt Manor?"

Mr. Evans considered.

"I can't say that I do," he said at last.

"Near Sevenoaks--the big house that Binny Lester burgled five years ago
and got away with it."

Educated Evans nodded.

"Now that you mention the baronial 'all, 'Miller,' it flashes across my
mind--like a dream, as it were, or a memory of happier days."

"Is there a ladder in your dream?  A ladder put up to Lady Cadrington's
bedroom window when the family was at dinner?  Dream carefully, Evans."

Mr. Evans wrinkled a forehead usually smooth and unlined.

"No," he said; "I know the place, but I haven't been near there.  I can
take the most sacred oath----"

"Don't," begged "The Miller".  "I would rather have your word of
honour.  It means more."

"On my word of honour as a gentleman," said Evans solemnly, "I have not
been to, frequented, been in the vicinity of, or otherwise approached
this here manor.  And if I am not telling the truth may Heaven smite me
to the earth this very minute!

He struck an attitude, and "The Miller," waited, looking up at the
skies.

"Heaven didn't hear you," he said, and took the arm of Evans.  "Pine
wants to see you."

Educated Evans shrugged his resignation.

"You are taking an innocent man," he said with dignity.  "The Miller"
bore the blow gravely.

"The Miller" was always "The Miller" to a certain class.  He was taxed
in the style and title of Detective-Sergeant W. Arbuthnot Challoner,
Criminal Investigation Department.  He was an authority upon ladder
larceny, safe-blowing, murder, gangery, artfulness and horses.  Round
Camden Town, where many of his most ardent admirers had their
dwelling-places, he was called "The Miller" because of this queer
straw-nibbling practice of his.

He was respected; he was not liked, not even by Educated Evans, that
large-minded and tolerant man.  Evans was both liked and respected.  In
North London, as distinct from South London, erudition has a value.
Men less favoured look up to those proficient in the gentle art of
learning.  Educated Evans was one of whom the most violent and the
least amiable spoke with respect.

Apart from his erudition (he had written more speeches for the defence
than any other amateur lawyer), he was undoubtedly in the confidence of
owners, trainers, jockeys and head lads.  He admitted it.  He was the
man who gave Braxted for the Steward's Cup and Eton Boy for the Royal
Hunt Cup.  There are men holding affluent positions in Camden Town who
might trace their prosperity to the advice of Educated Evans.  It was
said, by the jealous and the evil-minded, that St. Pancras Workhouse
has never been so full as it was after that educated man had had a bad
season.

"It was a matter for regret to me," said Evans as he shuffled along by
his captor's side, "that the law, invented by Moses and Lord
What's-his-name, should be employed to crush, so to speak, the weak.
And on the eve, as it were, of the Newbury Spring Handicap, when I
_did_ hope to pack a parcel over Solway."

"The Miller" stopped and surveyed his prisoner with curiosity and
disapproval.

"Solway," he said deliberately, "is not on the map.  St. Albyn could
give Solway two stone and lose him!"

The lip of Educated Evans curled in a sneer.

"Solway could fall dead and get up and _then_ win," he said
extravagantly.  "St Albyn ain't a horse, he's a hair trunk.  The man
who backs St. Albyn----"

"I've backed St. Albyn," said "The Miller" coldly.  "I've had it from
the owner's cousin, who is Lord Herprest, that, barring accidents, St.
Albyn is a stone certainty."

Educated Evans laughed; it was the laugh of a man who watches his enemy
perish.

"And they _hung_ poor old Crippen!" he said.

There was this bond of sympathy between "The Miller" and his lawful
prey--that they were passionate devotees of the sport of kings.  When
"The Miller" was not engaged in the pursuit of social pests (among whom
he awarded Educated Evans very nearly top weight) he was as earnestly
pursuing his studies into the vagarious running of the thoroughbred
racehorse.

"What about Blue Chuck?" he asked.  "There's been a sort of tip about
for him."

Evans pulled at his long nose.

"That's one that might do it," he admitted.  "Canfyn's told his pals
that it won't be ready till Goodwood, but that feller would shop his
own doctor.  I wouldn't believe Canfyn if he was standin' on the
scaffold and took an oath on Foxe's _Book of Martyrs_."

Passers-by, seeing them, the shabby man in the long and untidy coat and
the tall man in black, would never have dreamt that they were
overlooking a respected officer of Scotland Yard and his proper prey.

"What makes you think that St. Albyn hasn't a chance, Evans?" asked
"The Miller" anxiously.

"Because he ain't trying," said Evans with emphasis.  "I've got it
straight from the boy who does him.  He's not having a go till Ascot,
an' they think they can get him in the Hunt Cup with seven-five."

"The Miller" blew heavily.  That very morning Teddie Isaacheim, a
street bookmaker who possessed great wealth and singular immunity from
police interference, had laid him fifty pounds to five and a half
(ready) about this same St. Albyn.  And five and a half pounds was a
lot of money to lose.

"If you'd asked me I'd have told you," said Educated Evans gently.  "If
you'd come to me as man to man an' as a sportsman to a sportsman,
instead of all this ridiculous an' childish nonsense about me actin' in
a thievous and illegal manner, I'd have give you the strength of St.
Albyn.  _And_ I'd have put you on to the winner of the one o'clock race
to-morrow--saved specially ... not a yard at Kempton .... not busy at
Birmingham--havin' a look on at Manchester, but _loose_ to-morrer!"

"What's that, Evans?"

"The Miller's" voice was mild, seductive, but Evans shook his head, and
they marched on.

"Never," said the educated man with great bitterness, "never since old
Cardinald Wolseley was pinched for giving lip to King Charles has a man
been more disgustin'ly arrested than me.  If I don't get ten thousand
out of the police for false imprisonment ... if I don't show up old
Pine for this----"

"Is it Clarok Lass, old man?" asked "Miller," as they came in sight of
the police station.

"No, it ain't Clarok Lass," said Evans savagely.  "And if you think
you're going to get my five pound special for a ha'porth of soft soap,
you've got another guess coming.  I'm finished with you, 'Miller,' I
am.  Didn't I give you King Solomon an' Flake at Ascot last year?
Didn't I run all over the town to put you on to that good thing of
Jordan's?"

"You've certainly done your best, Evans," agreed his captor soothingly,
"and if I can put in a word for you--what did you say was going to win
that one o'clock race?"

Educated Evans pressed his lips tightly, and a few seconds later "The
Miller" was his business-like self.

"Here is Evans, sir; he says he knows nothing of the Sevenoaks job, and
he can produce two witnesses to swear that he was in town at the time
of the robbery.  Maybe he can produce forty-two----"

Inspector Pine came in whilst Evans was being searched by the gaoler,
and shook his head grievously.

"Oh, Evans, Evans!" he sighed.  "And you promised me faithfully that
you'd never come again!"

Educated Evans sniffed.

"If you think I came here on my own, sir, you're wrong."

Again the white-haired inspector shook his head.

"There's good in every human heart," he said.  "I will not lose hope in
you, Evans.  What is the charge?"

"No charge, sir, detention.  We want him in connection with the
Sevenoaks affair, but there are a few alibis to be tested," said "The
Miller."

So they put Educated Evans into No. 7, which was his favourite cell,
and Evans wondered what horse in the Newbury Cup was numbered 7 on the
card.

That night certain heated words passed between the Honourable George
Canfyn and the usually amiable attendants at the Hippoleum Theatre.
George, who had dined, retaliated violently.

George Canfyn was a man of property and substance, an owner of
racehorses and a gentleman by law.  His father was Lord Llanwattock.
His other name was Snook, and he made candles in a very large way.  And
in addition to candles he made margarine, money and political friends.
They in turn made him a Baron of the United Kingdom.  The law made him
a gentleman.  God was not even consulted.

George was the type of man who liked money for money's sake.  Most
people tell you that money means nothing to them, only the things you
can buy with it.  George liked money plain.  He wanted all the money
there was, and it hurt him to see the extraordinary amount that had
failed to come his way.  He lived cheaply, he ate meanly, and he
changed his trainer every year.

If a horse of his failed to win when he had his packet down, he did
everything except complain to the Stewards.  He never had the same
jockey more than three times, because he believed that jockeys cut up
races and arranged the winner to suit their own pockets.  He believed
all trainers were incompetent, and all the jockeys who weren't riding
his horse to be engaged in a conspiracy to "take care" of it.

When he won (as he did very often) he told his friends before the race
that his horse just had a chance, and advised them not to bet heavily.
George hated to see the price come down, because he invariably had his
bets with the S.P. offices.  And when it won, he appeared surprised,
and told everybody how he nearly had a fiver on, but thinking the
matter over in a quiet place, he decided that, with the income tax what
it was, it was criminal to waste money.  And some people believed him.

George was in a fairly happy state of mind when he went out to the
Hippoleum, for that morning he had come up from Wiltshire after
witnessing the trial of Blue Chuck, his Newbury Cup horse.  Blue Chuck
had slammed the horses in the trial and had won on a tight rein by many
lengths.  And not a single writing person had tipped Blue Chuck.  It
was certain to start amongst the "100-6 others," and George was already
practising the appearance of amazement which he would display when he
faced his acquaintances.

In the cheerful contemplation of Wednesday Mr. Canfyn sallied forth,
his complacency fortified by three old brandies, which had cost him
nothing, a sample bottle having been sent to him by a misguided wine
merchant.  And then came the disaster.

Three policemen brought him into Hallam Street Station, and here the
matter might have been satisfactorily arranged if the third of the
three old brandies had not started to put in some fine work.

"I'll have your coats off your backs for this, you scoundrels!" he
screamed, as they searched bun scientifically.  "I'm the Honourable
George Canfyn, the son of Lord Llanwattock----"

"What's the charge?" asked the weary station-sergeant, who was not
unused to such scenes of agitation.

"Drunk and disorderly and assault," said the policeman who had brought
in this scion of nobility.

"I'm not drunk!" roared George.  "Don't take those things away from me,
they're my private papers!  And count that money--if there's a penny
missing, I'll have you kicked out of the police force----"

"Number 8," said the man on the desk, and they led George below.

"Oh, that a man should put an enemy into his mouth to steal away his
brains," murmured the inspector, standing in the open doorway of his
room.  "Drink is a terrible thing, sergeant!"

"Yes, sir," said the sergeant, and looked up at the clock.  It was
perilously near ten.

The inspector went back to his room with a sigh.  The big table was
covered with cards and addressed envelopes, and the inspector was an
elderly man and very tired.  He looked for a long time at the
accumulation of work that had to be finished before the midnight post
went out.

Inspector Pine was, amongst other things, Secretary of the Racecourse
Elevation Brotherhood for the Suppression of Gambling.  And the cards
were to announce a special meeting of the Brotherhood to consider next
year's programme.  And, as yet, not one of the thousand cards had been
stamped with the announcement that, owing to a regrettable prior
engagement, the Bishop of Chelsea would not be able to attend.

He was so contemplating the unfinished work when there was a tap at his
door and "The Miller" came in.

"A miracle has happened, sir," he said.  "I've found three decent
people who can swear that Evans was practically under their eyes when
the larceny was committed.  Mr. Isaacheim, the well-known and
highly-respected commission agent----"

"A bookmaker," murmured Inspector Pine, reproachfully.

"Still, he's a taxpayer and a rate-payer," said "The Miller" loyally.
"And though to me gambling is a form of criminal lunacy, we must take
his word.  And Mr. Corgan, of the 'Blue Hart'----"

"A publican," said old man Pine in distress.

"And a sinner.  But he's a well-known town councillor.  Can I tell the
gaoler to let Evans go?"

Inspector Pine nodded, and his eyes returned to the unfinished work.

"You don't know anybody who could help me to put these cards into
envelopes, I suppose, sergeant?"

It was an S.O.S.: an appeal directed to "The Miller" himself.

"No, sir," replied Miller promptly; and then, as a thought occurred to
him: "Why don't you ask Evans?  He's a man of education, and he'd be
glad to stop for a few hours."

Educated Evans had spent a sleepless five hours in a large and sanitary
cell, meditating alternately upon man's injustice to man and the
depleted state of his exchequer.  For his possessions consisted of
twelve-and-sixpence put by for a railway ticket to Newbury, and the
price of admission.  For purposes of investment he had not so much as a
tosser.  It was the beginning of the season, and his clientle had been
dissipated by the mistaken efforts on his part to carry on business
through the winter.  It would take him to the Jubilee meeting before he
could re-establish their confidence.

He heard the sound of an angry voice, and, peering through the
ventilator of the cell, saw and recognised the Honourable George Canfyn
being led to confinement.  When the gaoler had gone:

"Excuse me, Mr. Canfyn!" said Educated Evans, in a hoarse whisper, his
mouth to the ventilator.  He was all a-twitter with excitement.

"What do you want?" growled the voice of the Honourable George from the
next cell.

"I'm Johnny Evans, sir, better known as Educated Evans, the well-known
Turf Adviser.  What about your horse, Blue Chuck, for to-morrow?"

"Go to hell!" boomed the voice of his fellow-prisoner.

"I can do you a bit of good," urged Evans.  "I've got a stone pinch----"

"Go to blazes, you----"

In his annoyance he described Educated Evans libellously.

Educated Evans was meditating upon the strangeness of fate that had
brought the son of a millionaire into No. 8, when the lock of his cell
snapped back.

"You can go, Evans," said "The Miller" genially.  "I've gone to no end
of trouble to get you out--as I said I would.  What's that horse in the
one o'clock?"

"Clarok Lass," said Evans; and "The Miller" swore softly.

"If I'd known that, I'd have left you to die," he said.  "You said it
wasn't Clarok Lass--here, come on, the inspector's got a job for you."

Wonderingly, Educated Evans followed the detective to the inspector's
room, and in a few gentle words the nature of the job was explained.

"I will give you five shillings out of my own pocket, Evans," said
Inspector Pine, "and at the same time I feel that I am perhaps an
instrument to bring you to the light."

Educated Evans surveyed the table with a professional eye.  He was not
unused to the task of filling envelopes, for there was a time when he
had a thousand clients on his books.

"Miller," glad to escape, left them as soon as he could find an excuse,
and the inspector proceeded to enlighten his helper in the use of the
stamp.

"When the stencil is worn out you can write another.  Fix it over the
inking pad so, and go ahead."

It was a curious stamp, one unlike any that Evans had ever used.  It
consisted of an oblong stencil paper, fixed in a stiff paper frame and
a metal ink-holder.  The inspector showed him how the stencil was
written with a sharp-pointed stylus on a stiff board, how it had to be
damped before and blotted after, and Evans, who had never stopped
learning, watched.

"It will be something for you to reflect upon that every one of these
dear people is an opponent to the pernicious sport of horse-racing.
For once in your life, Evans, you are doing something to crush the
hydra-headed monster of gambling."

"Where's that five shillings, sir?" said Evans, and the officer parted.

He was on the point of leaving Evans to his task when the
station-sergeant came in.

"Here's the money and papers of that drunk, sir," he said, and
deposited a small package on the desk.  "Perhaps you'd better put them
in the safe.  He's sent for his solicitor, so he'll probably be bailed
out.  But he made such a fuss about his being robbed that it might be
better to keep them until he comes before the magistrate in a sober
mind."

Mr. Pine nodded and opened the big safe that stood in one corner of the
room as the sergeant went out.  First he put the money, watch and chain
and gold cigarette case in a drawer.  Then he took up the little
pocket-book and turned the leaves with professional deftness.

"Another gambler," he said sadly.

"Who's that, sir?"

"A man--a gentleman who is unfortunately with us to-night," said
Inspector Pine, and paused.  "What is a trial, Evans?"

"A trial, sir?"

"It is evidently something to do with horse-racing," said the
inspector, and read, half to himself: "'Blue Chuck 8-7; Golders Green
7-7; Milikin 7-0.  Won four lengths.  Time 1.39.'  That has to do with
racing, Evans?"

Educated Evans nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"You have your five shillings, Evans.  I will leave you now.  Give the
letters to the sergeant; he will post them.  Good-night."

From time to time that night the sergeant glanced through the open door
of the inspector's room, and apparently Educated Evans was a busy man.
At midnight, just as the Hon. George Canfyn's solicitor arrived, he
carried his work to the station-sergeant's desk, and after the sergeant
had made a quick scrutiny of the private office to see that nothing was
missing, Evans was allowed to depart.

At ten o'clock next morning Inspector Pine was shaving when his crony
and fellow-labourer in the social field (Mr. Stott, the retired grocer)
arrived in great haste.  And there was on Mr. Stott's face a look of
bewilderment and annoyance.

"Good-morning, Brother Stott," said the inspector.  "I got all those
cards out last night--at least, I hope I did."

Mr. Stott breathed heavily.

"I got my card, Brother Pine," he said, "and I'd like to know the
meaning of it."

He thrust a piece of cardboard into the lathered face of the inspector.
There was nothing extraordinary in the card.  It was an invitation to a
meeting of the Brotherhood for Suppressing Gambling.

"Well?"

"Look on the other side," hissed Mr. Stott.

The inspector turned the card and read the stencilled inscription:


"If any Brother wants the winner of the Newbury Handicap, send T.M.O.
for 20s. to the old reliable Educated Evans, 92 Bingham Mews.  This is
the biggest pinch of the year!  Defeat ignored!  Roll up, Brothers!
Help yourself, and make T.M.O. payable to E. Evans."

      *      *      *      *      *

"Of course, nobody will reply to the foolish and evil man," said the
inspector, as he was giving instructions to "The Miller."  "Every
member of the Brotherhood will treat it with contempt; still, you had
better see Evans."

When "The Miller" arrived at 92 Bingham Mews (it was the upper part of
a stable) he found that melancholy man opening telegrams at the rate of
twenty a minute.

"And more's coming," said Educated Evans.  "There's no punter like a
Brother."

"What's the name of the horse?" asked "The Miller" in a fever.

"Blue Chuck--help yourself," said Educated Evans.  "And don't forget
you owe me a pound."

"The Miller" hurried off to interview Mr. Isaacheim, the eminent and
respectable Turf accountant.




II

MR. HOMASTER'S DAUGHTER

Mr. Homaster's daughter was undoubtedly the belle of Camden Town, and
when she retired from public life, there is less doubt that Mr.
Homaster's trade suffered in consequence.

But as Mr. Homaster very rightly said that even the saloon bar was no
place for a young lady, and although, as a result of her withdrawal,
many clients who had with difficulty sustained themselves at saloon
prices returned in a body to the public portion of the "Rose and Hart,"
where beer is the stable of commerce, Mr. Homaster (he was Hochmeister
until the war came along) bore his loss with philosophy, and his
reputation, both as a gentleman and a father, stood higher than ever.

Miss Belle Homaster was the most beautiful woman that Educated Evans
had ever seen.  She was tall, with golden hair and blue eyes, and a
fine figure.  Across her black, tightly-fitting and well-occupied
blouse she invariably wore the word "Baby" in diamonds, that being her
pet name to her father and her closer relatives.

Evans used to go into the saloon bar every night for the happiness of
seeing her smile, as she raised her delicately pencilled eyebrows at
him.  She never asked unnecessary questions.  A lift of those arched
brows, a gracious nod from Evans, the up-ending of a bottle, a gurgle
of soda water, and Evans laid a half-crown on the counter and received
the change with a genteel "Thenks."

Sometimes she said it was a very nice day for this time of year.
Sometimes, when it wasn't a very nice day, she asked, with a note of
gentle despair: "What else can you expect?"

It was generally understood that Evans was her favourite.  Certainly he
alone of all customers was the recipient of her confidences.  It was to
Evans that she confessed her partiality for asparagus, and it was Evans
who heard from her own lips that she had once, as a small girl,
travelled in the same 'bus as Crippen.

A friend of his, at his earnest request, spoke about him glowingly,
told her of his education and his ability to settle bets on the most
obtuse questions without reference to a book.  The way thus prepared by
his friendly barker, Evans seized the first opportunity of producing
samples of his deep knowledge and learning.

"It's curious, miss, me and you standing here, with the world revolving
on its own axle once in twenty-four hours, thereby causing day and
night.  Few of us realise, so to speak, the myst'ries of nature, such
as the moon and the stars, which are other worlds like ours.  They say
there's life on Mars owing to the canals which have been observed by
telescopic observation.  Which brings us to the question: Is Mars
inhabited?"

She listened, dazed.

"The evolution of humanity," Evans went on enjoyably, "was invented by
Darwin, which brings us to the question of prehistoric days."

"What a lot you know!" said the young lady.  "Would you like a little
more soda?  The weather's very seasonable, isn't it?"

"The seasons are created or caused by the revolutions of the world----"
began Evans.

But she was called away to tend the needs of an uneducated man who
needed a chaser.

Everybody knew Miss Homaster.  Even "The Miller."  When that light and
ornament of the criminal investigation department desired an interview
with any of his criminal acquaintances, he was certain of finding them
hovering like obese moths about the flame of her charm and beauty.

At eight, or thereabouts, Sergeant William Arbuthnot Challoner would
push open the swing doors of the saloon bar and glance carelessly
round, nod to such of his old friends as he saw, raise his hat to Miss
Homaster and retire.

The news of her engagement was announced two days before she left the
bar for good.  It was to the unhappy Evans that she made the revelation.

"I'm being married to a gentleman friend of mine," she said, what time
Educated Evans clutched the edge of the counter for support.  "I
believe in marrying young and being true.  A wife should be a friend to
her husband and help him.  She ought to be interested in his business.
Don't you agree, Mr. Evans?"

"Yes, miss," said Evans with an effort.  "For richer and poorer, in
sickness and in woe, ashes to ashes."

"The Miller" learnt of the engagement from Educated Evans.

"I believe in marriage," he said.  "It keeps the divorce court busy."

A heartless, cynical man, in whom the wells of human kindness had run
dry.

There is a legend that once upon a time "The Miller" had a fortune in
his hand, or within reach of that member.  "The Miller" never discussed
the matter, even with his intimates.  Even Educated Evans, who counted
himself something more than an ordinary acquaintance, with rare
delicacy never referred to that tremendous lost opportunity.

Yet there it was: Fortune, with a row of houses under each arm, had
kicked at the door, and "The Miller" had hesitated with his hand on the
latch.

Rows of houses, a motor-car, Tatts every day of his life if he so
desired, and his ambition moved to such a lofty end--and lost because
"The Miller" refused to credit the evidence of his own ears or to
accept the dictum of the ancients, _in vino veritas_.

Mr. Sandy Leman was certainly _in vino_ when "The Miller" pinched him
for (1) drunk, (2) creating a disturbance, (3) conduct calculated to
bring about a breach of the peace, (4) insulting behaviour.  ("He was,"
to quote the expressive language of Educated Evans, "so soused that he
tried to play a coffee stall under the impression it was a grand
pianner.")  As to the "veritas," was "The Miller" justified in
believing that there was only one trier in the Clumberfield Nursery,
and that trier Curly Eyes?  Mr. Sandy Leman proclaimed the fact to the
world on the way to the station, insisted on seeing the divisional
surgeon to tell him, and made pathetic inquiries for Mr. Lloyd George's
telephone number in order to pass the good news along to one about whom
(in moments of extreme intoxication) he was wont to shed bitter tears.

"The Miller" had the market to himself, so to speak, and after much
hesitation had five shillings each way.  And that, after having decided
overnight to take a risk and have fifty to win!  Curly Eyes won at
100-6.  "The Miller" read the news, cast the paper to the earth and
jumped on it.  That is the story.

Along the platform of Paddington Station came Educated Evans at a slow
and not unstately pace.  His head was held proudly, his eyes
half-closed, as though the sight of so many common racing people en
route for Newbury was more than he dared see, and in his mouth a ragged
cigar.  Race glasses, massive and imposing, were suspended from one
shoulder, an evening newspaper protruded from each of the pockets of
his overcoat.

Educated Evans halted before the locked door of an empty first-class
carriage and surveyed the approaching guard soberly.

"Member," he said simply.

"Member of Parliament or Member of Tattersall's?" asked the sardonic
guard.

"Press," said Evans, even more gravely.  "I'm the editor of _The
Times_."

The guard made a gesture.

"Where's your ticket?" he asked, and with a sigh Educated Evans
produced the brief.

"Third class--and yesterday's," said the guard bitterly.  "Love a duck,
some of you fellows never lose hope, do you?"

"I shall take your number, my friend," said Evans, stung to speech.
"The Railway Act of 1874 specifically specifies that tickets issued
under the Act are transferable and interchangeable----"

The guard passed on.  Evans saw the door of a corridor car open and the
guard's back turned.  He stepped in, and, sinking into a corner seat,
blotted out his identity with an evening newspaper.

"I always say, sir," said Evans, as the train began to move and it was
safe to appear in public, "that to start cheap is to start well.  Not
that I'm not in a position to pay my way like a gentleman and a
sportsman."

His solitary companion was also hidden behind an extended newspaper.

"It stands to reason," Mr. Evans went on, "that a man like myself, who
is, so to speak, in the confidence of most of the Berkshire and
Wiltshire stables, and have my own co-respondents at Lambourn, Manton,
Stockbridge, and cetera, it only stands to reason that, owning my own
horses as I do--hum!"

"The Miller" regarded him coldly over the edge of his newspaper.

"Don't let me interrupt you, Evans," he said, politely.  "Let me hear
about these horses of yours, I beg!  Tell-a-Tale, by Swank out of
Gullibility, own brother to Jailbird, and a winner of races; Tipster,
by Ananias out of Writer's Cramp, by What-Did-I-Give-Yer."

"Don't let us have any unpleasantness, Mr. Miller," said Evans, mildly.
"I'm naturally an affable and talkative person, like the famous
Cardinal Rishloo, who, bein' took to task by Napoleon for his
garolisty, replied 'There's many a good tune played on an old fiddle.'"

"Not satisfied," continued "The Miller," "with defrauding the Great
Western Railway by travelling first on a dud third-class ticket, you
must endeavour, by misrepresentation of a degrading character, to
obtain money by false pretences."

"The Miller" shook his head, and the straw between his teeth twirled
ominously.

"What are you backing in the two-thirty?" asked Evans pleasantly.
"I've got something that could lay down and go to sleep and then get up
and win so far that the judge'd have to paint a new distance board.
This thing can't be beat, Mr. Miller.  If the jockey was to fall off
this here horse would stop, pick him up, and win with him in his mouth!
He's that intelligent.  I've had it from the boy that does him."

"If he does him as well as you've done me," said "The Miller," "he
ought to glitter!  I'm doing nothing but your unbeatable gem in the
Handicap.  Isaacheim wouldn't lay me the money I wanted, so I thought
I'd come down.  Not that the horse will win."

The melancholy face of Educated Evans twisted in a sneer.

"It will win," he said with calm confidence.  "If this horse was left
at the post and started running the wrong way he could turn round and
_then_ win!  I know what I'm talking about.  I can't give you the
strength of it without, in a manner of speakin', betrayin' a sacred
confidence.  But this horse will WIN!  I've sent it out to three
thousand clients----"

"That's a lie," said "The Miller," resuming his perusal of the
_Sporting Life_.

"Well, three hundred--an' not far short."

Mr. Evans fingered the crisp notes in his pocket, and the crackle of
them made music beside which the lute of Orpheus would have sounded as
cheerful as a church bell on a foggy morning.  He had certainly
received inspired information.  If Blue Chuck was not a certainty for
the Newbury Handicap, then there were no such things as certainties.
He had seen the owner's description of the trial in the owner's
pocket-book.

All that morning Mr. Evans had been engaged in despatching to his
clients--for he was a tipster not without fame hi Camden Town--the
glorious and profitable news.  For an hour he had carried the tidings
of great joy to an old and tried clientle.  Some had been so well and
truly tried that they publicly insulted him.  Others to whom, leaning
across the zinc-covered counter of the public bar, he had whispered the
hectic intelligence, had drawn a pint, mechanically, and said: "Is this
another one of your so-and-so dreams?"

Educated Evans had time to catch the 12.38.  Mr. Evans could have
afforded a first-class ticket, but he held firmly to the faith that
there were three states that it was the duty of every citizen to
"best."  First came the Government; then, in order of merit, came
railway companies; thirdly, and at times even firstly, appeared the
bookmaking class.

He had secured his ticket from a fellow sojourner at the Rose and Hart.
Its owner valued it at two hog.  Evans beat him down to eightpence.

"Making money out of Blue Chuck is easier than drawing the dole," said
Evans, "as I know.  Mr. Miller, you understand these things.  What
would you put eighteen hundred pounds into if you was me?"

"Eh?" said the startled Miller.  "You have got eighteen hundred pounds?"

"Not at the moment," admitted Evans modestly.  "But that is the amount
I'll have when I come back.  It's a lot of money to carry about.  House
property is not what it was," he added, "nor War Loan, after what this
Capital Levy is trying to do to us.  Who _is_ this feller Levy, Mr.
Miller?  It's Jewish; but I don't seem to remember the Christian name."

As the train was passing through Reading, Educated Evans delivered
himself of a piece of philosophy.

"Bookmakers get fat on what I might term the indecision of the racin'
public," he said.  "The punter who follows the advice of his Turf
adviser blindly and fearlessly is the feller who packs the parcel.  But
does he follow the advice of his Turf adviser blindly and fearlessly,
Mr. Miller?  No, he doesn't."

"And he's wise," said "The Miller," without looking up from his paper,
"if you happen to be the Turf adviser."

"That may be or may not be," said Educated Evans firmly.  "I'm merely
telling you what I've learnt from years an' years of experience--and
mind you, my recollection goes back to the old Croydon racecourse.
It's hearin' things, it's bein' put off, it's bein' told this, that,
and the other by nosy busybodies that enables Sir Douglas Stuart--ain't
he? well, he ought to be--to spend his declining days on the Rivyera."

"The trouble with you, Evans," said "The Miller," folding his paper as
the train slowed for Newbury, "is that you talk too much."

"The trouble with me," said Educated Evans, with dignity, "is that I
_think_ too much!"

He parted from the detective on the platform, and was making his way
toward the entrance of the Silver Ring when he stopped dead.  A lady
was crossing the roadway to the pay gate, and the heart of Educated
Evans leapt within him.  He knew that black fox fur, that expensive
velour hat, those high-buttoned boots.  For a second the economist and
the lover struggled one with the other, and the lover won.  Educated
Evans followed hot on her trail, wincing with pain as he paid 1 2s.
6d. and followed the lady to the paddock.

She turned at the sound of her name, and it must be said of Miss
Homaster that her attitude toward Evans was not only extremely cordial
but amazingly condescending.

"Why, Mr. Evans, whoever expected to see you?" she said.  "What
extraordinary weather it is for this time of the year!"

"It is indeed, Miss Homaster," said Evans.  "Is your respected father
with you?"

"No, I've come alone," said Miss Homaster, with a saucy toss of her
head, "and I'm going to back all the winners."

Here was the chance that Educated Evans had been praying for, the
opportunity which he never dreamt would come.  He had pictured himself
rescuing her from burning houses, or diving into the seething waters of
the canal and bringing her back to safety, perhaps breathing his last
in her arms; but he had never imagined that the opportunity would arise
of giving her "the goods."

"Miss Homaster," he said in a hoarse whisper, "I'm going to do you a
bit of good.  I've got the winner of the Handicap.  It's Blue Chuck;
he's a stone certainty.  He could fall down and get up and then win."

"Really?"  She was genuinely interested as he told her the strength of
it.

He left her soon after (he knew his place) and strolled into the ring.
He had been in Tattersall's once before, but the experience was not as
thrilling as it might have been.  An acquaintance saw him and came
boisterously toward him.

"Hallo, Educated!" he said.  "I've got something good for you, old
cock; I've got the winner of the Handicap up me sleeve.  Bing Boy!"

He looked round to see that he was not overheard, and in his interest
he failed to see the cold sneer that was growing on the face of Mr.
Evans.

"This horse," said his acquaintance, "has been tried good enough to win
the Derby even if it was run over hurdles!  This horse could fall
down----"

"And I should say he would fall down," said Evans, his exasperation
getting the better of his politeness.  "You couldn't make me back Bing
Boy with bad money.  You couldn't make me back it with bookmakers who
had twilight sleep and forgot all that happened a few minutes before.
Bing Boy!" he said, with withering contempt.

Nevertheless, Bing Boy was favourite, and the horse that Educated Evans
had come to back was at any price.  Evans was disconcerted, alarmed.
He went into the paddock and saw the scowling owner of his great
certainty.  He did not look happy.  Perhaps it was because he had spent
the greater part of the previous evening in an uncomfortable
police-station cell.

Evans went in search of the man who gave him Bing Boy to get a little
further information.

And they were backing Smocker.  He was a strong second favourite, and
it was difficult to get 7 to 2 about him.  A man Evans knew drew him
aside to a place where he could not be overheard by the common crowd
and told him all about Smocker.

"This horse," he said impressively, as he poked his finger in Evans'
waistcoat to emphasise the seriousness of the communication, "has been
tried twenty-one pounds better than Glasshouse.  He won the trial on a
tight rein, and if what I hear is true--and the man that told me is the
boy that does him--Smocker could fall down----"

"There'll be a few falls in this race," said Educated Evans hollowly.

The first few events were cleared from the card, and betting started in
earnest over the Handicap, and yet Educated Evans delayed his
commission.  To nearly three hundred clients he had wired, "Blue Chuck.
Help yourself.  Can't be beaten."  And here was Blue Chuck sliding down
the market like a pat of butter on the Cresta Run!  Tens, a hundred to
eight, a hundred to seven in places.

"Phew!" said Educated Evans.

The notes in his pocket were damp from handling.  He made another
frantic dive into the paddock in the hope of finding somebody who would
give him the least word of encouragement about Blue Chuck.  Again he
saw the owner of Blue Chuck, scowling like a fiend.

And then somebody spoke to him, and he turned quickly, hat in hand.

"Why, I've been looking everywhere for you, Mr. Evans," said Miss
Homaster.  "I've got such a wonderful tip for you.  Your horse--Blue
Chuck, wasn't it?--isn't fancied in the least bit.  The owner told a
friend of mine that he didn't expect he'd finish in the first three."

The heart of Educated Evans sank, but it was not with sorrow for his
deluded clients.

"Smocker will win."  She lowered her voice.  "It is a certainty.  I've
just been offered five to one, and I've backed it."

"Five to one?" said Educated Evans, his trading instincts aroused.
"You can't get more than four to one."

"_I_ can," said the girl in triumph.  "I'll show you."

Proud to be seen in such delightful company, Educated Evans followed
her, through the press of Tattersall's, down the rails, until near the
end he saw a tall, florid young man--no less a person than Barney
Gibbet!

"Mr. Gibbet, this is a friend of mine who wants to back Smocker.
You'll give him five to one?"

Gibbet looked sorrowfully at Educated Evans.

"Five to one, Miss Homaster?" he said, shaking his head.  "No, it's
above the market price."

"But you promised me," she said reproachfully.

"Very well.  How much do you want on it, sir?"

The lips of Educated Evans opened, but he could not pronounce the
words.  Presently they came.

"Three hundred," he said in broken tones.

"Ready?" asked Mr. Gibbet, with pardonable suspicion.

"Ready," said Educated Evans.

It proved, on examination, that he only had 240.  He had conjured up
the other 60, for he was ever an optimist.  In the end he was laid
1,100 to 220.

"You won't mind if I give you a cheque for your winnings?" asked Mr.
Gibbet.  "I don't carry a large sum of money round with me; it's not
quite safe amongst these disreputable characters you meet upon
racecourses."

"I quite agree," said Educated Evans heartily, and went up to the stand
to see the race.

It was a race that can easily be described, calling for none of those
complicated and intricate calculations which form a feature of every
race description.

Blue Chuck jumped off in front, made the whole of the running, and won
hard held by five lengths.  Two horses of whose existence Educated
Evans was profoundly ignorant were second and third.  Smocker was
pulled up half-way down the straight.

Educated Evans staggered down from the stand and into the paddock.  His
only chance, and it seemed a feeble one, was that the twelve horses
that finished in front of Smocker would be disqualified.  But the flag
went up, and a stentorian voice sang musically, "Weighed in!"

Educated Evans dragged his weary feet to the train.

"It doesn't leave for an hour yet," said an official.

"I can wait," said Educated Evans gently.

Just after the last race "The Miller" came along the platform looking
immensely pleased with himself.  He saw Evans and turned into the
carriage.

"Had a good race, my boy?" he asked.  "I did, and thank you for the
tip."

"Not at all," murmured Evans in the tone of one greatly suffering.

"They tried to lumber me on to Smocker, but no bookmakers' horses for
me!"

"Is he a bookmaker's horse?" asked Evans with a flicker of mild
interest.

"Yes, he belongs to that fellow Gibbet--the man who's engaged to Miss
Homaster."

Educated Evans tried to smile.

"If you feel ill," said the alarmed Miller, "you'd better open the
window."




III

THE COOP

Sometimes they referred to Mr. Yardley in the newspapers as "the Wizard
of Stotford," sometimes his credit was diffused as the "Yardley
Confederation"; occasionally he was spoken of as plain "Bert Yardley,"
but invariably his entries for any important handicaps were described
as "The Stotford Mystery."  For nobody quite knew what Mr. Yardley's
intentions were until the day of the race.  Usually after the race, for
it is a distressing fact that the favourite from his stable was usually
unplaced, and the winner (also from his stable) started amongst the
"100 to 7 others."

After the event was all over and the "weighed in" had been called,
people used to gather in the paddock in little groups and ask one
another what this horse was doing at Nottingham, and where were the
stewards, and why Mr. Yardley was not jolly well warned off.  And they
didn't say "jolly" either.

For it is an understood thing in racing that, if an outsider wins, its
trainer ought to be warned off.  Yet neither Bert Yardley, nor Colonel
Rogersman, nor Mr. Lewis Feltham (the two principal owners for whom he
trained) were so much as asked by the stewards to explain the running
of their horses.  Thus proving that the Turf needed reform, and that
the stipendiary steward was an absolute necessity.

Mr. Bert Yardley was a youngish looking man of thirty-five, who spoke
very little and did his betting by telegraph.  He had a suite at the
Midland Hotel, and was a member of a sedate and respectable club in
Pall Mall.  He read extensively, mostly such classics as _Races to
Come_, and the umpteenth volume of the Stud Book, and he leavened his
studies with such lighter reading as the training reports from the
daily sporting newspapers--he liked a good laugh.

His worst enemy could not complain to him that he refused information
to anybody.

"I think mine have some sort of chance, and I am backing them both.
Tinpot?  Well, of course, he may win; miracles happen, and I shouldn't
be surprised if he made a good show.  But I've had to ease him in his
work, and when I galloped him on Monday he simply wouldn't have
it--couldn't get him to take hold of his bit.  Possibly he runs better
when he's a little above himself, but he's a horse of moods.  If he
would only give his running, he'd trot in!  Lampholder, on the other
hand, is as game a horse as ever looked through a bridle.  A battler!
He'll be there or thereabouts."

What would you back on that perfectly candid, perfectly honest
information, straight, as it were, from the horse's mouth?

Lampholder, of course; and Tinpot would win.  Even stipendiary stewards
couldn't make Lampholder win, not if they got behind and shoved him.
And that, of course, is no part of a stipendiary steward's duties.

Mr. Bert Yardley was dressing for dinner one March evening, and,
opening his case, he discovered that a gold dress watch had
disappeared.  He called his valet, who could offer no other information
than that it had been there when they left Stotford for Sandown Park.

"Send for the police," said Mr. Yardley, and there came to him
Detective-Sergeant Challoner.

Mr. Challoner listened, made a few notes, asked a few, a very few,
questions of the valet, and closed his book.

"I think I know the person," he said, and to the valet: "A big
nose--you're sure of the big nose?"

The valet was emphatic.

"Very good," said "The Miller," "I'll do my best, Mr. Yardley.  I hope
I shall be as successful as Amboy will be in the Lincoln Handicap."

Mr. Yardley smiled faintly.

"We'll talk about that later," he said.

"The Miller" made one or two inquiries, and that night pulled in
"Nosey" Boldin, whose hobby it was to pose as an inspector of
telephones, and in this capacity had made many successful experiments.
On the way to the station, "Nosey," so-called because of a certain
abnormality in that organ, delivered himself with great force and venom.

"This comes of betting on horse races and follering Educated Evans'
perishin' five-pound specials!  Let this be a warning to you, 'Miller'!"

"Not so much lip," said "The Miller."

"He gave me one winner in ten shots, and that started at 11 to 10 on,"
ruminated "Nosey."  "Men like that drive men to crime.  There ought to
be a law so's to make the fifth loser a _felony_!  And after the eighth
loser, he ought to 'ang!  That'd stop 'em!"

"The Miller" saw his friend charged and lodged for the night, and went
home to bed.  And in the morning, when he left his lodgings to go to
breakfast, the first person he saw was Educated Evans, and there was on
that learned man's unhappy face a look of pain and anxiety.

"Good-morning, Mr. Challoner.  Excuse me if I'm taking a liberty, but I
understand that a client of mine is in trouble?"

"If you mean 'Nosey,' he is," agreed "The Miller."  "And what is more,
he attributes his shame and downfall to following your tips.  I
sympathise with him."

Educated Evans made an impatient clicking sound, raised his eyebrows
and spread out his hand.

"Bolsho," he said simply.

"Eh?"  "The Miller" frowned suspiciously.  "You didn't give Bolsho?"

"Every guaranteed client received 'Bolsho: fear nothing,'" said Evans
even more simply; "following Mothegg (ten to one, beaten a neck, hard
lines), Toffeetown (third, hundred to eight, very unlucky), Onesided
(won, seven to two, what a beauty!), followin' Curds and Whey (won,
eleven to ten--can't help the price).  Is that fair?"

"The question is," said "The Miller" deliberately, "Did 'Nosey'
subscribe to your guarantee wire, your 5 special, or your Overnight
nap?"

"That," said Educated Evans diplomatically, "I can't tell till I've
seen me books.  The point is this: if 'Nosey' wants bail, am I all
right?  I don't want any scandal, and you know 'Nosey.'  He ought to
have been on the advertisin' staff of Shelfridges, or running insurance
stunts in the _Daily Flail_."

The advertising propensities of "Nosey" were, indeed, well known to
"The Miller."  He had the knack of introducing some startling feature
into the very simplest case, and attracting to himself the amount of
newspaper space usually given to scenes in the House and important
murders.

It was "Nosey" who, by his startling statement that pickles was a
greater incentive to crime than beer, initiated a press correspondence
which lasted for months.  It was "Nosey" who, when charged with hotel
larceny (his favourite aberration), made the pronouncement that motor
'buses were a cause of insanity.  Upon the peg of his frequent
misfortunes it was his practice to hang a showing up for somebody.

The case of "Nosey" was dealt with summarily.  Long before the
prosecutor had completed his evidence he realised that his doom was
sealed.

"Anything known about this man?" asked the magistrate.

A gaoler stepped briskly into the box and gave a brief sketch of
"Nosey's" life, and "Nosey," who knew it all before, looked bored.

"Anything to say?" asked the magistrate.

"Nosey" cleared his throat.

"I can only say, your worship, that I've fell into thieving ways owing
to falling in the hands of unscrupulous racing tipsters.  I'm ruined by
tips, and if the law was just, there's a certain party who ought to be
standing here by my side."

Educated Evans, standing at the back of the court, squirmed.

"I've got a wife, as true a woman as ever drew the breath of life,"
"Nosey" went on.  "I've got two dear little children, and I ask your
worship to consider me temptation owing to horse-racing and betting and
this here tipster."

"Six months' hard labour," said the magistrate, without looking up.

Outside the court Mr. Evans waited patiently for the appearance of "The
Miller."

"'Nosey' never had more than a shilling on a horse in his life," he
said bitterly, "and he _owes_!  Here's the bread being took out of my
mouth by slander and misrepresentation; do you think they'll put it in
the papers, Mr. Challoner?"

"Certain," said "The Miller," cheerfully, and Educated Evans groaned.

"That man's worse than Lucreature Burgia, the celebrated poisoner," he
said, "that Shakespeare wrote a play about.  He's a snake in the grass
and viper in the bosom.  And to think I gave him Penwiper for the
Manchester November, and he never so much as asked me if I was thirsty!
Mr. Challoner."

Challoner, turning away, stooped.

"Was that Yardley.  I mean the trainer?"

"The Miller" looked at him reproachfully.

"Maybe I'm getting old and my memory is becoming defective," he said,
"but I seem to remember that when you gave me Tellmark the other day,
you said that you were a personal friend of Mr. Yardley's, and that the
way he insisted on your coming down to spend week-ends was getting a
public nuisance."

Educated Evans did not bat a lid.

"That was his brother," he said.

"He must have lied when he told me he had no brothers," said "The
Miller."

"They've quarrelled," replied Educated Evans frankly.  "In fact, they
never mention one another's names.  It's tragic when brothers quarrel,
Mr. Challoner.  I've done my best to reconcile 'em--but what's the use?
He didn't say anything about Amboya, did he?"

"He said nothing that I can tell you," was the unsatisfactory reply,
and left Mr. Evans to consider means and methods by which he might
bring himself into closer contact with the Wizard of Stotford.

All that he feared in the matter of publicity was realised to the full.
One evening paper said:

  RUINED BY TIPSTERS.

  Once prosperous merchant goes to prison for theft.


And in the morning press one newspaper may be quoted as typical of the
rest:

  TIPSTER TO BLAME.

  Pest of the Turf wrecks a home.


Detective-Sergeant Challoner called by appointment at the Midland
Hotel, and Mr. Yardley saw him.

"No, thank you, sir."  "The Miller" was firm.  He never forgot that he
was a public schoolboy (he rowed stroke in his school boat the year
they beat Eton in the final), and he was in many ways unique.

Mr. Yardley put back the fiver he had taken from his pocket.

"I will put you a tenner on anything I fancy," he said.  "Who is this
tipster, by the way?--the man who was referred to by the prisoner?"

"The Miller" smiled.

"Educated Evans," he said, and when he had finished describing him Mr.
Yardley nodded.

He was staying overnight in London en route for Lincoln, and was
inclined to be bored.  He had read the _Racing Calendar_ from the list
of the year's races to the last description of the last selling hurdle
race on the back page.  He had digested the surprising qualities of
stallions that stood at 48 guineas and 1 guinea groom, and he could
have almost recited the forfeit list from Aaron to Znosberg.  And he
was aching for diversion when the bell boy brought a card.

It was a large card, tastefully bordered with pink and green roses.
Its edge was golden, and in the centre were the words:

  J. T. EVANS
  (better known as "Educated Evans"!!)
  The World's Foremost and leading Turf
  Adviser and Racing Cricit.

  c/o Jockey Club, Newmarket, or direct:
  81 Bayham Mews, S.W. 1.

  "The Man Who Gave Braxted!!
  What a beauty!"--_vide_ Press.


Mr. Yardley read, lingering over the printer's errors.

"Show this gentleman up, page," he said.

Into his presence came Educated Evans, a solemn, purposeful man.

"I hope the intrusion will be amply excused by the important nature or
character of my business," he said.  This was the opening he had
planned.

"Sit down, Mr. Evans," said Yardley, and Educated Evans put his hat
under the chair and sat.

"I've been thinking matters over in the privacy of my den----" began
Evans, after a preliminary cough.

"You are a lion tamer as well?" asked the Wizard of Stotford,
interested.

"By 'den' I mean 'study,'" said Evans gravely.  "To come to the point
without beating about the bush--to use a well-known expression--I've
heard of a coop."

"A what?"

"A coop," said Evans.

"A chicken coop?" asked the puzzled Wizard.

"It's a French word, meaning 'ramp,'" said Evans.

"Oh, yes, I see.  'Coup'--it's pronounced 'coo,' Mr. Evans."

Educated Evans frowned.

"It's years since I was in Paris," he said; "and I suppose they've
altered it.  It used to be 'coop,' but these French people are always
messing and mucking about with words."

"And who is working this coop?" asked the trainer politely, adopting
the old French version.

"Higgson."

Educated Evans pronounced the word with great emphasis.  Higgson was
another mystery trainer.  His horses also won when least expected.  And
after they won little knots of men gathered in the paddock and asked
one another if the Stewards had eyes, and why wasn't Higgson warned off?

"You interest me," said the trainer of Amboy.  "Do you mean that he is
winning with St. Kats?"

Evans nodded more gravely still.

"I think it's me duty to tell you," he said.  "My information"--he
lowered his voice and glanced round to the door to be sure that it was
shut--"comes from the boy who does this horse!"

"Dear me!" said Mr. Yardley.

"I've got correspondents everywhere," said Educated Evans mysteriously.
"My man at Stockbridge sent me a letter this morning (I dare not show
it to you) about a horse in that two-year-old race that will win with
his ears pricked."

Mr. Yardley was looking at him through half-closed eyes.

"With his ears pricked?" he repeated, impressed.  "Have they trained
his ears too?  Extraordinary!  But why have you come to tell me about
Mr. Higgson's horse?"

Educated Evans bent forward confidentially.

"Because you've done me many a turn, sir," he said; "and I'd like to do
you one.  I've got the information.  I could shut my mouth an' make
millions.  I've got nine thousand clients who'd pay me the odds to a
pound--but what's money?"

"True," murmured Mr. Yardley, nodding.  "Thank you, Mr. Evans.  St.
Kats, I think you said?  Now, in return for your kindness, I'll give
you a tip."

Educated Evans held his breath.  His amazingly bold plan had succeeded.

"Change your printer," said Mr. Yardley, rising.  "He can't spell.
Good-night."

Evans went forth with his heart turned to stone and his soul seared
with bitter animosity.

Mr. Yardley came down after him and watched the shabby figure as it
turned the corner, and his heart was touched.  In two minutes he had
overtaken the educated man.

"You're a bluff and a fake," he said, good-humouredly, "but you can
have a little, a very little, on Amboy."

Before Educated Evans could prostrate himself at the benefactor's feet
Mr. Yardley was gone.

The next day was a busy one for Educated Evans.  All day Miss Higgs,
the famous typist of Great College Street, turned her Roneo, and every
revolution of the cylinder threw forth, with a rustle and a click, the
passionate appeal which Educated Evans addressed to all clients, old
and new.  He was not above borrowing the terminology of other
advertisement writers.

  You want the best winners--I've got them.
  Bet in Evans' way!  Eventually, why not now?
  I've got the winner of the Lincoln!
        What a beauty!
        What a beauty!
        What a beauty!

  Confidentially!  From the trainer!  This is the
  coop of the season.  Help yourself!  Defeat ignored!


To eight hundred and forty clients (the postage alone cost thirty-five
shillings) this moving appeal went forth.

On the afternoon of the race Educated Evans strolled with confidence to
the end of the Tottenham Court Road to wait for the _Star_.  And when
it came he opened the paper with a quiet smile.  He was still smiling,
when he read:

  Tenpenny, 1.
  St. Kats, 2.
  Ella Glass, 3.
  All probables ran.


"Tenpenny?--never heard of it," he repeated, dazed, and produced his
noon edition.  Tenpenny was starred as a doubtful runner.

It was trained by--Yardley.

For a moment his emotions almost mastered him.

"That man ought to be warned off," he said, hollowly, and dragged his
weary feet back to the stable yard.

In the morning came a letter dated from Lincoln.


Dear Mr. Evans,--What do you think of my coop?--Yours,

H. YARDLEY.


There was a P.S. which ran:


I put a fiver on for you.  Your enterprise deserved it.


Evans opened the cheque tenderly and shook his head.

"After all," he said subsequently to the quietly jubilant "Miller,"
"clients can't expect to win _every_ time--a Turf adviser is entitled
to his own coops."

Tenpenny started at 25 to 1.




IV

THE SNOUT

Saturday night in High Street, Camden Town, and the lights were blazing
and the tram bells clanging dolefully.  About each gas-lit stall a
group of melancholy sceptics, for the late shopper is not ready to
believe all that loud-voiced stall-holders claim for their wares.

At one corner a dense, hypnotised crowd of men listening to a
diminutive spellbinder, wearing a crimson and purple racing jacket over
a pair of voluminous tight-gartered breeches.

"... did I tell yer people that Benny Eyes was no good for the City an'
Suburban 'Andicap?  Did I tell yer not to back Sommerband for the
Metropolitan?  Did I tell yer on this very spot last week, an' I'm
willing to pay a thousan' poun' to the Temperance 'Ospital if I didn't,
that Proud Alec could fall down an' get up and then win the Great
Surrey 'Andicap?  Did I..."

One of the audience edged himself free from the crowd with a sigh, and,
so doing, edged himself into a quiet-looking, broad-shouldered man, who
was chewing a straw and listening intently.

"Good-evening, Mr. Challoner," said Educated Evans.

"Evening, Evans," said "The Miller."  "Picking up a few tips?"

A contemptuous yet pitying smile illuminated the face of the learned
Evans.

"From _him_?" he said.  "Do you buy detective stories such as is
published in the common press in order to learn policery?  No, Mr.
Challoner--I was a-standing there as an impartial observer an' a
student of the lower classes, their cupidity and credulity bringin'
tears to my eyes.  I won't knock Holley--I know the man; he takes my
tips, and goes and sells 'em to the common people.  I don't complain,
so long as he don't use my name.  But the next time he professes to be
sellin' Educated Evans' 5 specials for fourpence I shall take action!"

"The Miller" half turned, and, after a second's hesitation, Educated
Evans fell in at his side.

"You don't mind, Mr. Challoner?"

"Not a bit, Evans.  If I meet anybody I know, I can tell them
afterwards I was taking you to the station."  Evans winced.

"Doesn't it do your heart good to see all these people out and about,
and every one got his money honestly by working for it?"

Evans sniffed.

"You know your own business best," he said cryptically.

"Perhaps they're not all horny-handed sons of toil," admitted "The
Miller," as a familiar face came into his line of vision.  "If my eyes
aren't getting wonky, that was old Solly Risk I saw--how long has he
been out?"

Educated Evans did not know.

"The habits of the criminal classes," he said, "are Greek to me, as
Socrates said to Julius Csar, the well-known Italian.  They go in and
they come out, and no man knoweth.  Solly is as wide as that famous
African river, the Amazon, discovered by Stanley in the year 1743.  But
you can be too wide, and snouts being what they are----"

"Snouts?" said "The Miller," elaborately puzzled.  "What is a 'snout'?"

"It's a phrase used by low people, an' I can well understand you've
never heard it," said Evans politely.

"If, by that vulgar expression, you mean a man who keeps the police
informed on criminal activities," said "The Miller," who knew much
better than Evans the title and functions of a police informer, "let me
tell you that Solly was arrested on clear evidence.  That's a bad cold
of yours, Evans?"

For Educated Evans had sniffed again.

"As a turf adviser and England's Premier sportin' authority," said
Evans, "I've me time fully occupied without pryin' into other people's
business.  I've nothing to say against Ginger Vennett----"

"The Miller" stopped and regarded his companion oddly.

"Get it out of your mind that Ginger is a snout," he said.  "He's a
hard-working young man--more hard-working than his landlord."

"Or his landlady," suggested Evans, and this time his sniff was a
terrific one.

"I know nothing about his landlady except that she's good looking,
hard-working and too good for Lee," said "The Miller," and Educated
Evans laughed hollowly.

"So was Cleopatra, whose famous needle we all admire," he said.  "So
was Lewdcreature Burgia, the celebrated wife of Henry VIII, who tried
to poison him by pourin' boilin' lead in his earhole.  So was B. Mary,
who murdered the innercent little princes in the far-famed Tower of
London in----"

"Don't let us rake up the past," pleaded "The Miller."  "Have you seen
anything of Lee lately?  They tell me he's gone into the harness
business again?"

It was a deadly insult he was offering to Educated Evans, and nobody
knew this better than "The Miller."  He was actually inviting Evans to
turn Nose!

"I'm surprised at you, Mr. Challoner," said Evans, genuinely hurt, and
"The Miller" laughed and went on.

Everybody liked "Modder" Lee--so called because in his cups he had a
habit of describing the battle of Modder River (in which he took part),
illustrating the line of attack by the simple method of dipping his
finger in the nearest pot of beer and tracing the course of the Modder
on the counter.  He was a good friend, a quiet, unassuming citizen, and
more than a faithful husband and father to the pretty shrew he had
married in a moment of mental aberration.

His one weakness was harness.  The sight of a set of harness set his
blood on fire and provoked him to unlawful doings.  He had taken carts,
and had walked away with horses and sold them at the repository under
the very noses of their owners, but harness was his speciality.

"It's a hobby," he told his lodger, a tall, good-looking and
fiery-headed young man, who did nothing for a living except back a few
up and downers and run for a bookmaker.  He used to represent a West
End firm of commission agents until unprofitable papers appeared in the
bunch, and they discovered he was getting quick results over the tape
at the Italian Club.

He had been a client of Educated Evans; but, following a dispute as to
whether he had or had not received a certain winner (odds to 5s.),
Educated Evans had struck his name from the list.  And this was a
source of great distress to Ginger, for he reposed an unnatural faith
in the prescience of the educated man.

"I know more about harness," said Modder Lee, with pride, "than any
other man in the business.  I can walk down High Street and price every
set I meet, and I'll bet that I'm not five shillings out!"

One night the stable of Holloway's Provision Stores was broken into,
and a double set of pony harness was missing.  Two nights later came an
urgent call from Lifton Mews.  A set of carriage harness, the property
of Lord Lifton himself, had vanished....

"The Miller" made a few independent inquiries, met (by appointment and
in a dark little street) a Certain Man, and made a midnight call at 930
Little Stibbington Street.

"The Miller" did not call at Little Stibbington Street to inquire after
Lee's health, nor was it a friendly call in the strictest sense of the
word.  Mrs. Lee was in bed, and answered the door in a skirt, a shawl,
an apron, and a look of startled wonder.  Later, in the language of the
psalmist, she clothed herself with curses as with a garment--for she
was, ostensibly, a true wife.

"If I never move from this doorstep, Mr. Miller, and I'm a Gawd-fearing
woman that's been attendin' the Presbyterian Church in Stibbington
Street off an' on for years, if I die this very minute, my old man
hasn't been out of this house for three days with rheumatics antrypus.
Without the word of a lie, he can't move from his bed, and you know,
Mr. Miller, I've never told you a lie--'ave I?  Answer me, yes or no?"

"Let me talk to Modder," said the patient "Miller."

"He's that ill he wouldn't know you, Mr. Miller," she urged, agitatedly
(if the neighbourhood, listening in to a woman, had not heard the
agitation appropriate to the moment, she would have been condemned).
"I haven't been able to get his boots on for days.  He's delyrius, as
Gawd's my judge!  He don't know anybody, and, what's more, it's
catching--measles or something--and you with a wife and family, too."

"I've caught measles before, but I've never caught a wife or family,"
said "The Miller" good-naturedly.

"He won't know you."  The reluctant door opened a little wider.  "Mind
how you go--the pram's in the passage, and the young man lodger
upstairs always leaves his bit of washing to dry...."

Wet and semi-dry shirts flapped in the detective's face as he made his
way to the back room, illuminated by a small oil lamp.

Entering, he heard a deep groan.  And there was Lee in bed, and on his
face a wild and vacant look.

"He won't know you," said Mrs. Lee, performing her toilet with the
corner of her apron.  In support of her statement Modder opened his
mouth and spoke faintly.

"Is that dear mother?" he quavered.  "Or is it angels?"

"That's how he's been goin' on for days," said Mrs. Lee, with great
satisfaction.

"I 'ear such lovely music," said the tremulous Modder.  "It sounds like
an 'arp!"

"The Welsh Harp," said "Miller."  "Now come out of your trance, Lee,
and step round with me to the station--the inspector wants a talk with
you."

Mrs. Lee quivered.

"Are you goin' to take a dyin' man from his bed?" she asked bitterly.
"Do you want to see yourself showed up in John Bull!"

"God forbid!" said "Miller," and with a dexterous twist of his hand
pulled the bedclothes from the invalid.  He was fully dressed, even to
his boots, and packed between his trousered legs was a new set of
harness of incalculable value.

"It's a cop," said Lee, and got up without assistance.  "There's a
snout somewhere in this neighbourhood," he said, without heat.  "If I
ever find him, I'll tear his liver out.  And his lights," he added, as
he remembered those important organs.

It was his ninth offence, and Lee, as he knew, was booked for that
country house in Devonshire near the River Dart and adjacent to the
golf links of Tavistock.

Having vindicated her position as a true wife and faithful helpmate,
Mrs. Modder Lee returned to her honorary status of Respectable Woman.
"The Miller" saw her coming out of a picture house with the red-haired
lodger, and she tripped up to him coyly, a smile upon her undoubtedly
attractive features.  "The Miller" always said that if she had had the
sense to keep her mouth shut she might have been mistaken for a French
lady.  He specified the kind of French lady, but the description cannot
be given in a book that is read by young people.

"Oh, Mr. Challoner, I _do_ owe you an apology for all the unkind things
I said," she said, in her genteel voice; "but a wife must stick up for
her husband, or where would the world be, in a manner of speaking?"

"That's all right, Mrs. Lee," smiled "The Miller," and glanced at her
escort.  "I see Vennett is looking after you."

Mrs. Lee launched forth into a rhapsody of praise.

"He's been so good to me and the children," she said.  "He's got a bit
of money, and he doesn't mind spending it either--you've no idea how
kind he's been to me, Mr. Challoner!"

"I can guess," said "The Miller."

"The Miller" was a philosopher.  He accepted, in his professional
capacity, a situation which sickened him to think about as a man.  One
morning he met Educated Evans at the corner of Bayham Street, and that
learned man had on his face a look of peace and content which did not
accord with his record as the World's Premier Turf Adviser.  For
Educated Evans had sent out three horses to his clients, of which two
had finished fourth and fifth, and the third absolutely last, as "The
Miller" knew.

"It's no good talking to me, Mr. Challoner," said Educated Evans
firmly.  "My information was that Rhineland could have run backwards
and won.  He was badly rode, according to the sportin' descriptions,
and my own idea is that the jockey wasn't trying a yard."

"If Statesman doesn't win----" began "The Miller" threateningly, and
Evans' face changed.

"You ain't backing Statesman, are you?" he asked.

"I've backed him," said "The Miller," and Educated Evans groaned.

"Then you've lost your money," he said with resignation.

"The Miller" frowned.

"I saw Ginger Vennett and he told me you'd given it to him as the best
thing of the century that you had had this from the owner and that you
told him to put every farthing he had in the world on it.  What's the
idea, Evans?"

"The idea is," said Mr. Evans speaking under the stress of great
emotion, "that I want to put that snout where he belongs--in the
gutter!"

"The Miller" gasped.

"Do you mean to tell me that you twisted him?"

"I do," said Evans savagely.  "He's got all his savings on Statesman,
who hasn't done a gallop for a month.  If you've been hoisted with his
peter, to use a naval expression, I'm sorry, Mr. Challoner; but I've
got one for you on Saturday that can't lose unless they put a rope
across the course to trip him up."

"The Miller" hurried away to the nearest telephone and called up Mr.
Isaacheim.

"It's Challoner speaking, Isaacheim," he said.  "That bet you took
about Statesman--I think you'd better call it off."

"All right, Mr. Challoner," said the obliging Isaacheim.  "I don't
think much of it myself: the horse hasn't done a gallop for a month,
and Educated Evans told me----"

"I know what Educated Evans told you," said "The Miller"; "but it's
certainly understood that that bet's off."

In the afternoon "The Miller" bought an evening newspaper and turned to
the stop press, and the first thing he saw was that Statesman had won!

When, in the evening, he discovered that the price was 25 to 1, he went
in search of Educated Evans, and found that sad man on the verge of
tears.

"I did my best.  It's no good arguing the point with me, Mr.
Challoner," he said.  "I've had Ginger round here congratulating me,
but telling me that he'd forgotten to have the bet, and that's about as
much as I can stand.  The only thing I can tell you is _don't back
Blazing Heavens_ in the two-thirty race to-morrow, because I've give it
to Ginger, and I've asked him, as a man and a sportsman, not to tell
anybody, and to put his shirt on it.  Revenge," he went on, "is
repugnant to my nature.  But a snout's a snout, and if I don't settle
Ginger, then I'm an uneducated man--which, of course, I'm not," he
added modestly.

Obedient to his instructions, "The Miller" refrained from backing
Blazing Heavens, and, under any circumstances, would not have invested
a red cent on a horse that had 21 lb. the worse of the weights with
Lazy Loo.  And Blazing Heavens won.  Its price was 100 to 6.  Ginger
sent a boy with a ten-shilling note to Educated Evans, and asked for
his 5 special for the next day.

Educated Evans sat up far into the night examining and analysing the
programme for the following day, and at last discovered a certain
runner, that not only had 14 lb. the worse of the weights, but enjoyed
this distinction, that the training reporters of the sporting Press,
who usually have something kind to say about every horse, dismissed him
with a line: "Ours has no chance in the Tilbury Selling Handicap."

He saw also a paragraph in the following morning's newspaper that Star
of Sachem--such was the elegant nomenclature of this equine hair
trunk--was being walked to the meeting because his owner did not think
that he was worth the railway fare.

Ginger came round to see Evans at his den; and Ginger was wearing a new
gold chain and two classy, nearly-diamond rings, a new hat, and a tie
of brilliant colours.

"Morning, Evans," he said briskly as he came in.  "Thought I'd come and
see you.  Me and my young lady are going away to the seaside for our
good old annual."

"Ha, ha!" said Evans politely.

"You've done me a bit of good, old boy."  The snout laid a large, soft
hand on Evans' shoulder.  "But I want something better.  Give me a
stone certainty, and I'll put every bean I've got in the world on it,
Evans, and you're on to a fiver.  Is that fair?"

"That's fair," said Educated Evans, his hopes rising.

"If we win, I'm buying a little public-house in Kensington," said
Ginger.  "My young lady's going to get a divorce from her husband for
cruelty and desertion, and carrying on with the girl at the sweet shop;
we'll put the two kids in a home, and there you are.  So you see,
Evans, it's a bit of a responsibility for you."

"It is," said Evans bravely; "and, speaking as one with a wide and vast
experience, I appreciate same, and in the language of Lord Wellington
at the battle of Waterloo, I shall only do my duty--Star of Sachem," he
said slowly, deliberately, and with proper emphasis, "can't be beat in
the Tilbury Handicap this afternoon.

"If that horse were poleaxed he could crawl faster than any of the
others can run.  I've had it from the boy that does him.  They've tried
him on the time test to be twenty-one pounds better than Ormonde.  He's
a little faster than The Tetrarch in the first five furlongs, and he
stays.  If you don't mind, I'll have the five pounds in advance,
because I know a reliable bookmaker, and you mightn't get paid."

Mr. Vennett compromised with three pounds ten; and, miraculous as it
may appear, Star of Sachem won by three length pulling up, and started
at 20 to 1.

Educated Evans had his fiver on the third, which had been given to him
by a man who knew the proprietor of a public-house where the owner
called for his midday lunch, which was invariably served in a tankard.

It was drawing near to the end of the week when Mrs. Lee called at the
police station, and had the good fortune to meet "The Miller" as he was
coming out.  Her eyes were red, and she was quivering with natural
indignation.

"That fellow, Ginger Vennett," she began without preliminary, "has run
away with the girl at the sweet shop, and I want him pinched for taking
my wedding ring for the purpose.  Of all the dirty, lying, falsifying,
perjurious hounds in the world, he's the worst!  He's a snout,
'Miller,' and you know it!  Didn't he tell me that he gave away Modder?
And to think that I've been nourishing a viper, so to speak, in my
bosom--if you'll excuse the language; but this is not the time to be
mock-modest.

"To think of all I've done for that man, and how I've turned out of my
own room for him, and given him the best of food to eat when he was
broke, and my poor, dear husband on the moor worrying his heart out
about his poor, dear wife and dear innocent children...."

When "The Miller" could get a few words in, those few words were of a
nature which left Mrs. Lee in a condition bordering upon hysteria.
Educated Evans was not in much better case when "The Miller" called on
him.

"They say he got twenty-two hundred pounds out of Isaacheim," said
Educated Evans in a voice that trembled.  "Twenty-two
hundred--lovaduck!  And I give it to him!  And all I got was four
pounds, and ten bob of that was snide!  I had a wire from him from
Margate to-day, and he wants to know what'll win the Brighton Cup.

"And I dare not send it, Mr. Challoner," he said earnestly; "I simply
dare not send it for fear of the damned thing winning!  There's one in
the race that will die of heart disease if they go too fast, but if I
send it to Ginger it'd walk home alone!"

"Try it," said "The Miller" urgently.  "That woman says he's got such
faith in you now that he'll do anything you tell him."

So Evans wrote a wire, which ran:


Little Sambo in Brighton Cup absolutely unbeatable.  Take no notice of
the market.  Fear nothing; go for a fortune, and don't forget your old
pal, Educated Evans.


At three o'clock, when the runners came up with the result, "Miller"
and Evans stood side by side at the corner of Tottenham Court Road--the
extent of "The Miller's" jurisdiction.  Two boys came at once, and
Evans snatched at the nearest and opened the paper with feverish
haste--Little Sambo was unplaced!

"Gotcher!" chortled Evans in triumph.

"The Miller" was looking at his newspaper.  He was reading _The Evening
News_, Evans had _The Star_.

"What do you mean--gotcher?" snarled "The Miller," and read: "All
probables ran except Little Sambo!"




V

MR. KIRZ BUYS A 5 SPECIAL

In an inner waistcoat pocket, buttoned and rebuttoned, Mr. Jan Kirz
kept a five-pound note.  Later he grew careless and carried it folded
in the top right-hand pocket of that same waistcoat.  He would have
been wise to have burnt it, as some of the Scottish bookmakers burn
their clients' money when the horses they back win at a long price.
But he was mean, and the sight of a fiver blazing in the grate would
have broken his heart.

Mr. Jan Kirz had, in his time, been American, Dutch, Swiss and Russian.
His birthplace was unknown, but it is a fact that during the war he had
lived for many months at Alexandra Palace whilst the authorities were
disentangling the mystery of his origin.  In the end he was released
and ordered to report at the nearest police station at regular
intervals.

About every other week during that period of strife, it was reported
that he had been shot in the Tower.  A fishmonger in the High Street,
who, by reason of his sporting associations, hobnobbed with swells in
the West End, had been shown (by a deputy assistant provost-marshal) a
cartridge case with "Kirz" engraved on the outside.  So that when Mr.
Kirz came back to Camden Town, bearing no signs of having been
executed, there was a great deal of disappointment.

Always a wealthy man, the owner of a fine house in Mornington Gardens,
he grew in prosperity with the years, and was one of the most
consistent, as well as one of the most unsatisfactory, of Educated
Evans' clients.

For such was the perversity of fate that he only backed the losers that
the learned man sent forth.

"Ah, my poor Effens," said Mr. Kirz sorrowfully, meeting the educated
one--Evans had taken up a position at the corner of Mornington Gardens
so that he couldn't be missed--"and to t'ink dat you gafe me Colly Eyes
und I did not pack it!  I fought of it fife minutes before der race und
den I vergot!  Ach! it is terriple hard luck.  Und after packing two of
your losers!"

Evans was not unnaturally annoyed, for he had an arrangement with Mr.
Kirz whereby he drew the odds to a pound on every horse which his
patron backed.

"I won't go so far as to say that it's capable negligence--to use a
legal expression--on your part, Mr. Kirz," he said, "but I've got a
mouth.  And my information costs money.  I got this horse from the boy
that does him, an' _that_ costs me a pony.  I've got me office to keep
up an' advertising, and one thing and another----"

"My poor Effens!" sympathised Mr. Kirz--he was a stout man with
close-cropped hair, and was subject to asthma--"dis is derrible!  But
der nex' time you git me one, dere is der odds to _two_ bound!"

So Evans had to be content.

Mr. Kirz was by profession a printer and stationer.  His premises were
known as "The Old England Cheap Printing Company," and he did a
considerable sporting business, though it was rare to find his imprint
upon the printing he sent forth.  Hamburg and Continental
philanthropists, anxious to benefit the British public to an incredible
extent, found in Mr. Kirz a willing assistant.  He specialised in
lottery announcements, snide sweepstakes, and other documents of an
illicit nature.

Everybody in Camden Town knew this: the police knew it as well as
anybody, and had paid surprise visits to the Old England Printing
Works.  But by the side of the two machines engaged in this practice
was a square opening in the wall, for all the world like a service
lift.  And at the first hint of trouble, every printed sheet and the
forme from which it was struck was cast into the hole and fell to the
cellar.  And in the cellar was a large furnace which was kept going,
winter and summer, to maintain the hot-water supply.

And that is what the police did not know--in fact, nobody knew it
except three compositors whose names ended in "ski" (Mr. Kirz printed a
Russian newspaper) and three machinemen whose names, curiously enough,
concluded with "heim."  And so Mr. Kirz grew wealthy, for, in addition
to these, he had a valuable side line.

One morning "The Miller" called on Mr. Kirz at his handsome and
palatial residence in Mornington Gardens, and, being a plain man, he
came to the point at once.

"Mr. Kirz, you are in touch with all the wrong 'uns in London; who is
working all this 'phoney' money?"

He used the American term for "counterfeit" because Mr. Kirz had
originally come from the United States.

"Phoney money is derrible."  Mr. Kirz shook his head gravely.  "Dat is
one of der most derrible dings dat a mans can do.  It striges at der
root of gommercial gonfidence----"

"Don't let us discuss high finance," pleaded "The Miller."  "Where does
it come from?  You ought to know; you do more snide printing than any
two men, and all the dirt of the town comes through your hands.  The
Danish Lottery prospectus was your last.  Now come across, Kirz.  Who
is the gentleman who is turning out fivers numbered B/70 92533?"

"Gott knows," said Mr. Kirz.  "I haf offen tought dat Education Evans
did somet'ing of dat--he has a quiet blace in Bayham Mews, hein?  He
goes to der race-gourse where it is bossible to change----"

"Educated Evans is not that kind of man," said "The Miller" quietly;
"it is one of the West End crowd.  Is it Podulski?"  He named, one
after another, certain of Mr. Kirz's acquaintances, and at each mention
the stout gentleman shook his head.

"If I know, I tell," he said.  "I would not soil my hands wit' such
wickedness.  Und as to der Copenhagen lottery, dat is not my business.
I ask you to gome and see my plant--any tay, any night.  It is a
scandoulness dat I am evil spoken of."

"The Miller" had not hoped for any great success in this quarter,
though he was certain that Kirz, who knew the foreign-speaking
underworld, could have given him a hint.  Most discreetly, he did not
tell Educated Evans that suspicion had been attached to his fair name.

"The Miller" was not alone in his distress of mind.  His unhappiness
was shared by an Assistant-Commissioner of Police, several
Superintendents, and the disorder even spread to the sacred precincts
of Whitehall.  There never were better forgeries than this batch of
five-pound notes which had come into circulation, and had it not been
for the fact that they all bore the same number detection would have
been impossible.

The paper was perfect, the watermark, with its secret gradations, was
copied exactly.  The notes felt good and looked good, and had been
unloaded, not only on the Continent, but in London itself.  There was
not a bookmaker who did not take two or three in the course of a week.
They had been changed at banks, at railway stations, theatres, even at
post offices, where five-pound notes are never tendered without
involving the man who offers them in an atmosphere of suspicion.

In such moments of crisis, the Home Secretary sends for the Chief
Commissioner of Police and says: "This is very serious," and hints that
the responsibility rests with the Chief Commissioner.  And that worthy
passes the kick down until it reaches quite unimportant
detective-constables.

The kick came to Sergeant Challoner with direct force, for the
forgeries had appeared more frequently in Camden Town than elsewhere.

That evening he went in search of "The World's Premier Turf Adviser."

The western skies were streaked with eau de nil and the softest pink,
and Educated Evans lounged, with his arms folded on the stone parapet,
his chin resting on his elbow, absorbing the glory of the sunset.  The
Thames or the Albert Embankments drew him as a magnet attracts steel
filings.  The vague unease which disturbs the soul of genius was
soothed to a dreamy languor, the dark and sinister thoughts that assail
men of imagination were dissipated by the serenity of the scene.

Day after day, when business was slack or fortune turned a broad back
upon his wooings, and the inexplicable failure of his selections had
warped and soured his gentle nature, this man of learning turned his
steps instinctively to the solace of the steel-grey river and the
dun-coloured horizons of London.  And here he would stand and dream,
and watch with eyes that were comforted, yet did not see the ceaseless
traffic that passed to Thames River through the Pool.

When his professional duties allowed, Sergeant Challoner would detach
himself from his proper sphere and enjoy a two-fold pleasure.  For here
he could satisfy his sthetic yearnings and enjoy the society of one
who, by reason of his erudition and intimate acquaintance with
thoroughbred horses, was respected from Holloway Road to Albany Street.
Sometimes the knowledge that he could find Evans in a certain place at
a given time was of the greatest value.

Glancing sideways, Educated Evans saw the broad-shouldered figure
approaching, but did not move.

"Making up a poem, Evans?" said "The Miller," leaning on the parapet by
his side.

"No, Mr. Challoner; poetry was never in my line--do you believe in
divine guidance, if you'll pardon the expression?"

"The Miller" was startled.

"Yes, I believe in divine guidance.  Why?"

"For three nights in succession," said Educated Evans dreamily,
"there's been a tip in the sky.  Look at it!  Pink an' green
stripes--Solly Joel's got two in the Jubilee, an' the question is,
which?  Last month, when I was standing on this very spot, I see a
black cloud and a white cloud on top of it, an' Lord Derby won the
Liverpool Cup.  Another time there was nothing but yeller and pink, and
up popped Lord Rosebery's horse at Warwick.  If that ain't fate, what
is?"

"The Miller" was more than startled--he was staggered.

"I can't think of anything more unlikely," he protested, "than that
Providence arranges the sunset for the benefit of your dirty-necked
punters."

Evans shook his head.

"You never know," he said.  "There's things undreamt of in your
theosophy, as Horatio Bottomley said--I wonder how the old boy's
gettin' on?  What a lad!  Don't it make you feel solemn, 'Miller,'
watchin' the river goin' down, so to speak, to the sea?  Flowin'
straight away to Russia an' Arabia, an' other foreign places until it
forms the famous Gulf Stream that causes the seasons, summer an'
winter.  Carryin' the ships that go here and there----"

"Have you been drinking?" asked "The Miller" suspiciously.

"If I met a glass of beer in the street I shouldn't reckernise it,"
said Educated Evans, "it's so long since I saw one.  No, I'm dealin'
with hypo-thesis an' conjectures.  What won the three-thirty, Mr.
Challoner?"

"Coleborn," replied "The Miller," and Evans heaved a deep and happy
sigh.

"That's the second I've given this week," he said almost cheerfully.
"I simply didn't dare to wait for the paper.  Any price?"

"Five to two," said "The Miller."  "I backed it."

A look of peace and calm lay upon the melancholy face of Educated Evans.

"What a beauty!" he murmured.  "There'll be sore hearts in the
synagogue to-morrer!  Five to two.  An' sent out on my five pound Job
Wire to a hundred and forty-three clients!"

"How many?"

"Forty-three--an' _all_ payers!  I'm certain of ten, anyway.  Nine, not
counting Kirz, an' if he twists me again he's off my list for good!"

"Do you know anything about Kirz?" asked "The Miller," regarding a
passing tug with such a fixity of stare that nobody would have guessed
that he had any interest in the answer.  "What is he?"

Evans sniffed.

"It depends whether he acts honourable," he said cautiously, "as to
whether he's an educated American gentleman or a dirty 'Un--if you'll
forgive the vulgarity."

"Does a bit of funny printing on the quiet, doesn't he?" asked "The
Miller," still absorbed in the tug.

"I don't know anybody's business but me own," said Educated Evans, with
emphasis.  "As Looy the Fifteenth said to the Black Prince, so called
because, bein' a lord, he swore he wouldn't wash his neck till
Gibraltar was taken, 'Honny swar,' he says, 'key mally pence'--meanin'
that if you don't stick your nose where it's not wanted, you won't get
it punched.  After which, accordin' to statements in the Press, he
never smiled again.  That's history."

"Sounds like Comic Cuts to me," said "The Miller."  "And it doesn't
answer my question.  What do you think about him?"

"I'll tell you to-night," said Educated Evans significantly.

In the evening he took his best tie out of the boot-box (wherein were
stored his most precious possessions, such as a cigarette end that the
Prince of Wales had thrown away and a racing plate worn by the mighty
Bart Snowball, Prince of Platers), and hied him to Mornington Gardens.
Mr. Kirz was not at home.  Nobody knew when he would be home.  Nobody
knew where he was.  Slam!  The door closed in his face.

"Common slavery!" said Educated Evans, and proceeded to search the
town.  Mr. Kirz was not at the Arts and Graces Club, and he wasn't in
the resplendent private saloon of the White Hart, nor yet in the Blue
Boar lounge.  The dogged searcher turned westward, and by great good
fortune overtook Mr. Kirz as he was coming out of the Empire.  Mr. Kirz
was wearing the garments of festivity.  His shirt-front was white and
glossy, and on his head was a shining silk hat.

"Ah!  My poor Effens!" he began.

"Not so much of that 'poor Evans,'" snarled that exasperated man.  "You
'phoned the bet when I was with you, an' unless Isaacheim's dead,
you're _on_!"

Mr. Kirz was embarrassed; there were with him two other gentlemen, and
in the background hovered a lady in crimson chiffon velvet, who flashed
and sparkled to such an extent that it appeared that she had been
rolling down a diamond heap and most of them had stuck.

"To-morrow, to-morrow, my Effens," said Mr. Kirz in a whisper.  "I
cannot dalk pusiness now."

"You owe me five pound," said Evans loudly.  "You've kept me messing
and mucking about for weeks, an' you're off my list!  Pay me what you
owe me, you perishin' 'Un, or I won't leave you!"

"My dear goot man----" began Mr. Kirz, holding up his hands in horror
at this unsought publicity.

"An' don't start 'camaradin'' me, because it's no good.  You're worse
than Shylock Holmes, you are.  Pay--me--what--chew--owe--me!"

Mr. Kirz, his face purple, his hands trembling, searched his pocket.

"Dake it!" his hissed.  "An' neffer led me see your ugly face again!
As for your dips, dey are rodden!"

Evans retorted long after his client was out of hearing, and would have
continued retorting if it had not been for the arrival of a policeman.

"Hop it," said the man in blue.

Evans hopped it.

He was a happy man, and strode with a free step, his head held high,
when he came back to his own land.  So proud and haughty was he that he
would have passed "The Miller" without noticing him.

"Come to earth--you!" said "The Miller."  "What's the matter?"

Evans turned back.

"I've got my dues out of that low alien," he said.

"And what were your dues, Evans?"

"Five of the best."  Evans produced a crumpled note.  "It's gettin' a
bit thick when you've got to go down on your knees to ask for your
own!" he said.  "An' to think that the likes of me _fought_ for the
likes of him!"

"I don't remember seeing you on the Somme," said "The Miller" (who was
there), "or hobnobbing with you at Toc H."

"I was a special constable," said Evans with dignity, and the reply
brought a little needed laughter into "The Miller's" life.

"Let me see that fiver," he asked suddenly, and after a second's
hesitation Evan passed it to him.

"There's no other policeman in the world that I'd trust with money," he
said offensively.

"The Miller" looked at the note and whistled.

"Dud!" he said, and a cold shiver ran down the spine of Educated Evans.

"You don't mean it?" he quavered.

"I do mean it--look at the number, 6/70 92533--it's the number of all
the dud notes on the market.  Let me keep this----"

"Let you keep it!" snorted Evans.  "Am I sufferin' from lack of
education and self-respect?  I'm going to see this hero Kirz, an' I'm
going to tear his pleadin' heart from his pleadin' body!"

"Language, language!" murmured "The Miller."

"I'm goin' to get reparations from Germany," said Evans more calmly,
"even if I have to search his pockets, the same as the celebrated Lloyd
George said.  I'm goin'----"

"You're going to do nothing.  Give me that note.  You shall have it
back."

"I don't want it back," wailed Evans.  "I want money!"

It took a great deal of persuasion to induce him to part.  He went home
eventually, his outlook warped and blackened by the misfortune which
had come to him.

Educated Evans lived in two rooms over a stable.  The apartment was
approached by a flight of stairs from the mews below, and the railed
landing produced a slight balcony effect and added a touch of the
romantic, which was very pleasing to Evans in his more sentimental
moods.

He went in, slammed the door, and went to bed without troubling to
light the gas.  There was no need, for he invariably hung his clothes
on the floor.  He had fallen into a troubled sleep and dreamt.

It was about an august personage whom it would be improper to mention.
He dreamt that he had been sent for to Buckingham Palace, and had
travelled there in a coach of state, throwing his cards out of the
window to the cheering throng.  At the Palace he had been arrayed in a
long robe of pink and green stripes by a bearded gentleman, who had
shaken him by the hand and insisted upon Evans calling him Solly, and
then he had been ushered into a crimson and purple chamber with a black
ceiling and gold-braided carpet, and the august person had bid him
kneel.  Evans sank gracefully to one knee, and the august person had
said:

"Arise, Sir Educated Evans, England's Premier Turf Adviser and Sporting
Awthority?  And don't forget that Daydawn is a pinch for the Friary
Nursery."

There was a thunder of applause.  All the Little princes were knocking
their heels against the sideboard.  So insistent was the noise that Sir
Educated awoke and asked medivally:

"Who knocks?"

"Open the toor, Mr. Effens.  It is Mr. Kirz--it is of der gr-reatest
importance."

Evans rose and put on his trousers and shoes and lit the gas.

"Come in," he said, wide awake.  "I suppose you've come to act
honourable about that dud fiver?"

"Inteet I haf!" replied Mr. Kirz.  He was pale and damp, and in his
shaking hand he already held a five-pound note.  Evans took it.

"It was a gread mistake," said Mr. Kirz, holding out his hand
expectantly.  "I knew I had dat bad one.  And when I missed him I say,
'Oh, my Gott!  I give it to Edugated Effens!'  Where is it?"

Evans shook his head.

"The police have got it," he said.

Mr. Kirz went yellow and staggered against the wall.

"Mind that washandstand," warned Evans, "it's new.  Yes, my friend 'The
Miller's' got it--Mr. Challoner, that is to say, and a nicer man never
drew the breath of life."

For "The Miller" was standing in the open doorway, and, following the
direction of Evans' gaze, Mr. Kirz turned.

"I want you, Kirz," said "The Miller."  "Will you step round to the
station and have a talk with our inspector?"

"I dit not know dat note was forged," said Mr. Kirz, quivering.

"It wasn't," said "The Miller" tersely.  "It was a good one--the one
you've been making plates from--I found the plant in your cellar at
Mornington Gardens."

      *      *      *      *      *

One of the principal witnesses for the Crown stepped into the
witness-box and kissed the Book affectionately.

"What is your name and profession?" asked the clerk.

"My name's Educated Evans, and I'm commonly known as England's Premier
Turf Adviser and the Wizard of North-West Three.  I gave Braxted, Eton
Boy (what a beauty I), Irish Elegance, Music Hall, Granely and
Sangrail...."

"You nearly got yourself _hung_," said "The Miller" after the
proceedings were adjourned.  "And, by the way, I'd better give you
another fiver for this one we've got--we shall want it as an exhibit.
Kirz didn't give you another one, did he?"

"If he did," said the diplomatic Evans, "he owed me another--and more!"




VI

MICKY THE SHOPPER

Educated Evans was sitting in Regent's Park one morning, watching the
ducks and waiting for inspiration.  It was a day in late May, and the
hawthorn bushes were frothy with blossoms, pink and white.  There was
sunshine on the yellow paths and a tang in the air, for the summer was
late in coming, and the world was young and fresh, and smelt clean.
And the entries for the Royal Hunt Cup were public knowledge.

Educated Evans was pondering the inexplicable workings of fate that had
brought to favouritism for the Derby a horse that he was reserving for
his 5 outsider, when he heard the steady pacing of feet, and, looking
up, saw a broad-shouldered man with a straw between his teeth.

"Good-morning, Mr. Challoner," he said politely, and Detective-Sergeant
Challoner sat down by his side.

"I was wondering whether Amboya can give St. Morden ten pound," said
Educated Evans.

"I thought you were turning over some crime," said "The Miller."
"Amboya is a dog-horse anyway, and if you think you can forestall
Yardley, you are booked for a jar."

Educated Evans pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"Mysteries are repugnant to me," he said, "though I've nothing to say
against Yardley.  The question is: IS this Amboya's journey?  There's a
lot of betting on the event--the foolish public dashes in without
advice from experts, and prognosticators, with the result that Amboya
is six to one.  But will he or she win?  I've got news about a Thing
that will come home alone if he runs up to his trial--come--home alone."

"In a false start?" suggested "The Miller."

"In a true start," corrected Evans gravely.  "This Thing could get left
twenty lengths and stop to bite the starter and then win.  It's the
pinch of the century.  Some of the widest men who go racing have been
backin' this Thing for weeks--before the weights come--before the
entries was published."

"I'll buy it," said the interested "Miller."

"That's the only way anybody will get it," stated Evans determinedly.
"It's cost me many a sleepless night.  I've been toutin' the stable an'
watching this Thing at exercise, and the way he goes--with his head on
his chest!"

"Forgive my ignorance," said "The Miller," "but wouldn't he go as well
if his head was at the end of his neck?"

"I'm speakin' metaphor or figure of speech," said Evans, lighting his
cigar.  It had the appearance of having been picked up after being
severely trodden on.  "It's Catskin."

"The Miller" made a scoffing noise.

"You've been listening to the newspaper boys," he said scathingly.
"Catskin has been a street corner tip for weeks.  And it doesn't run."

Educated Evans raised his eyebrows.

"Indeed!" he asked politely.  "And who might have told you that?"

"The owner," said "The Miller."  "I'll admit that he shouldn't know as
much about it as you, but possibly he's had information about Catskin
from the boy who does him.  And he's under the impression that Catskin
has picked up a nail at exercise and is lame."

"He's wrong," said Evans, with great calmness.  "That horse will run
and win.  He's the kind of horse that a nail or two wouldn't worry."

"The trainer told Mr. Oliver," said "The Miller," "that Catskin
wouldn't run again this year; and the boy that does him says so, too,"
he added ingeniously.

This was indeed convincing.  The owner might not know, the trainer
could be honestly mistaken; but the boy who did Catskin was evidence
beyond question.

"That Mulcay is _hot_!" said Evans, harking back to the trainer.  And
here he spoke so incontrovertible a truth that "The Miller" could not
contradict him.  Micky Mulcay came from Ireland, a country which has
given us so many fine, sporting, open-hearted and honest trainers.

By this description Micky would not have been known to his intimate
friends.  If he had trained for the "clever division," or for dubious
owners, he would not have lasted on the Turf for ten minutes.  But he
had the intelligence to accept in his little stable of Parlhampton only
the horses of men of the greatest integrity, men whose names were
synonymous with honour and straight dealing.

They made an excellent frieze about the wall of the Steward's room when
he was called to explain the running of Cabbage Rose one hectic day at
Kempton.  The Stewards accepted his explanation--("They ought to have
given him somethin' from the poor box," said Educated Evans
sardonically)--and thereafter none questioned his doings.  Micky was a
philosopher, who realised that life was short and money hard to come
by.  Over his desk was hung the motto, "Make hay while the sun shines."
And he made it--even when it was raining.

Owners who do not bet heavily like to see their horses win whenever
they can.  Micky liked to see them win when his wife, his
brothers-in-law and a couple of trusted friends had slipped in as many
wires to S.P. merchants as the Post Office could deal with.  No wise
man ever backed a horse from Micky's stable if Micky, his wife, his
brothers-in-law and his trusty friends were on the course, however
sanguine he was.

Micky was the man who invented the phrase: "Horses are not machines."
It was Educated Evans who furnished the historic reply: "It's a good
job for all concerned that they're not talking machines.

"That Mulcay is that hot," said Evans again, "he'd keep a room warm.
Catskin could doddle it!  But is Micky's money down?"

"The Miller" shook his head.

"I saw Lord Claverley at the Midland--I went down on duty, though why I
give you intimate information I don't know," he said.  "And Micky
wouldn't shop his lordship."

The lips of Educated Evans curled in a sneer.

"Micky would shop his own young lady Sunday-school teacher," he said.
"Every time he passes the Zoo the snakes stand up and touch their hats
to him.  That feller's so underhanded that he can steal with his toes.
There's only one man he wouldn't shop, an' that's Micky Mulcay, bless
him!"

Educated Evans did not say "bless him."

"I don't like your expressions of hate," said "The Miller," rising to
go.  "Anyway, Evans, you can count out Catskin."

"If the boy that does him says so, I suppose it's right," said Evans,
and, left alone to his own reflections, gave his mind up to the problem
of the Derby Stakes.

A few days after the Derby was won, Catskin ran at a Midland meeting
and was beaten by a moderate horse.  He started at 6 to 4 on.  His Hunt
Cup price had been 100-6.  It drifted to 25-1.

Evans observed the change with no great interest, until one afternoon,
when he was strolling down Regent Street in order to be near the
Piccadilly Tube when a Lingfield result came up, he saw Mr. Micky
Mulcay and his brother-in-law.  They were walking at a slow pace past
the Piccadilly Hotel, and Evans, who never lost an opportunity of
acquiring information, crossed the road and came very slowly past them,
his eyes fixed on the ground, his mind apparently occupied with weighty
matters.

And as he passed, he heard Micky say in his inimitable brogue:

"Sure; try Hereford, but be certain, Dennis, that the post office is
open on Wednesday.  Some of these country offices----"

That is all Evans heard, and his heart beat thumpingly.  Hereford....
post office ... Wednesday!

Instinctively he filled in the gaps.  They were backing Catskin S.P.!
His soul grew jubilant at the thought of all that this knowledge meant
to him.

And then Evans was seized with a sudden resolve to do something he had
never done before in his life.  That evening he left for Steynebridge,
five miles from which historic market town was situated the training
quarters of Mr. Mick Mulcay.

It is sad to relate that Educated Evans had never before seen a
training ground, if we except Newmarket and Epsom.  And the ways of
stables were as much of a mystery to him as the breakfast tastes of
Tut-ankh-Amen.  Fortunately, he secured a bed at the inn which was
nearest the stable; more fortunately still, Catskin was the one horse
in all the wide world that Educated Evans could have recognises without
colours and number-cloth.  It was a bay with three white legs.  But for
this fact Evans might never have made the journey.

He was up at daybreak, and tramped across the downs to where, if local
report be accurate, Mr. Mulcay exercised his string.  And sure enough,
soon after five, there appeared in the distance a long train of sheeted
horses, moving at a hand canter.

When they had gone past him there came, at a terrific pace, three
horses, the first of whom was undoubtedly Catskin.  The little boy who
rode the horse was trying to pull him up, and after he had passed Evans
by a hundred yards he succeeded, and turning back to meet Mr. Mulcay
himself, very red in the face, and galloping at full speed on his hack.

"What the hell do you mean by galloping the horse when I told you to
canter?" he demanded furiously, and his ready whip fell on the small
boy's shoulder.

Evans watched, interested, for the boy was the stable apprentice,
Lakes, who usually rode Mr. Mulcay's horses when they were not trying
as hard as they ought.  He was still interested when Mulcay turned
round and came trotting towards him.

"Who are ye?" he said violently.  "And what are ye doing here?  Get off
my ground."

"If you'll allow me to argue the matter with you," said Educated Evans
with dignity.  "I----"

_Smack_.

The whip fell on Educated Evans' shoulders, and for a moment he was
paralysed with wrath and astonishment.  And then, with a roar, he leapt
at his attacker.  Mr. Mulcay might be a very dishonest man, but he was
an excellent horseman, and the whip fell again, this time on a more
tender portion of Mr. Evans' anatomy.

"I'll get you warned off for this!" snorted Evans.  "I'll learn you,
you----!"

It would be unwise to record faithfully all that Educated Evans said on
the spur of the moment and in the heat of his annoyance.

"I don't allow anybody to come touting my horses," said Mr. Mulcay with
that sublime air of majesty which sits so easily upon an Irish trainer,
and is even more appropriate in an Australian.  "You get off and stay
off!"

Evans very wisely obeyed.  All the way back to town he was engaged in
the humiliation of Micky Mulcay.  In his imagination he saw the tyrant
begging his bread on the street, and passed him by without so much as a
tip for the next day's seller.  But he carried with him another memory
than his own embarrassment.  He remembered the malignity on the face of
Master Lakes, and the wild fury of that small boy struck a sympathetic
chord in Educated Evans' nature.

He took the earliest opportunity of seeking out "The Miller."

"That horse is going to win, Mr. Challoner," he said, "and it's up to
me to spoil the blighter's market!  When he saw me he nearly dropped
dead!  I'm sorry he didn't.  He's got that horse all ready, and he's
going to shop his pals for the Royal Hunt Cup as sure as my name is
Educated Evans, the World's Premier Turf Adviser!"

"You should have kept away from Steynebridge," said "The Miller"
wisely.  "None of these trainers like to have their horses touted."

"I'll tout him all right," hissed Educated Evans, and when he was
really annoyed, which was seldom, he was very annoyed.  He would spend
money--what was a pound here or there?--to bring his enemy to his knees.

He had, not so much a friend as a dependent, a man who had seen better
days, an elderly, crimson-faced man, who was known as "Old Joe."  As he
had not been convicted, it never transpired what his other name might
be.  He smoked shag in a short clay pipe, helped potmen and lived on
beer.  Nobody had ever seen him eat anything else.

An Old Joe is attached to almost every public-house in Great Britain.
They are the pensioners of the publican, a mysterious body of
red-faced, greasy-collared guardian angels, who stand with their backs
to the wall and brood on the days when carmen drove horses and horse
feed was part of the refreshment that every pub supplied.

Educated Evans sent for Joe, and he came uneasily from his self-imposed
task of supporting the walls of the "White Hart."

"Me go down to Hereford!" he gasped, shocked.  "Why, I've never been
out of London in my life, Mr. Evans."

"You'll go out now," said Evans firmly, "and you'll do what I tell you."

He explained.

"Send me a wire to the paddock at Ascot the moment you see the number
of telegrams put in by that perisher's brother-in-law.  They won't be
handed in till a quarter of an hour before the race.  If you're in the
post office then, you can't miss spottin' 'em.  All I want you to do is
to wire me the number of telegrams this here Mulcay's brother-in-law
sends away."

Old Joe took a great deal of convincing, but, on learning that there
were several public-houses in Hereford, and that West-country beer was
of surprisingly good quality, he left.  The journey was going to cost
Educated Evans 4, but what was money?

The principal patron of Mulcay's stable was Lord Claverley.  He was a
man who plunged very occasionally and he plunged only on the advice of
his trainer.  If there was one thing of which Lord Claverley was
certain before the Royal Hunt Cup, it was that Catskin would not win.
He not only told his friends, he told his servants, he told his
chauffeur; he whispered the words in the ears of illustrious princes
and potentates.  Catskin gradually drifted out in the preliminary
market until it was either 40 to 1 or 33 to 1, according to the
temperament and honesty of the layer.

Educated Evans very seldom went to Ascot.  When he did, he invariably
gave the paddock a miss; but on this occasion he decided that the
circumstances warranted an extra outlay, and, with a groan, he paid the
terrific sum demanded by the Ascot executive, and gained for himself a
small chocolate shield, which, pinned to the lapel of his coat,
admitted him either to Tattersall's or the paddock.

"The Miller," in a top hat and smart morning coat, saw the unhappy
figure leaning against the rails, and approached him.

"You're not in the Royal Enclosure this year, Evans?" he said.

"No, Mr. Challoner," said Evans, without annoyance.  "My invitation
didn't come.  I wouldn't have known you," he added with respectful
admiration.  "You look like a gentleman."

"If I didn't think that insult was wholly unintentional," said "The
Miller," good-humouredly, "I should be offended.  Well, have you backed
your Catskin?"

"For every penny in the wide, wide world," said Evans, emphatically.
"I've sent it out to three thousand two hundred and forty clients, and
I've been sittin' up two nights doing it.  This Catskin is not only a
pinch, it's a squinch!  It's the greatest certainty there's been since
that hurdle race at Hurst Park--three runners and one trying.  You know
the one I mean."

"The Miller" shook his head.

"None of the stable are backing him," he said.

"The stable!" sneered Educated Evans.  "I could tell you something
that'd make your hair stand up.  I could make your eyeballs roll!  Mr.
Miller, I'm going to see Lord Claverley."

"The Miller" stared at him.

"You'll get yourself pinched," he warned; but this threat had no effect
upon Evans.

He knew Lord Claverley by sight, having seen his portrait in the
illustrated newspapers, and when the saddling bell was ringing for the
Hunt Cup, he saw his lordship walking alone, and seized the opportunity.

"I beg your pardon, m'lord," he said, touching his hat.  "You've
probably heard of me.  I'm Educated Evans, the World's Prime Minister
of Tippery."

Lord Claverley looked at him, and his eyes twinkled.

"Oh, you are, are you?" he said.  "I'm afraid I can give you no tips,
my man."

"I don't want any, me lord."  Evan's voice was solemn and convincing.
"I want to give you one.  Back Catskin!"

For a moment Lord Claverley looked at him as though he were undecided
as to whether he should call a policeman and have him thrown on or
across the spikes to the course, or whether he should be greatly amused.

"You're wrong, my friend," he said, quietly.  "Catskin isn't fancied.
That's all I can tell you."

He was turning away, when Evans urgently caught his arm.

"Me lord," he said agitatedly, "don't you take any notice of what they
say about Catskin; it'll win!  Mulcay would double-cross the ghost of
his grandmother!  I tell you it'll win, and it will win!"

Even Lord Claverley was impressed.

"You're altogether wrong, Mr.--er--Evans," he said.  "But I'm afraid I
can't discuss the matter with you."

Evans wormed a way through the elegantly dressed ladies at the rails to
watch the field parade.  Amboya was a hot favourite; Catskin, with the
stable apprentice, Lakes, in the saddle, was at any price.  The mere
presence of an apprentice up, instead of the fashionable jockey who
usually rode for the stable, was sufficient to put off 999 out of every
thousand punters.  But Evans was not put off.  That stalwart man
invested his last farthing at the longest price he could wring from the
perspiring magnates of Tattersall's.

It was from the reserved lawn that he saw the race, and no very
detailed description is necessary.  Catskin was the first to appear
above the crest of the hill; he stayed in front throughout, and he won
in a hack canter by six lengths.  Amboya was second.

Educated Evans trod on air as he rushed back to the paddock to see the
winner led in.  Three faces he saw.  Mulcay's was green; he walked like
a man in a dream.  Lord Claverley's face was like thunder.  Only on the
cherubic countenance of the jockey was there a look of happiness
amounting almost to ecstasy.

It was not a popular victory.  That it was one of Mulcay's famous
"shops" no man on the course doubted.  Lord Claverley did not speak to
Mulcay, but a look passed between them which made the trainer squirm.
And then his lordship caught sight of Evans.

"You're the man I want," he said, and led the shabby figure away from
the crowd.  "Now tell me all you know about this.  Why were you so
certain this horse would win?" he asked.

He had to listen, with such patience as he could command, whilst
Educated Evans recited his own virtues and the record of his past
successes, and then he heard all that that tipster had to tell.

"You say he's backed this horse 'away'--from Hereford?  Are you sure?"

"I can tell you in half an hour, me lord," said Evans importantly.  "My
agent at Hereford--I've got agents all over the shop and touts in every
stable----"

"Well, what about him?" asked Lord Claverley impatiently, for he was a
very angry man.

Half an hour later a bewildered Evans placed in the hands of his
lordship a telegram he had received, and it ran:


Three hundred telegrams handed in, all backing Amboya....

      *      *      *      *      *

"Of course, it may be as you say, Mr. Challoner," said Educated Evans
philosophically, "and it's very possible that Lakes _did_ shop the
stable by winning when he oughtn't to have been trying.  I won't say it
was from Lakes that I had my information; if I did, you wouldn't
believe me."

"I wouldn't," said "The Miller," "because you'd be lying."

"It's very likely," admitted Educated Evans.  "Perhaps Lakes was
gettin' even with him, the same as I was.  And to think that that
perishing horse-sweater was backing another one all the time!  That's
dishonesty if you like.  Downright thievery, I call it!  But fifty to
one!  What a beauty!  And all out of my own deductions.  From
information seen with my own eyes."

"Micky Mulcay has lost a lot of money," said "The Miller," who also had
sources of information, a little more reliable, however, than those
which were tapped by his companion.

"I wish he's lost it all," said Educated Evans viciously.  "All except
eighteen-pence--you can get a couple of yards of good rope for
eighteenpence anywhere."




VII

THE DREAMER

It is a popular delusion that certain clubs in London have a monopoly
of Turf transactions.  "There will be a 'call over' at the Omph Club,"
says a sporting paper; "To-night the Cambridgeshire card will be called
over at the Zimp Club," says another.  There is no mention of the
Cheese Club in Camden Town, and you might imagine from the character of
its membership that if there was any betting there it was so
insignificant as to be negligible.

Yet this is hardly the case, for the Cheese was quite an important
factor in the sporting world.  There were certain big layers in the
north whose agents never went south of the Euston Road; other layers of
fame who made the Cheese their headquarters and kept their agents at
the more pretentious clubs.

For the Cheese had come to be a vital clearing house, and even those
great bookmakers, Netting and Elgin, did not disdain the Cheese when
they had something particularly hot to lay off.  You could get a
"monkey" on a horse up to the "off" at the Cheese, and on big race days
find men in the club who would take 4,000 to 500 in one bet.

And yet the membership was as mixed as any club in the world.  Educated
Evans was a member; Billy Labock, who laid 20,000 to 20 the back-end
double, was a member: the Hon. Claud Messinger was a member--as hot a
member as ever drew the breath of life.

"It seems to me," said Educated Evans despondently, "that such an
article as domestic happiness and felicitous connubiality belongs to
the Greek Calendar--in other words, _non est_, if you understand the
language, Mr. Challoner?  And yet Camden Town is full of happy couples."

Detective-Sergeant Challoner nibbled his straw thoughtfully.

"To be happily married, I admit," continued the educated man, "you've
not only got to be as broad-minded as a parson at a raffle, but you've
also got to have the patience of Job--an' talking of Jobs, they're
workin' one at Gatwick this afternoon--the boy that does the horse says
he could fall down an' get up an' _then_ win."

"Not Toofick?"  "The Miller" was instantly alert.

"It _is_ Toofick--he's the biggest certainty we've had in racin' since
Tishy was beat.  Help yourself, an' don't forget that I've got a mouth."

"You were using it to discuss matrimony--who are you thinking about?"

Educated Evans fished the stump of a cigar from his overcoat pocket and
lit a match on the leg of his ill-fitting pants.

"Women may have the vote, but they'll never do that," he said.  "It's a
gift."

"If you know anybody in Camden Town who is happily married," said "The
Miller" deliberately, "I should like to know his or her name."

"I could name hundreds," said Evans, and his melancholy face grew more
dismal at the thought, "thousands even.  I'm not talking about
lovey-dovey happiness.  When I see a couple goin' on as if they're not
married, they usually ain't.  I'm talking from the depths of my
experience and education about people that the poets write about.  Two
minds with but a single horse, two hearts that bet as one--Tennyson or
Kiplin', I'm not sure which.  I haven't much time for poetry, what with
interviewin' owners an' jockeys----"

"Let us keep to facts," interrupted "The Miller."  "Who is happily
married amongst your extensive circle of victims, past and present?"

Educated Evans uttered a note of impatience.

"Would you say Mr. Joe Bean is happily married?" he challenged.

"The Miller" considered.

"His wife never strikes me as being hilariously pleased with life," he
said.

"I don't know whether she drinks or whether she doesn't," said Educated
Evans, "and it's not my business whether she gets hilarious--which
every educated man knows means 'soused.'  But she's happy.  She told me
the other day, when Joe was ill, that if he popped off she'd never lift
her head again."

"Because she'd forgotten to pay Joe's insurance money," said the
practical "Miller," chewing thoughtfully at the straw in his mouth.
"She told _me_ that!  Said she'd never forgive herself, and that she
hadn't been so careless since her first.  Who else?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Hallam Corbin."  Educated Evans pronounced the name with
self-conscious emphasis.  "You wouldn't know 'em, Mr. Challoner;
they're out of our class--got a house in Ampthill Square.  I know 'em
because they're reliable clients of mine.  Keep their own servant an'
thinkin' of buying a motor-car.  Class."

"The Miller" looked at his companion with a speculative eye.

"I know them too," he said shortly.  "Happily married, are they?  Well,
well."

Mr. and Mrs. Hallam Corbin had swum into the ken of Educated Evans as a
result of a publicity campaign undertaken by him.  This consisted of a
four-line foot-of-column announcement in all the leading sporting
dailies:


Well-known Commissioner, in touch with leading stables, would like to
hear from a few reliable sportsmen of unimpeachable integrity.  Only
educated people need apply.


In consequence he had heard from very unexpected persons, amongst whom
was Mr. Hallam Corbin.  Miraculously enough, the horse which that
well-known commissioner, Educated Evans, despatched to such reliable
sportsmen of unimpeachable integrity won in a trot at 6 to 1, and as
the odds were promised to 10s. by some two hundred "unimpeachables," he
made a profit of 60.  He ought to have made 600, but punters aren't
honest--not even as honest as tipsters.

Amongst those who acted honourable (Mr. Evans' own expression) were the
Hallam Corbins.  They sent him a fiver, which was more than his due,
and asked him to lunch at 375 Ampthill Square, which was a distinction
to Evans beyond his wildest dreams.  For Ampthill Square is more than
respectable--it is class.  People who live in Ampthill Square are Rich,
have Areas, and have as much as two quarts of milk by the first
delivery.  Some--indeed many--have motor-cars, wear evening dress, even
when they are in their own houses and are not expecting visitors.

Educated Evans had known Ampthill Square from his childhood.  He had
walked through it on summer Sunday evenings with and without a young
lady--little did he think that he'd ever be asked in by the front
door--and to dinner!  Even though the dinner was called lunch.

Mr. Corbin was of stout build and had livid pouches under his eyes.
Mrs. Hallam Corbin was stoutish and girlish.  She was the sort of lady
who was all good spirits and go.  You would never imagine she was more
than fifty-four; at the same time--and here Mrs. Corbin would have been
profoundly annoyed had she known--you would not have thought she was
any less.

Educated Evans dressed himself with unusual care.  For this occasion he
removed the sheaf of newspapers which permanently occupied his overcoat
pocket; he wore his pink and grey tie, and a stand-up collar which cut
his throat every time he turned his head.

A trim and good-looking maid opened the door to him, and he was ushered
into a drawing-room of surprising splendour.  A mirror which must have
been worth several pounds, a carpet of surpassing luxury, gilt
arm-chairs and settees, large and valuable palms standing on pedestals
that could not have been bought out of a five-pun note, rich velvet
curtains, and on the mantelpiece a confusing gold clock, the hands of
which pointed to half-past six (morning or evening, Evans did not
know), and surmounted by two ladies, who had evidently just come
straight from the bath and had mislaid their camisoles, reclining back
to back.  All these things Educated Evans took in with a glance.

Then Mr. Corbin came in, both hands outstretched.

"My dear Evans," he said, "I'm glad you have come.  My dear wife will
be glad."

"It's very kind of you," said Evans, coughing, self-conscious of the
pink and grey tie on which the dazed eyes of Mr. Corbin were resting.
"I must say I'm not much of a society man, though naturally, mixin', as
I do, with high-class trainers an' jockeys an' owners an' what not,
I've seen a bit of life.  I always say," said the learned man, "that
class is all right in its way, but give me education an' understandin'.
A lot of people that go about wearin' high collars and top hats haven't
got the slightest idea about physical geography, etymology, syntax, or
prosody, whilst if you get 'em on the subject of history their mind's a
blank, if you'll pardon the expression."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Corbin, who evidently took no interest in the
precious gift of education.  "Here is my dear wife."

His "dear wife" floated in at that moment and fell upon Educated Evans
to an alarming extent.

Contrary to the statements that had been made about the fabulous wealth
of the Corbins, the lunch was not served on gold plates, nor were there
twelve courses.  Mr. Corbin ate a chop; Mrs. Corbin toyed with a
cutlet; Evans, who did not feel that it was polite to eat in public,
nibbled an occasional pea.

When lunch was over the mystery of the invitation was solved.

"We've been discussing you," said Mr. Corbin soberly, as he pushed back
his plate and handed his cigar-case to Evans.  "As you probably know,
Mr. Evans, my dear wife is clairvoyant."

Evans nodded politely.

"Though I'm not a family man," he said, "I'm glad.  I think everybody
ought to have one or two children----"

"By 'clairvoyant,'" explained Mr. Corbin hastily, "I mean she is gifted
with second sight--she has visions of the unseen world."

"Goodness gracious!" said Evans, impressed.

"She has the power," said Mr. Hallam Corbin gravely, "of projecting her
spirit to the infinite and of roaming at will upon the planes of
ethereal nothingness!"

"Good Gawd!" said Evans, and shifted his chair a little farther away
from this alarming lady.

"She is in daily communication with Napoleon, Julius Csar, Alexander
the Great--you have heard of these famous people."

A faint smile lighted the gloom of Educated Evans.

"History is my weakness," he admitted.  "Give me a history book an'
I'll read for hours.  Solly Joel had a horse called Napoleon, but
naturally I'm too educated to make any mistake about your meaning.
You're referrin' to the celebrated French King that said 'Up, guards,
and at 'em!' in the days of the far-famed French revolution----"

"Exactly," replied Mr. Corbin, a little dazed.  "Exactly.  Now, my
love"--he turned to his wife--"perhaps you will tell our friend?"

He excused himself and went out of the room.  Mrs. Hallam Corbin's
smile was sweet, her manner most gracious.

"I'm sure you'll think we're very mercenary, dear Mr. Evans," she said,
and before Educated Evans could decide in his mind what was the correct
thing to say, she went on, "but my dear husband thinks that he ought to
make money out of my dreams."

"Your dreams, ma'am?"

She nodded.

"I dream winners," she said simply.  "Twice, often three times a week,
I dream winners.  I see numbers hoisted in the frame: I see colours
flash majestically past the post: I hear voices saying 'So-and-so has
won.'"

"Dear, dear!" said Evans, wondering why, in these circumstances, Mr.
Corbin subscribed to his five-pound special.  As though she read his
thoughts, she continued:

"I suppose you are asking yourself why we seek your clever advice?  Mr.
Evans, it is because we could not believe our good fortune, and we
simply had to have our dreams confirmed by the cleverest Turf adviser
of the day!"

Evans coughed.

At this point Mr. Corbin returned to take up the narrative, and became
severely practical and friendly.

"Now, Evans, my boy, what is the best way of exploiting my dear wife's
gift?  She had an extraordinary dream last night--saw a horse win at
Gatwick.  A horse called Too Thick.  We've searched the programme, but
no such horse is entered."

"Toofick!" said Educated Evans, trembling with excitement.  "And he's a
certainty!  That horse could fall down and get up and _then_ win!"

"Indeed!" said Mr. Corbin.  "How stupid of me!  And she dreamt that
Lazy Loo was second and Mugpoint was third.  That is the amazing thing
about her dreams.  Now the point is, Mr. Evans, my dear wife doesn't
wish to go into the tipping business at all.  In a woman it would be
unseemly."

"Exactly," said Evans.  "I quite understan'."

In truth he understood nothing.

"What I have been considering is whether one could not _back_ the
horses that my dear wife dreams about--back for large and--er--generous
sums.  The question is, where?"

"The Cheese," said Evans promptly.

Mr. Corbin knit his brows, puzzled.

"The Cheese--you don't mean the Cheshire Cheese?" he asked.

"Never heard of the Cheese?" demanded Evans, almost shocked.  "Why, you
can see it from your back winder!"

Whereupon Mr. Corbin insisted upon taking him to a classy room at the
back of the house, and here, through a gap between two other houses,
the decorously red-curtained "library" of the Cheese was plainly
visible.  It was called "the Library" because it contained four tape
machines, a bulletin board and a nearly complete set of Ruff's _Guide
to the Turf_.

"Well, well!" said the astonished Hallam Corbin.  "I had no idea that
that was a betting club.  Well, well!  Is your eyesight good, Mr.
Evans?"

For a moment Evans was taken aback.

"My eyes," he said emphatically, "could see two jockeys winkin' at one
another at the seven-furlong post, I'm that keen-sighted."

"Splendid," murmured the other, and led the way back to the
dining-room.  Mrs. Hallam Corbin had disappeared.

"My wife always lies down after lunch.  It is then that her best dreams
occur.  Which is very awkward, Mr. Evans, because she seldom dreams a
winner until within a few minutes of the race.  It must be the
transmission of thought--a psychic phenomenon which has puzzled the
greatest experts of the day.  Now if I only had a friend at the--what
did you call the club?"

"The Cheese," said Evans.

"If I only had a friend there to whom I could signal the horse of her
dream!  Why, we could make a fortune!"

Evans thought.

"It could be done," he said; "but how?"

"Let me consider," said Mr. Corbin; and Evans remained silent whilst
the mighty brain of Mr. Hallam Corbin revoluted.  "I have it," he said
at last.  "I will have a number of large cards painted in numbers.  I
will give you every morning a programme, and against each horse I will
place a number.  If we can see the club, the club can see us--though,
of course, my dear Mr. Evans, nobody but you must know the secret of my
dear wife's clairvoyance.  When you have seen the number you will back
the horse and you shall have ten per cent. of the winnings."

Educated Evans left Ampthill Square with a thick roll of twenty pound
notes and a feeling that he also was walking on those ethereal planes
which were as familiar to Mrs. Corbin as High Street, Camden Town.

His first act was to get a newspaper, and, reading the result of the
"job" race, he gasped.  Too Thick won, Lazy Loo was second, Mugpoint
third!  Exactly as the smiling lady had dreamt!  And she couldn't have
known, because she had been with him all the time.

Even bookmakers who knew Educated Evans and respected him as a source
of profit, hesitated to lay him 200 to 80 Lamma a couple of days
later until Evans produced the money.  The bet was hardly laid before
the tape clicked the "off."  And Lamma won.  The next day he had 300
to 90 Kinky.  It won.

On the following Tuesday, after making a few insignificant losses
("You'd better not back winners every day," said the practical Mr.
Corbin, "or they won't lay you"), he took 200 to 50 Kellerman in a
seller at Hurst, and there was time for the layer to 'phone away part
of his bet before the "off" was signalled.

"They tell me you're backing them for yourself, Evans," said "The
Miller," meeting him that afternoon after racing, "and that you're
making a lot of money."

"Not a lot," said Evans complacently.  "Just enough to keep the
celebrated wolf from the fold.  Money means nothing to me," he said.
"I never forgot the famous King Morpheous.  Everything he laid his
mitts on turned into gold and silver, owin' to which he got filled
teeth, and everybody thought he was American."

Detective-Sergeant Challoner pulled meditatively at his pipe.

"Where are you getting your information, Evans?" he asked softly.
"From the angels?"

"From the boy that does 'em," said Evans soberly.

He had an interview with Mr. Hallam Corbin that evening to pay over
some money, and Mr. Corbin's manner was short, and not especially
sweet.  Nor was his manner towards Mrs. Corbin exactly in accordance
with Evans' idea of domestic serenity.

"I told you to put fifty pounds on the horse Mrs. Corbin dreamt," he
said, "and you say you only put a pound on.  And I've got information
that you took two hundred to fifty from Bill Oxford--don't you start
twisting _me_, Evans!"

"Twist you?" said the outraged Evans.  "However can you think of such a
thing!  Why, if I went misbehavin' towards Mrs. Corbin's dreams I
should expect to be struck by one of them Clara's Voyages----"

"It's like this, Mr. Evans," began Mrs. Corbin sharply; "our expenses
are very heavy----"

"You shut up!" snarled her husband; and it began to dawn on Educated
Evans that they were not as happily married as they might be.

"Don't do that again, Evans," said Mr. Corbin, paying over the ten
pounds which represented the agent's commission.

The next day when Evans offered to take 150 to 30 Hazam Pasha in the
three o'clock race, his bet was refused.

"I don't know how you beat the tape, Evans," said the principal layer
not unkindly, "but you do.  And I can't afford to lay you."

Evans left the club soon after and found "The Miller" waiting on the
doorstep.

"What is Number Six on your list?" asked "The Miller."

Evans professed astonishment.

"Now take the advice of an old soldier," said "The Miller."  "Leave the
Corbins to stew in their own juice.  I've been watching the back of
their house, and I saw the number put up at the window--six.  And you
saw it too.  It isn't the tape, because they beat the tape."

He shaded his eyes and looked up at the roof, and saw what he had not
seen before--a strand of wire between two chimney-pots.  Behind the
Corbins' house (which they rented furnished) was a mews, and in Mr.
Corbin's coach-house stood a large and antiquated motor-car, the blinds
of which were invariably drawn when it passed through the gates of any
race-course that was honoured by its presence.  And on the top was
something that looked like a wire hanger.

Sergeant Challoner inspected the car that night with the aid of a key
that opened the garage.  The interior was still warm from the heat
which valve lamps create.  The seat had been removed and certain
instruments and batteries completely filled the interior.

Mr. Corbin had finished dinner when "The Miller" called.

"I'm summoning you for being in possession of a wireless transmission
set without a licence from the G.P.O.," said "The Miller."  "I could
pinch you for conspiracy to defraud, but I won't.  You and your gang
have been sending wireless results from the course, and you've made a
fortune."

Mr. Corbin glared at the officer.

"I'd have made a fortune if that rat-faced-tipster hadn't twisted me!"
he snapped.

"There's no honesty in this world," sighed Evans when he heard the
news.  "Fancy him a-making me a party to a low-down swindle!  It's
disgusting!"

"You can ease your conscience by sending your ill-gotten gains to the
Temperance Hospital," suggested "The Miller."

"I wouldn't be such a hypocrite," said Educated Evans.




VIII

THE GIFT HORSE

Men may acquire fame in a night, but reputation is a thing of slower
growth.  Mr. Evans did not earn the coveted prefix of "Educated" in a
day, or a week, or yet a year.  The sum of his learning totalled
through the years, and behind his title lay a whole mine of information
delved by him and distributed gratis to the world.

Once there had appeared on the stage of a London music-hall a human
encyclopdia who answered instantly and accurately any question that
was flung at him by members of the audience.  Thus, if you had any
doubt as to the exact date of the Great Fire of London or the name of
the horse that won the Derby in 1875, you secured admission to the
music-hall at which this oracle appeared and squeaked or roared your
question, to have whatever doubts you might possess immediately
dissipated.

Educated Evans had never appeared in the glare of the footlights, but
standing in a graceful attitude at the bar of the White Hart, his legs
crossed easily, one elbow resting on the zinc-covered counter, he had
from time to time settled bets, delivered historical orations and
corrected misapprehensions.

Furthermore, he had framed letters to obdurate creditors, indited
warning epistles to offensive neighbours (not his neighbours but the
neighbours of those who had sought his services) and had prepared
defences to be read from the dock.  These latter invariably began: "My
lord and gentlemen of the jury, I stand before you a poor and
hard-working man who has been led astray by evil companions."

These defences often brought tears to Evans' eyes as he wrote them, a
sob to the throat of the unfortunate prisoner who read them, though the
effect upon judge and jury was, alas! of a negligible character.

It was the day after such a defence had been read in the dock of the
Old Bailey by one "Simmy" Joiner that Evans, wandering disconsolately
along the Hampstead Road, his mind entirely occupied by the
contemplation of his affluence, came face to face with Inspector Pine.

"Good-morning, Evans," said the old inspector gently, and Mr. Evans
woke from his reverie with a start.

"Good-morning, sir," he said rapidly.  "I was just thinking whether I
would come down to the Brotherhood meeting to-night.  I'm beginnin' to
feel the need, if I might use that expression, of a little religion."

Inspector Pine shook his head sadly.  He was, as has already been
explained, a Christian man, and took a leading part in certain social
movements assigned to bring spirituality into the lives and souls of
small punters.

"I fear we shall not see you, Evans," he said; "to-morrow is our gift
meeting."

The predatory instincts of Evans were awakened.

"I'll come, sir," he said respectfully, "though it won't be for the
gift.  I'm willin' to take anything you give me, because it's in a good
cause----"

"You are mistaken, Evans," said the inspector gently.  "At to-morrow's
meeting we will _receive_ gifts.  Money or articles that can be sold
for the good of our great race-course mission.  We will accept even a
portion of your ill-gotten gains."

The light of interest died out of the learned man's eyes.

"I'll have a look round, sir," he said; "bein' hard up, I can't
subscribe as I'd like to."

The inspector frowned.

"A liar is worse than a thief!" he said sternly.  "I happen to know
that you have made a great deal of money from your disgusting tipping
business!"

Educated Evans hastened to explain.

"It's like this, Mr. Pine----" he began, but the old man interrupted
him.

"Evans," he said sombrely, "there are two things that will bring a man
to ruin--bad company and horses!  The time will come, Evans, when
you'll hate the sight of a horse."

"Personally, I prefer motor-cars, Mr. Pine," said Evans, anxious to
propitiate.

"The sight of a horse will drive you to despair.  You'll shudder when
you see one.  To-day you wallow in your ill-gotten gains, but the pinch
will come!"

"It's come, Mr. Pine," said Educated Evans eagerly; "Light Bella for
the two o'clock race to-morrow--help yourself!  It's been kept for
this--not a yard at Birmingham!  Get your winter's keep, Mr. Pine!"

But he spoke to the winds.  Inspector Pine had stalked majestically on
his way.

Sergeant Challoner, C.I.D., heard from his superior's own lips and with
every evidence of sympathy the story of Evans' obduracy.

"Disgusting, sir," he agreed, shaking his head.  "What did you say was
the name of the horse that was winning to-morrow?"

"I didn't trouble to remember," said the inspector suspiciously.  "Why
do you ask, sergeant?"

"Curiosity, sir," said the sergeant.

Mr. Pine scratched his chin reflectively.

"What a splendid thing it would be," he mused, "if one could fight this
gambling curse with money wrung from the very people who encourage and
thrive upon it, eh, sergeant?"

"The Miller" thought so too.

"What a--er--_tour de force_--I'm not quite sure whether or not that is
the phrase--it would be if one could act upon the information of this
rascal and--er----"

"Exactly, sir."  "The Miller's" face was blank.  It was exceedingly
difficult not to laugh.

Just as soon as he could get away he went in search of Educated Evans,
and ran him to earth on the doorstep of the "White Hart's" saloon bar.

"Not only have you demoralised the proletariat of Camden Town,"
complained "The Miller," "but you have corrupted the police
service--the inspector wants your next 5 special."

Educated Evans beamed.

"But I think it is only fair to warn you that if your snip doesn't come
off he'll get you ten years," said "The Miller," and Mr. Evans was not
unnaturally annoyed.

"That's against the lore," he said testily; "it is laid down in Magnum
Charta that you cannot lose if you can't win.  There's historical
instances, such as Oliver Cromwell----"

"Never mind about Oliver Cromwell," said "The Miller"; "what is this
snip of yours for to-morrow?"

"Light Bella," answered Evans promptly: "this is the squinch of the
season.  Don't back it till the last minute, or you'll spoil the price.
This is the biggest racin' certainty since Eager beat Royal Flash.
This horse could fall on his back an' wag himself home with his tail!
He's been tried twenty-one pound better than Captain Cuttle--help
yourself!"

"Is it a he or a she?" asked the puzzled "Miller."

"I'm indifferent," said Evans.

Racing was at Hurst Park on the following day, and Educated Evans was a
passenger by a comparatively early train.  He invariably travelled
first class, for Mr. Evans was partial to "toney" society.  And,
anyway, nobody worries about examining tickets on busy race-days,
though of late the inspectors have shown a marked aversion to allowing
passengers through the barriers on the strength of an ante-dated
platform ticket.

The carriage filled up quickly, and Evans, ensconced in a corner seat
(as usual) with an early evening paper widely opened to hide him from
the view of passing officials, found himself in goodly company.  There
was Lecti, the jockey, and Gorf, the trainer, and a couple of men whom
he took to be Stewards of the Jockey Club; they spoke so definitely and
so authoritatively.  (They were, in fact, racing journalists, but Evans
could not be expected to know this.)

Seated opposite Evans was a stout, military-looking gentleman, who
fixed the tipster with a cold and unfriendly stare.

"Nice morning, sir," said Evans briskly.  He had a happy knack of
making people feel at home.

"Is it?" said the other icily.

"Very interesting race that two o'clock selling," said Evans, "and to
anybody without information an inscrutable problem.  'Appily, I know
the boy that does a certain candidate----"

"If you talk to me I shall hand you over to the police!" said the cold,
military-looking man in his chilliest military manner.

Educated Evans shrugged his shoulders.  Even education is no protection
against vulgar abuse.

The day was in many ways a memorable one.  He had brought with him
forty-eight pun ten, and it was his intention to take five hundred to
forty about Light Bella.  Two sets of circumstances prevented his
carrying his plan into execution.  The first was the fact that Light
Bella opened at 7 to 4; the second was his tardy arrival in
Tattersall's owing to a heavy shower of rain that drove him into cover.
Light Bella was 5 to 4 when he plunged into the human whirlpool that
surrounded the only bookmaker who was willing to lay that price, and he
had taken 50 to 40 when the bell signalled the start.

He climbed to the stand and had the mortification of seeing Light Bella
beaten a head for third place.

"Not a yard!" hissed Evans, and all within range of his voice agreed
with him--except a few who had backed the winner.

There was one miserable satisfaction, and that, in his own inimitable
language, was that he had not "blued the parcel."

He strolled, oblivious to the falling rain, towards the paddock and
came to the sale ring just as the steaming winner was knocked down to
its owner.

"I will now sell Fairy Feet, by Gnome, out of Pedometer," said the big
auctioneer in the rostrum, and Evans recognised the voice.  It was the
military-looking gentleman who had treated him with such discourtesy.
Evans edged into the crowd with a sneer upon his expressive face.

"Who'll start me at a hundred?" demanded the auctioneer.  "Fifty?
Well, ten----?"

"Ten," said a voice, and the bidding for the weedy-looking animal that
had entered the ring rose slowly to 25 guineas.

"Twenty-five?" said the auctioneer, looking straight at Evans; and then
to the surprise of that learned man he nodded.

Evans, who was nothing if he was not a gentleman, nodded back.

"Thirty," said the auctioneer.  Somebody bid thirty-five, and the man
in the rostrum nodded to Evans.

"I saw you the first time," said Evans, and nodded back.

"Forty," said the auctioneer, and a few seconds later the hammer fell.
"What's your name, sir?"

Evans nearly dropped.  The auctioneer was speaking to him.

"Educated Evans," he answered, and heard like a man in a dream.

"Sold to Mr. Ted K. Evans."

Evans often debated to himself at a later date what he should have
done.  He might have run away.  He might have disclaimed any
responsibility; he might have done so many of the things that were
afterwards suggested to him.

Instead, numbly, like a man under the influence of an ansthetic, he
paid 42.  And the worst was to come.  He had scarcely paid when his
elbow was nudged by a small boy.  Attached to the small boy by a
leading rein was Fairy Feet.

"Who's your trainer, sir?"

Evan's jaw dropped.  Only for an instant did he lose his
self-possession, and then he took the rein.

"Don't ask questions," he said, and led the leggy animal away.

The paddock was emptying, for the rain was pelting down.

Evans looked round wildly and then moved towards the gate.

"Excuse me, sir," said the new owner to the gateman, "do you happen to
know where I can leave this horse?"

The staggered gateman shook his head.

"Where do you train?" he asked.

"Camden Town," said Evans vaguely.

"Why don't you take him home?" suggested the gatekeeper; and it seemed
a very good idea.

The glow of ownership descended upon Evans as he trudged up the muddy
road toward Hampton Court Station.  It wasn't such a bad idea after
all.  In his mind's eye he cast new advertisements.


  EDUCATED EVANS!

  _Racehorse Owner and the World's Premier
  Sporting Prophet._

  Owner of Fairy Feet, Winner of the Steward's Cup.


He stopped dead in the middle of the road, and, turning, surveyed his
purchase.  There was a look of infinite sadness in the eyes of Fairy
Feet.  It almost seemed as if the intelligent animal realised the
amazing absurdity of Evans supposing that it could win anything.

"Come on," said Evans, and the docile creature followed him to the
railway station.  There was no need for the lead rein.  Fairy Feet
would have followed Evans anywhere except to a racecourse, for Fairy
Feet hated racecourses and was as firm an opponent to the practice of
horse-racing as Inspector Pine.

"I want to get this horse to Camden Town," said Evans.  The
station-master looked dubious.

"We haven't a spare horse box, but we'll get one down to-morrow," he
said.  "Why don't you walk him home?"

The idea had occurred to Evans, and, as if to encourage him, the rain
had ceased to fall.  He was passing over Kingston Bridge when the rain
began again.  He was footsore, weary, sick at heart.  Searching the
examples of human suffering which his education presented, he could
recall no more horrible experience.

At eight o'clock that night a bent and weary figure shuffled into
Bayham Mews, followed in a sprightly fashion by a light-hearted
thoroughbred racehorse.

Fortunately, young Harry Tilder, who does the horses of Jones and
Bonner, the cash butchers, was on duty, and Evans fell upon his neck.

"Got a racehorse, Harry," he gasped.  "Paid a thousan' pounds for him!
Can you put him up an' give him a bit of meat or something till the
morning?"

Young Harry looked at Fairy Feet in the waning light, then he looked at
Evans.

"Can't do it, Mr. Evans," he said.  "I don't want to be mixed up in
this."

"But he's mine!" wailed Evans.  "I bought him for a thou--for forty
guineas."

"You said a thousand just now," said Young Harry.  "It can't be done.
Take him round to Bellamy's."

But Mr. Bellamy, the horse-dealer, would have none of it.

"I've kept honest all my life," he said, "and I'm not going to change
my plans.  I don't want to say anything against you, Evans, but I know
that you've been in trouble before."

      *      *      *      *      *

Inspector Pine had often attempted to persuade "The Miller" to attend
the meetings of the Brotherhood, but hitherto his efforts had failed.
Sergeant Challoner had a sense of humour, and a sense of humour is an
effective bar to hypocrisy.  But he had evaded his obligations so often
that he decided on this occasion to keep a promise--often made and as
often broken.

The Brotherhood held their meeting in a little tin hall in a turning
off Great College Street.  Here were planned the programmes for the
various great race meetings.  Here, pale and long-haired young men
laboriously painted banners with holy words and bore them forth amidst
the unnoticing throng, and very proud were the bearers of banners that
they were not as other men.

Inspector Pine was in the chair, and, after the meeting had been
solemnly opened, he presented the accounts of the year.

"There is, my dear friends," he said, "a heavy deficit.  Perhaps some
friends who are outside our fold will come to contribute their
mite"--he looked down at "The Miller," and that uncomfortable man went
red and felt in his pocket--"but in the main we must depend upon our
own efforts.  It may not be gold or silver nor precious stones that our
brethren will care to offer.  But whatever you contribute will be
welcome."

The gifts in cash were few; in kind, many.  A red-faced brother brought
to the platform a steel fender amidst loud applause.  Another member of
the Brotherhood carried up a sack of potatoes.  One fell at "The
Miller's" feet, and he picked it up.  It was not of the finest quality.
Yet another member of the audience brought a pot of jam--almost every
one brought something.

"The Miller," remembering a spasmodic gramophone that he had and which
only went when it felt so inclined, regretted that he had not brought
it with him.  At last the final gift had been brought up, and Inspector
Pine rose and beamed upon the congregation.

"I am glad to say----" he began, when the door at the end of the hall
was flung open violently and a man staggered in.

He was drenched from head to foot, and one lock of hair fell saucily
over his long nose.  Behind him, wet and shining and surveying the hall
and its occupants with interested and intelligent eyes, was a lank
quadruped.

"Ladies and gents," said the bedraggled stranger, "I'm well known to
most of you, bein' Educated Evans, the famous and celebrated Turf
adviser, an' I've brought a little gift."

A profound silence met this remarkable announcement.

"There's them that say you can get tired of horses," said Educated
Evans pushing back his lock, "and they're right!  This here horse is
the celebrated and far-famed Fairy Feet, sired by the Tetrarch and
dam'd by everybody that's ever had anything to do with him--he's yours!"

So saying, he dropped the leading rein and slipped from the room,
slamming the door behind him.

Fairy Feet looked round, and then with a neigh of anguish as she
realised the base desertion, lifted her hind legs and kicked the frail
door into splinters.

Running out into the street "The Miller" saw Educated Evans flying down
the street with a dark horse hot in pursuit.  Probably Fairy Feet had
never run quite so fast as she did that night.




IX

STRAIGHT FROM THE HORSE'S MOUTH

It is generally believed in Somers Town that a policeman would "shop"
his own aunt for the sake of getting his name before the magistrate,
but this is not the case.  A policeman, being intensely human, has what
the Portuguese call a "repugnancio" to certain jobs.

Sergeant Challoner, C.I.D., was called into the office of his superior
and entrusted with a piece of work which revolted his soul--namely the
raiding of Issy Bodd's flourishing ready-money starting-price business,
which he carried on at his house off Ossulton Street.

Complaints had been made by a virtuous neighbour.

"Tibby Cole," said "The Miller."  "He's annoyed because Issy caught him
trying to work a ramp on him, and one of Issy's minders gave him a
thick ear."

"My dear Sergeant!" said the shocked Inspector Pine.  "There is really
no reason why you should employ the language of Somers Town."

"The Miller" went forth to his work in no great heart.  He was too good
a servant of the law to send a warning, and he came upon the
defenceless Issy at a most compromising moment.

"I'm very sorry, Bodd," he said, as he effected the arrest.  "I'll take
all the slips you've got--you can get bail, I suppose?"

"You couldn't have come on a better day," said the philosophical Mr.
Bodd.  "All Camden Town's gone mad over Sanaband, and as I never lay
off a penny, it looked as if I was going through it."

Sanaband, as all the world knows, started a hot favourite for the
Northumberland Plate and finished last but one, and everybody said:
"Where are the Stewards?"

Thousands of people who had had sums varying from a shilling to a
hundred pounds on the favourite, gnashed their teeth and tore their
hair, and said things about Mr. Yardley, the owner and trainer of
Sanaband, which were both libellous and uncharitable.

Bill Yardley himself saw the finish with a whimsical smile, and, going
down to meet the disgraced animal, patted his neck and called him
gentle names, and people who saw this exhibition of humanity nodded
significantly.

"Not a yard," they said, and wondered why he was not warned off.

Yardley in truth had backed Sanaband to win a fortune, but he had spent
his life amongst horses and backing them.  He knew that if Sanaband had
been human, that intelligent animal would have said:

"I'm extremely sorry, Mr. Yardley, but I've not been feeling up to the
mark this past day or two--you probably noticed that I did not eat up
as well as usual this morning.  I've a bit of a headache and a little
pain in my tummy, but I shall be all right in a day or two."

And knowing this, Yardley neither kicked the horse in the stomach nor
did he tell his friends that Sanaband was an incorrigible rogue.  He
casually mentioned that he had fifteen hundred pounds on the horse, and
nobody believed him.  Nobody ever believes trainers.

"What's the matter with you, you old devil?" asked Mr. Yardley, as he
rubbed the horse's nose, and that was the beginning and end of his
recriminations.

In far-off Camden Town the news of Sanaband's downfall brought sorrow
and wrath to the heart of the World's Premier Turf Adviser and prophet,
and the situation was in no sense eased by the gentle irony of
Detective-Sergeant Challoner, whose other name was "The Miller."

"I do not expect miracles," said "The Miller," "and I admit that it was
an act of lunacy on my part to imagine that you could give two winners
in a month."

"Rub it in, Mr. Challoner," said Educated Evans bitterly.  "How was I
to know that the trainer was thievin'?  Am I like the celebrated
Mejusa, got eyes all over my head?"

"Medusa is the lady you are groping after," said "The Miller," "and she
had snakes."

"Ain't snakes got eyes?" demanded Educated Evans.  "No, Mr. Challoner,
I got this information about Sanaband from the boy that does him.  This
horse was tried to give two stone an' ten lengths to Elbow Grease.  My
information was that he could fall down----"

"_And_ get up, _and_ win," finished the patient Mr. Challoner.  "Well,
he _didn't_ fall down!  The only thing that fell down was your
reputation as a tipster."

Educated Evans closed his eyes with an expression of pain.

"Turf Adviser," he murmured.

The whole subject was painful to Evans.  Just as he had re-established
confidence in the minds and hearts of his clientle, at the very moment
when the sceptics of the Midland Goods Yard at Somers Town were again
on friendly terms with him, this set-back had come.  And it had come at
a moment when the finances of Educated Evans were not at their best.

"It's a long worm that's got no turning," said Educated Evans
despondently, "an' there's no doubt whatever that my amazing and
remarkable run of electrifyin' successes is for the moment eclipsed."

"The Miller" sniffed.

"They never electrified me," he said.  "Two winners in ten shots----"

"_And_ five seconds that would have won if they'd had jockeys up,"
reproached Evans.  "No, Mr. Challoner, my education has taught me not
to start kicking against the bricks, as the saying goes.  I'm due now
for a long batch of losers.  If Sanaband had won--but it didn't.  And I
ought to have known it.  That there thieving Yardley's keepin' the
horse for Gatwick."

The sneers that come the way of an unsuccessful Turf adviser are many.
There is an ingratitude about the racing public which both sickened and
annoyed him.  Men who had fawned on him now addressed him with
bitterness.  Hackett, the greengrocer, who only a short week ago had
acclaimed him great amongst the prophets, reviled him as he passed.

"You put me off the winner," he said, sourly.  "I'd have backed Oil
Cake--made up my mind to back it, and you lumbered me on to a rotten
five to four chance that finished down the course!  It's people like
you that ruin racing.  The Stewards ought to warn you off."

"I'm sorry to hear you say that, Mr. Hackett," said Educated Evans
mildly.  "I've got a beauty for you on Saturday----"

Mr. Hackett's cynical laughter followed him.

A few yards farther on he met Bill Gold, an occasional client and a
'bus conductor.

"I wouldn't mind, Evans," he said, sadly, "only I've got a wife and
eight children, and this was my biggest bet of the year.  How I'm going
to pay the rent this week Gawd knows!  You ought to be more careful,
you really ought!"

It was a curious circumstance, frequently observed by Educated Evans,
that his clients invariably had their maximum wager on his failures,
and either forgot to back his winners or had ventured the merest trifle
on them.  In this they unconsciously imitated their betters, for it is
one of the phenomena of racing that few ever confess to their winnings,
but wail their losses to the high heavens.

Misfortune, however, has its compensations, and as he was passing
through Stebbington Street he met a fellow sufferer.

"Good-morning, Mr. Bodd," said Evans respectfully--he was invariably
respectful to the bookmaking class.  "I suppose you had a good race
yesterday--that Sanabad wasn't trying."

Mr. Issy Bodd curled up his lip.

"Oh, yes, I had a good day," he said sardonically.  "Three hours at the
station before my bail come, and a fine of fifty and costs--and six
hundred slips destroyed and every one of 'em backing Sanaband.  I've
had a crowd round the house all the morning getting their money back on
the grounds that if you can't win you can't lose.  The public knows too
much about the rules to suit me.  It's this popular education, Evans,
and novel reading that does it.  If I hadn't paid out, I'd have lost my
trade, though how I'm going on now, heaven only knows."

He looked at Evans with a speculative eye, listening in silence as the
educated man recited his own tale of woe.

"That's right," he said, as Educated Evans paused to take breath.
"You've struck a streak of bad luck.  I don't suppose you'll give
another winner for years, and I don't suppose I'll have another winning
week for months."

They stared at one another, two men weighted with the misery of the
world.

"It would be different if I was in funds," said Evans.  "If I could
afford to send out a classy circular to all clients, old an' new, I'd
get 'em back.  It's printing and advertising that does it, Mr. Bodd.
My educated way of writing gets 'em eating out of my hand, to use a
Shakespearean expression.  I'm what you might term the Napoleon
Bonaparte of Turf Advisers.  It's brains that does it.  I'm sort of
second-sighted, always have been.  I had to wear spectacles for it when
I was a boy."

Mr. Bodd bit his lip thoughtfully.  He was a business man and a quick
thinker.

"A few pounds one way or the other doesn't make any difference to me,"
he said slowly.  "You've got to put it down before you pick it up.
What about a share in my book, Evans?"

Educated Evans could scarcely believe his ears.

"Not a big share--say three shillings in the pound," said Bodd, still
speaking deliberately.  "Your luck's out, you won't be giving winners
for a long time--I've studied luck and I know.  Most of your Somers
Town mugs bet with me.  That last big winner you sent out gave me a
jolt.  And it doesn't matter much whether you give winners or
losers--you can't hurt yourself.  A little punter is born every minute.
_And_ I'd put up the money for all the advertising."

The sinister meaning of Mr. Issy Bodd was clear, and Educated Evans
felt himself go pale.

"Get out a real classy circular," Issy went on, "with pictures.
There's nothing like pictures to pull in the punter.  Get a picture of
a horse talking.  It's an idea I had a long time ago.  Have the words
'Straight from the Horse's Mouth!'  Silly?  Don't you believe it!  Half
the people who back horses haven't seen one--especially since
motor-cars came in.  Me and Harry Jolbing have got most of the street
business in Camden Town, and Harry's had a bad time, too."

"Do you mean that I'm to send out losers?" asked Evans, in a hollow
voice.

"One or two," said the other calmly.  "Anyway, you'll send losers.
It's worth money to you.  If you do the thing well, and with your
education you ought--we ought to get a big win."

Evans shook his head.

"I tried to give losers to a fellow once," he said, "and they all won."

"You couldn't give a winner if you tried," said Mr. Bodd decidedly.  "I
know what luck is."

That evening Educated Evans sat in his library, preparing the circular.
He was the tenant of one room over a garage.  When he slept, it was a
bedroom; when he ate, it was a dining-hall; but when he wrote, it was
library and study.

And thus he wrote:


  STRAIGHT FROM THE HORSE'S MOUTH

  That sounds ridiculous to anybody who doesn't
  know

  EDUCATED EVANS
  (_The World's Premier Turf Prophet_).

  But with Educated Evans that phrase has a meaning
  of the highest importance and intelligence!
  It means that he's got the goods!
  It means that he's in touch with secret information!
  It means that his touts and army of investigators
  have unravelled a great Turf Mystery!
          What a beauty!
          What a beauty!
          What a beauty!

  THE BIGGEST JOB OF THE YEAR!

  Get back all your losses!  Double your winnings!
  Put down your maximum!


There was more in similar strain.

Mr. Issy Bodd helped.  He got a friend of his to draw a horse's head.
It was a noble head.  The mouth of the fiery steed was opened, and from
its interior came the words:

"I shall win at 10 to 1!"


The misgivings of Educated Evans were allayed at the sight of this
masterpiece.

To some two thousand five hundred people this circular was despatched.
Most of the names were supplied by Messrs. Bodd and Jolbing, and the
words "Put down your maximum" were heavily underlined.

Despite the exceptionally low price at which the peerless information
was offered, the response was not encouraging.

"It doesn't matter," said Mr. Bodd.  "You can send them the horse,
whether they pay or not."

The race chosen was the Stockwell Selling Plate at Sandown, and the
selection of the horse occupied the greater part of the day before the
race.  A committee of three, consisting of Educated Evans, Mr. Bodd,
and Mr. Jolbing, a prosperous young man who wore diamond rings
everywhere except on his thumbs.

"Polecat?" suggested Evans.  "That horse couldn't win a race if all the
others died."

Mr. Bodd shook his head.

"He was a job at Pontefract last month," he said.  "I wouldn't be
surprised if he popped up.  What about Coal Tar?"

"Not _him_!" said Mr. Jolbing firmly.  "He's just the kind of horse
that might do it.  He's being kept for something.  What about Daffodil?
He finished last at Windsor."

Educated Evans dissented.

"He got left," he said.  "Daffodil's in a clever stable, and Mahon
rides, and they like winning at Sandown."

"What about Harebell?" suggested Mr. Jolbing.  "She's never finished in
the first three."

"She's been leading Mopo in his work, and Mopo won at Newcastle," said
Mr. Bodd.  "That horse could win if they'd let her.  No, I think the
best one for you, Evans, is Grizzle.  He's been coughing."

Evans smiled cynically.

"The boy that does him told me that Grizzle is fit and fancied.  In
fact, Grizzle is the very horse I should have tipped for the race."

The entry was not a large one, and there remained only five possibles,
and two of those were certain to start first or second favourites.

"What about Beady Eye?" asked Mr. Bodd.

"It doesn't run," said Evans, "and there's no sense in sending a
non-runner."

"Gardener?" suggested Mr. Jolbing, laying a glittering finger on the
entry.  "That's your horse, Evans."

But both Educated Evans and Mr. Bodd protested simultaneously.

"Gardener belongs to Yardley, and you know what he is," said Evans
reproachfully.  "I wouldn't be surprised to see Gardener win.  The only
horse that I can give is Henroost.  He couldn't win!"

Here they were in complete agreement, and the committee broke up,
leaving Evans to do the dirty.

That evening, with all the envelopes stamped and addressed and ready
for despatch, Educated Evans strolled out for a little fresh air and
exercise.  At the corner of Bayham Street he met Mr. Hackett, the
eminent greengrocer.  Mr. Hackett was in wine, for it was early-closing
day and he had spent the afternoon playing an unprofitable game of nap
at his club.

"Oh! there you are, you perishing robber!" he sneered, planting himself
in Evan's path.  "You ruiner of businesses!  Educated!  Why, you
haven't got the education of a rabbit!"

Had his insults taken any other form, Educated Evans might have passed
him by in contempt.  But this slur upon his erudition roused all that
was most violent in his usually amiable character.

"You're a nice one to talk about education!" he sneered, in return.  "I
could talk you blind on any subject--history, geography, or
mathematical arithmetic!"

"A man who sells lies----" began Mr. Racket insolently.

"It's better than selling caterpillars disguised as cabbages and rotten
apples," said Evans heatedly.  "It's better than selling short-weight
potatoes to the poor and suffering----"

And then, before he could realise what was happening, Mr. Hackett, all
his professional sentiments outraged, hit him violently on the nose.

In three minutes the most interesting fight that had been seen in
Camden Town for many years was in progress.  And then a strong hand
gripped Evans by the collar, and through his damaged optic he saw the
silver buttons of London's constabulary.

"The Miller" was in the station when Evans and Mr. Hackett were charged
with disorderly conduct, to which, in Mr. Hackett's case, was added the
stigma of intoxication; and, in his friendly way, the detective went
forth in search of bail.  It was impossible, however, to discover the
necessary guarantee for Evan's good behaviour.  He could neither
approach Jolbing nor Bodd; and when "The Miller" returned with the
information Evans was frantic.

"I've got some work to do to-night, Mr. Challoner," he wailed.  "Three
thousand tips to send out!"

"The Miller" hesitated.  He was going off duty, and he had a genuine
affection for the little tipster.

"What are you sending out, Evans?"

"Henroost, for that seller to-morrow.  It ought to go before eleven
o'clock," moaned Evans.  "Couldn't you find anybody?  Couldn't you
stand bail for me, Mr. Challoner?  I'd never let you down."

"The Miller" shook his head.

"An official is not allowed to go bail," he said.  "But I'll see what I
can do for you, Evans.  I suppose they've not taken the key of your
expensive flat from you?"

"The key's under the mat, just outside the door," said Evans eagerly.
"Henroost--don't forget, Mr. Challoner.  If you get somebody to do it
for me, I'll never be grateful enough."

At half-past eleven the following morning Educated Evans addressed a
special plea from the dock with such good effect that the magistrate
instantly discharged him.  He did not see "The Miller" who was engaged
in investigating a petty larceny; but, hurrying home, he was overjoyed
to discover that the table, which he had left littered with envelopes,
was now tidy.

He had spent a very restless night, for the occupant of the adjoining
cell was an elderly Italian with a passion for opera, who had sung the
score of _La Boheme_ from the opening chorus to finale throughout the
night.

Educated Evans lay down on his bed and was asleep instantly.  The sun
was setting when he rose, and after a hasty toilet, realising his
responsibility, he went out to discover the result of the great race.

A glance at the result column in the _Star_ filled him with
satisfaction and pride, though he had at the back of his mind an uneasy
feeling of disloyalty to his clientle.  The race had been won by Coal
Tar, which had started at ten to one, and Henroost was unplaced.  Thus
fortified, he strolled forth to meet Mr. Bodd, and came upon him in
Great College Street and the face of Mr. Bodd was darkened with passion.

"You dirty little twister!" he hissed.  "Didn't you say you'd send out
Henroost?  You cheap little blighter!  Didn't I put up the money for
your something so-and-so circulars?  Didn't I pay for the unprintable
stamps that you put upon the unmentionable envelopes that I bought with
my own money?"

"Here, what's the idea?" began Evans.

"What's the idea!" roared Mr. Bodd, growing purple in the face.  "You
sent them out Coal Tar!  It won at ten to one, and every one of your
so-and-so clients had his so-and-so maximum--don't let Jolbing see you,
he'll murder you!"

Dazed and confounded, Evans bent his steps to the police station, and
met "The Miller" as he descended the steps.

"Excuse me, Mr. Challoner," he faltered.  "Didn't you send Henroost?"

"The Miller" shook his head.

"No, I sent Coal Tar.  Just after I left the station I met one of our
inspectors from Scotland Yard, who had had the tip from the owner.
Evans, your luck's turned!"

"As a tipster--yes," said Evans, and weeks passed before "The Miller"
quite understood what he meant.




X

THE GOODS

It is an axiom that the best-laid plan of mice and man frequently falls
to the earth with a dull sickening thud.  So far as man is concerned,
the truism holds, though as to the disappointments and setbacks of mice
we lack exact information.

Mr. Charles Wagon was not a great trainer in the sense that he filled
the eye of the racing public.  He was master of a small stable in
Wiltshire, and had, as his principal patron, a Kentish Town publican
(who was also a sinner).

He won few races, but when he did win, the horse was the goods.  It had
twenty-one pounds in hand and nitroglycerine in its stomach, for nitro
is a great stimulant of sluggish racehorses, and under its influence a
high-spirited thoroughbred does almost everything except explode.

Mr. Wagon came up to town to lunch with his principal patron, and they
sat together in the gilded hall of an Oxford Street restaurant, and the
patron, a gentleman who had not seen his feet for years, except in
photographs, was inclined to be fulsome.

"I'll say this of you, Wagon, that you're a perfect wonder!  Your
stable costs me twelve hundred pun' a year, but it's worth it.  Now,
what about this Little Buttercup?"

"He's as fit as hands can make him, and you can put your money down
fearlessly," said Mr. Wagon.

He was justified in his optimism.  Little Buttercup had run six times
and had never finished nearer than fourth, because Mr. Wagon was taking
no risks.  When a horse of his won, there were no "ifs" or "buts" about
it.  There was never an uneasy moment when it looked as though
something was coming up on the inside to beat it.  He preferred wet
days or hot days, when a perspiring flank did not show or was
excusable, and, above all, he preferred a six-furlong seller.

"Nobody knows anything about it," he said.  "My head lad's safe, and
I've got such a fat-headed lot of boys that if they saw a winner they
wouldn't know it."

The patron fingered his empurpled cheek.

"The thing is," he said, "that this horse mustn't be amongst the
arrivals or the probables.  If my pals see that he's arrived they'll
want to know all about it.  If he's not in the list I can always say I
didn't know it was running--see what I mean?"

Mr. Wagon nodded.

"I'll borrow a motor-box and send it over in the morning," he said.
"Don't worry about that."

"And there mustn't be a penny for him on the course," said the publican
(and sinner).  "I can get everything on away.  He'll win all right?"

Again Mr. Wagon nodded.

"Don't fret yourself about that," he said.  "I'll give him a livener
just before the race, and he'll dance home."

"There's another thing," said the publican (whose name was, most
inappropriately, Holyman), "keep them tipsters and touts off your
ground.  There's a fellow called Educated Evans round our way who's
always nosing round for tips.  It's people like that who ruin horse
racing.  The Jockey Club ought to do something."

"Trust me," said Mr. Wagon.

In the next few days the training establishment which housed that
equine giant, Little Buttercup, was the home of mystery.  Little
Buttercup was ridden by his trainer, and the horse was galloped at
unlikely hours.

Mr. Holyman need not have feared Educated Evans.  That worthy man was
beyond asking for tips.  His luck was out, and it was all the more
annoying, even maddening, that, passing the fish shop of Jiggs and
Hackett, he had been moved to enter and to offer the sceptical Mr.
Jiggs certain advice which had materialised.  Evans had sent a loser to
his dwindling list of clients, and by word of mouth had given a winner
to a notorious twister--and this at a moment when he was reduced to
choosing horses by the process of adding up all the motor-car numbers
he saw and selecting a horse that came to that particular number in the
published list.

"7341," muttered Evans, as a 'bus whizzed past.  "Seven and three's
eleven, and four's fifteen, and one is sixteen.  Sixteen is one and
six, and one and six is seven."

Then he would look down a handicap and choose the most likely seven.

He despised himself, but something had to be done.  The fickle goddess
of fortune must be lured into the right way, Men whose luck is dead out
do things that they would not care to confess even to their intimates.
Educated Evans spent whole days adding up the numbers of cabs and cars
and buses, and on a certain morning was obsessed by the numeral 9.

Nine was the very last number he saw at night--the first that greeted
his eyes when he came out to breakfast one sunny morning.  Indeed, it
was the 19th of May, and Educated Evans, realising this remarkable
coincidence, chose the ninth horse in the Braxted Selling Welter at
Birmingham.

That morning Detective-Sergeant Challoner, C.I.D., strolled into Mr.
Stubbins' coffee-shop off Ossulton Street, and a dozen people nodded
politely as he sat down and ordered a cup of tea and a tea-cake.

"Good-morning," said "The Miller," genially, to his _vis-a-vis_.  "Nice
morning, Mr. Clew."

"Vert nice, Mr. Challoner," said his _vis-a-vis_.  "It's a treat to be
alive."

"It is indeed," agreed "The Miller."  "I saw you last night in the High
Street, didn't I?"

"Very likely," said Mr. Clew, who was a large man in the greengrocery.
"I usually go out with the missus for a breather."

"Thought I saw Young Harry with you?" suggested the detective, as he
sipped his tea.  "How is he getting on?"

"I haven't seen him for months," replied Mr. Clew emphatically.

"Where is he living now?" asked "The Miller," in a careless,
conversational tone.

Now everybody, or nearly everybody, in the shop knew that Young Harry
was "in trouble."  He had also been in the coffee shop half an hour
before the detective's arrival, but, yielding to the earnest advice of
friends, had gone elsewhere.

"Don't know what he's doing now," said Mr. Clew.  "Living in the south
of London, I understand.  He's got a job."

"I want to get him another," said "The Miller" truthfully, for Young
Harry had broken and entered enclosed premises, to wit the stables of
Grudger Bros., the eminent bakers, and had feloniously removed
therefrom six horse blankets, a set of harness, two motor lamps, an
inner tube, and a tin of petrol, the property of the aforesaid Grudger
Bros.  And he was wanted.  And, what was more important, would be
caught, for Young Harry was like hundreds of other Young Harrys, he
"hid" himself by going to stay with his brother-in-law, whose address
the police knew.

The little thief is the best friend of the police.  He catches himself.

"The Miller" did not come to the coffee shop for information.  He came
for Young Harry.  He knew very well that every friend of Young Harry
would be suffering from myopia and loss of memory, and that if he had
stood before them that morning they would not have seen him, and if he
had told them just where he would be at a certain time they would have
forgotten the fact.

"The Miller" was sipping his second cup of tea when Educated Evans
drifted in, and on his sour face was a mask of gloom.

"Young Harry--no, Mr. Challoner, I haven't seen him since the day the
young princess married the highly-respected Viscount Lazzles."

(Educated Evans had a few minutes before passed Young Harry at the
corner of Stebbington Street.)

He took the place vacated by Mr. Clew and ordered one hard-boiled egg
and a cup of coffee.

"How is the trade, Evans?" asked "The Miller."

Educated Evans raised his eyes from the business of egg chipping.

"It would be good if people acted honourable," he said bitterly: "but
acting honourable is a lost art.  When the celebrated owner of Franklin
an' Vilna and other four-legged quadrupeds--which is a foreign
expression, meaning horse--dug up Come-and-Have-One, the highly
renowned Egyptian, he was delving, so to speak, into the past, as it
were, when sportsmen was sportsmen and acted honourable, paying the
odds to five shillings or ten shillings, accordin' to the class of
information."

"I doubt if the tipsters flourished in the days of the Pharaohs," said
"The Miller," biting off the end of a cigar.

"I bet they did," said Evans confidently.  "There's always been fellows
that told what was going to happen.  What about Moses?  Him that his
mother found in the bulrushes and kidded it belonged to her aunt?  What
about Aaron, who went and predicted that his sons should cover
Tattersall's like the grass on the field?  What about----"

"Who amongst your ragged-seated clientle hasn't been acting
honourably?" asked "The Miller."

"Jiggs, the fishmonger, for one.  I went specially in to see him
yesterday, just as he was takin' the appendix out of a sturgeon, and I
said: 'Mr. Jiggs, you've got to have your maximum on Flying Sam,' I
said.  'This horse has been tried to beat Harritown at ten pounds.'"

"And did he stick his knife into you?" asked "The Miller."

Evans shrugged his shoulders rapidly.

"Flying Sam won at 'eights,'" he said simply.  "Information _v._
Guesswork.  Knowledge _v._ Picking 'em out with a pin.  And what did I
get for it?  A cod's head--it cost me eightpence to disinfect my room
afterwards.  It shatters your confidence.  And I've got a Fortune in my
pocket!  I've got a horse for a race to-morrow that can only lose if
the race is abandoned.  This horse is 'The Goods.'  I've been waiting
for him all the season.  They tried him last Saturday after all the
touts had gone home, and they brought Golden Myth from Newmarket, and
the horse _slammed_ him.  Won his trial with his head on his chest,
pulling up."

"Not Golden Myth," murmured "The Miller," gently.  "He's at stud."

"They brought him out of stud," said Evans.  "It was either Golden Myth
or some other horse.  The boy that does him is the nephew of my
landlord's cook, so I _ought_ to know."

"What is it?" asked "The Miller," his curiosity fired.

"Little Buttercup," said Evans, in a confidential whisper--"The Goods!
And don't forget I've got a mouth, Mr. Challoner."

He strolled along toward Euston Road with "The Miller," and it was at
the juncture of that thoroughfare that the detective said:

"Evans, I'll introduce you to the king pippin of your illicit
profession--Mr. Marky!"

The man he addressed was walking briskly toward King's Cross Station.
He was a tall man, expensively attired, and at the mention of his name
Evans gasped.

"Not _the_ Marky, Mr. Challoner?" he said, in an awe-stricken whisper,
and found himself shaking hands like a man in a dream.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Evans," said the new-comer.  "In the same line
of business as me, are you?  Well, I hope you have better luck than
I've had lately."

In the presence of such majesty Evans was dumb.  For Wally Marky was
the greatest of all the sporting prophets.  He was the man whose
advertisements covered whole pages of the sporting press--Wally Marky,
the Seer of Sittingbourne--Wally Marky, England's Supreme Turf
Adviser--Wally Marky, who never charged less than the odds to two
pounds, though he didn't always get as much.

"Evans has got a beauty to-day," said "The Miller."  "The Goods!  Had
it from the owner, didn't you, Evans?"

Evans nodded, and wished he was a million miles away.  To deceive his
clientle was one thing; to ring a wrong 'un on the great Marky, with
his thousands and tens of thousands of paying clients, was another.  At
the thought of the awful responsibility the tongue of Educated Evans
clave to the roof of his mouth.

"What is it?" asked the interested Marky.

"Little Buttercup," said Evans hollowly.

"Trained by Wagon, who dopes his horses.  I've been on the look-out for
that one.  It hadn't arrived this morning.  I wonder----"

Mr. Marky frowned.

"You've had it from a good source?  I've a good mind to try my luck
with it--excuse me."

He turned away to the nearest telephone booth, and Evans began to
breathe freely.  In five minutes his shattered confidence had returned.

Educated Evans became more and more enamoured of the child of his
fancy.  Until that morning he had hardly known of the existence of
Little Buttercup, and had certainly never heard of Mr. Greenly, under
which name the bashful publican raced.  Even "The Miller," who was not
usually impressed, went away with a sense of opportunity.

It was the last despairing effort of Educated Evans.  He hurried from
shop to shop; he flitted through the Midland Goods Yard until he was
summarily ejected by a policeman; he called on every client, possible
and impossible: and the burden of his tale was the passing swiftness
and the inevitable victory of Little Buttercup.  And, in course of
time, he came to the Flamborough Head, that magnificent palace of glass
and mirrors, whereof the reigning monarch was the apoplectic Mr.
Holyman.

Mr. Holyman was in the bar, counting out little stacks of change for
his barmaids to use; for he was one of those men who trusted neither
his right hand nor his left.

"Good-morning, Mr. Holyman."

Mr. Holyman turned his bovine glance upon Evans.

"Morning, Evans," he said, almost cheerfully.  "I haven't seen you
around here for a week.  You'll have something with me?" he asked.

"You'll have something with me, Mr. Holyman," said Evans, with quiet
triumph.  "I've got a horse for you."

Mr. Holyman shook his head.

"No, you haven't got any horses for me, Evans," he said good-naturedly.
"Tips are out of my line, as you well know."

"This isn't a tip," said Evans, lowering his voice to an agitated
quaver, "this is a gift from heaven!  It is a thing I have been waiting
for all the year!  This horse has been tried to give twenty-eight
pounds to Town Guard, and the money's down."

"What's the race?" asked Mr. Holyman, his interest mildly aroused.

"The Braxted Selling Plate, at Birmingham."  Evans looked up at the
clock.  "You've got ten minutes to get on and share the good fortune
that I've brought to the mansion and the hut, to the highest and the
lowest.

"I'll tell you something else, Mr. Holyman," he said.  "It's never
happened to me before.  Who do you think I met this morning?"  Here
Evans was telling nothing but the truth.  "Marky!"

He stepped back to observe the effect of his words.  The name of Marky
is known throughout the sporting world.

"I met Marky--introduced to him," said Evans, with the satisfaction
that the average man might display were he relating a chance meeting
with the Prince of Wales.  "He shook hands with me, quite affable and
gentlemanly.  His luck's out, too.  Us tipsters are having a bad time.
So I gave him Little Buttercup----"

"What!"

Mr. Holyman's face turned a dark, rather vivid, shade of blue.

"You gave him what?" he howled.

"Little Buttercup.  It's a pinch.  The owner's a friend of mine----"

Mr. Holyman glared helplessly round, and the first thing he saw was a
pewter pot.  It missed the head of Educated Evans by inches.

There were only two runners for the Braxted Selling plate.  Mr. Wagon's
jockey had weighed out before the appalling fact became known that
Little Buttercup was Marky's Fear-Nothing 5 Special.  And Little
Buttercup won by the length of a street.  It took two mounted policemen
and a stable lad to get him back to the paddock, and then they had to
bring a knacker's cart to frighten him.  The price was 8 to 1 on.

"What a beauty!" sneered "The Miller" when he met Evans the next
morning, and Educated Evans shrugged his shoulders more rapidly than
ever.




XI

THE PERFECT LADY

"If," said Inspector Pine, emphasising his argument in his best
platform manner by hammering his palm with his clenched fist, "if
horse-racing isn't--er--pernicious and brutalising, if it isn't low,
sergeant, how is it that it attracts the criminal and the law-breaker?"

It was a favourite argument of his.  This he had expounded on a dozen
platforms.

"If racing isn't the sport of rascals,"--his grey head wagged in an
ecstasy of righteousness--"why don't you see God-fearing men and women
on the race-course?"

Sergeant Challoner, C.I.D., had heard all this before, but had not
troubled to supply the obvious answer.

"The trouble with a good many people, sir, is that they think that if
they do not like a thing, or if some form of amusement or recreation
doesn't appeal to them, it must be bad.  There are people I know who
would shut up all the fried-fish shops because they don't like fried
fish.  I can give you a hundred names of God-fearing people who follow
racing."

He reeled off a dozen, and there were an illustrious few even the
inspector could could not deny.

"It isn't because it's racing, it's because racing has many followers
that the thieves follow it.  If a million people follow the game, it is
certain, by the laws of average, a few thousand of them will be
thieves--just as it is certain that sixteen thousand will have
appendicitis and thirty-five thousand bronchitis.  The few thousands
look a lot because they are the only fellows you and I hear about."

The inspector shook his head.

"I'm not convinced," he said.  "Look at that rascal Educated Evans."

"Evans is honest.  He hasn't always been lucky, and he got two months
for a larceny that he knew nothing about.  I am certain that if he
could afford to pay for the proceedings, he could get the conviction
quashed."

"I am not convinced," declared the inspector.

"Because you don't want to be," said "The Miller"--but said it to
himself.

It was perfectly true that Evans knew thieves, and that association
with lawless men was an everyday experience.  He knew them because he
lived poorly in a poor neighbourhood, and the majority of thieves are
poor men.  They do not thieve because they are poor--they are poor
because they thieve.

Racing appealed to most of them because it held the illusion of easy
money.  Hundreds of dishonest women go to church for the same reason.
A dismal face and a whining tongue produce coal tickets and blankets
and small gifts of cash.  If the annual conference of the Royal Society
were the occasion of distributing largesse the hall would be thronged
by cadgers displaying the same interest in Einstein's Theory of
Relativity as old Mrs. Jones takes in the Lent services and the vicar's
Sunday Afternoon Talks to Mothers.

Why, even at Rosie Ropes' wedding there were beaming ladies who had no
interest in matrimony whatever, but had come because at the cost of
half an hour's sitting in an uncomfortable pew they were assured a good
dinner and an afternoon's amusement, with wine and fruit thrown in.
And maybe a gramophone.

It was not often that Educated Evans went to parties, for society and
social functions of all kinds he did not hold with.  But the marriage
of Mr. Charles Ropes' daughter Rosie to young Arthur Walters was an
event of such importance that he could not very well refuse the
invitation, extended from both sides, to pop in for a glass of sherry
wine and a bit of cake.

Not that Evans was a winebibber.  He did not hold with such effeminate
drinks, his favourite potion being a foaming beaker of bitter.  The
nuptials of the Ropes and Walters family were something more than an
ordinary union.  To Educated Evans it was the wedding of a Five-Pound
Special to an occasional Job Wire, for both parties represented
consistent supporters of his.

The Ropes' house, where the do was to be, was in Bayham Street, Mr.
Ropes being in the Government and entitled to wear brass buttons every
day of the week, and the wedding breakfast (which to the mind of Evans
was more like lunch) was as classy an affair as he had ever seen.

To Educated Evans fell the task of proposing the bride and bridegroom,
which he did in sporting terms, as was appropriate to his renowned
position.

"May they run neck-and-neck from the gate of youth and dead-heat on the
post of felicity!"

Several other people proposed the bride and bridegroom, and most of
them hoped that their troubles would be little ones.

After the bride and bridegroom had departed by car for
Westcliff-on-Sea, the harmony ran smoothly until, under the influence
of port wine and an unaccustomed cigar, young Tom Ropes started
snacking about education and horse-racing.

"It's my own fault," said Educated Evans when he was relating the
events to "The Miller" the following day.  "You can't touch pitch
without being reviled, as Shakespeare says.  It was the Flora Cabago
that got into his head--boys ought to stick to Gold Flakes.  If it
hadn't been for her I'd have chastised him."

"Her?" repeated the puzzled "Miller." "Which 'her'?"

"Miss Daisy Mawker," said Educated Evans awkwardly.  "A friend of mine,
and as nice a young woman as you've ever dropped your eyes on."

"Pretty?" asked the interested "Miller."

"As lovely as a picture," said Evans enthusiastically, "and educated!
We had a long talk about history and geography.  What she don't know
about foreign parts ain't worth knowing.  She's got two lady friends,
Miss Flora and Miss Fauna, that's been everywhere; she mentioned 'em
all the time----"

"Flora and Fauna are terms meaning flowers and animals," corrected "The
Miller" gently.

"She's very fond of flowers," said Evans, "and she keeps rabbits, so
practically it's the same thing.  She's got the heart of a lion, and
she's heard about me.  The first thing she says to me was 'Are you
_the_ Mr. Evans?'"

"And you admitted it?"

"There was nothing else to do," said Evans modestly.  "She ups and asks
me if I was the celebrated Turf adviser that everybody was talking
about--what could I do?  Like the far-famed Sir What's-his-Name
Washington, when asked if he let the cakes burn, I couldn't tell a lie."

"The Miller" nodded.

"There must be times when even you get like that.  I suggest that you
were under the influence of drink."

Educated Evans cast upon him the look of a wounded fawn.

"The wine was good--they got it from a grocer's in Hampstead Road
that's selling off--but wine means nothing to me.  I could drink a
bucket without telling the story of my life.  What wasn't wine was
lemonade--which she drank, being a lady.  And when young Tom started
snacking and sneering she got up and said, 'If you lay a hand upon my
gentleman friend I'll push your face off.'"

"She wasn't a titled lady by any chance?" asked the sardonic "Miller."
"There's a touch of Mayfair about that observation.  You'll miss not
seeing her again."

"I'm seeing her to-night," said Educated Evans with a secret smile.
"We're going to the pictures to see Mary Pickford--she's often been
mistaken for Mary Pickford herself."

"I hate you when you're coy," said "The Miller."  "Evans, this is going
to interfere with business.  I never knew that you were a lady's man,
either."

"I've had me lapses," admitted Evans, and smiled reminiscently.

"The Miller" rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and his grave eyes surveyed
the World's Premier Turf Prophet thoughtfully.

"I'm sorry I missed that wedding," he said.  "Young Tom well dressed?"

"Like a gentleman," said Evans reluctantly.  "I didn't know
him--long-tailed coat, classy straw hat, patent leather boots,
beautiful gold ch----"

He stopped suddenly.

"Yes," suggested "The Miller."  "Beautiful gold chain, you were going
to say.  Any rings?"

"I didn't notice," said Evans hastily.

"Now I think of it I don't think he had a chain on at all."

Mr. Ropes, senior, was employed in a Government office.  His son had
also been in Government service--twice.  "The Miller" had got him the
job.  Ropes, senior, was wont to confess that children are a trouble,
and he had excellent reason, for young Tom was by nature and instinct a
"tea-leaf," which, in the argot of his kind, meant that he got his
living by finding things that had not been lost.  His downfall was
ascribed by his lenient parent to "bad company."  In truth, there was
no company that Tom did not make a little worse by his presence.

"Besides," said Evans, "Tom's going straight now--he's got a job."

"The Miller" smiled.

"They always have jobs, Evans.  But Miss Daisy Mawker--where did she
spring from?  Is she a friend of the bride's or the bridegroom's or the
best man's?"

"She's a friend of mine," said Educated Evans stoutly.  "She may be
acquainted with young Tom; I'm not saying that she isn't.  But if she
knew the kind of feller young Tom was she would, in a manner of
speaking, recoil with horror!"

There was a very good reason why the straw-chewing "Miller" should be
interested in the adornment of young Tom Ropes.  There had been a
burglary at Finsbury.  A jeweller's shop had been entered and trinkets
to the value of a few pounds had been abstracted.  It was fairly well
known that it was the work of a gang that young Tom ran with.  The
haul, however, had been disappointing, most of the jeweller's stock
being in the safe.

The question of this simple burglary did not exercise the knowledgable
authorities so much as the information which had come to them that
there had been a joining of forces between young Tom's crowd and
"Gaffer" Smith's confederation.  "Gaffer" was notoriously versatile,
and there was nothing, from pitch and toss to manslaughter, outside the
range of his operations.

Educated Evans met his Daisy that afternoon in Regent's Park, a
favourite rendezvous of his.  For the occasion Educated Evans had
dressed himself with unusual care, even going to the extent of paying
threepence that his scanty locks might be dressed to the greatest
advantage.

Miss Daisy Hawker was pretty in a bold way.  She was a straight-backed,
athletic girl, with a rosy face and a pair of hard blue eyes; and if
her ankles were a little thicker than they should have been, and her
hands slightly on the coarse side, she was to Evans' enraptured eye
what Venus might have been with a little bit of luck.

She refused Evans' gallant offer to row her about the lake for an hour,
and he was relieved.

"Never did like the water," said Miss Daisy Mawker.  "Every time I go
to Paris I get seasick."

"You're a bit of a traveller, Miss Daisy," said Evans respectfully.  "I
must say I like travelling myself.  I've often been to Brighton just
for the day.  Travelling broadens your mind," he went on, "it's
education and enlightenment.  Look at Christopher Columbus.  Where
would he have been if he hadn't travelled?  And where would America
have been?  Even the Americans wouldn't have heard about America if it
hadn't been for him."

She nodded her head graciously.

"I suppose you're single, Mr. Evans?" she said, and Evans protested his
bachelorhood with great heat.

"I only asked because so many fellows pretend they're single when
they're not," she said demurely, tracing figures on the gravel with the
end of her umbrella.  "And when you find them out they say their wife's
in a lunatic asylum, so they're as good as single.  What a wonderful
life you must live, Mr. Evans, going round to all these racecourses and
seeing horse races.  It must be beautiful!  And then, I suppose, the
jockeys tell you what is going to win and you send it round to all your
friends."

Evans coughed.

"Not exactly.  The jockeys very seldom know what's going to win," he
said.  "I used to rely on jockeys once, but after I had been let
down--never again!  They mean well, mind you," he said.  "Look at
Donoghue.  He told me the other day--well, perhaps it's not gentlemanly
to repeat his words.  No, I never take any notice of jockeys.  And as
for trainers"--he shrugged his shoulders many times--"you can't believe
trainers.  They're like the celebrated Ananias who turned round to have
another look and was turned into a salt-cellar."

"What a lot you know!" she sighed.  "Do you ever get excited when the
horses are racing?  I should simply be thrilled to death."

"Haven't you ever seen a race?" asked Educated Evans.  "Not," he said,
disparagingly, "that it's much to see.  I simply don't take any notice
of 'em.  My man comes and tells me how much I've won or how much I've
lost--a thousand one way or the other doesn't make any difference to
me.  When I'm going well," he added hastily.  "Of course, I'm not
always going well."

It occurred to him at that moment that he might be conveying a wrong
impression if he gave her to understand that he was exceedingly well
off.

"I wonder you have time for racing at all, Mr. Evans," she sighed.  She
had a habit of sighing.  "What with picking up the bits of knowledge
that you've got, and your education, and your clients"--she was still
tracing designs on the gravel.  And then: "I should so like to see a
real horse race, though, of course, I shouldn't like to go alone.  I
should be so frightened.  What I want to do is to go to a race meeting
with somebody who is experienced, somebody who knows everything about
it."

Educated Evans realised she was referring to him.

"I should be glad to take you, Miss Daisy," he said eagerly.  "The
expense is, comparatively speaking, nothing at all.  I don't suppose
you'd mind going in the Silver ring?"

"What's that?" she asked in surprise.  "Is it a ring made of silver?"

Evans explained that the Silver Ring was the real aristocracy of the
Turf.  In the Silver Ring men bet more fearlessly, and prices were
higher than in any other ring.  Tattersall's, so far from being a
desirable place, was an enclosure in which the price pincher
flourished.  She hesitated.

"I think I would rather go into Tattersall's, if that's the name," she
said.  "But, of course, dear Mr. Evans, I wouldn't think of allowing
you to pay my expenses.  I'm a very independent girl."

Evans murmured his half-hearted protest.

"I am, indeed!  And I heard Tom say he was going down to Sandown on
Eclipse Day.  What is Eclipse Day?"

Evans explained again.

"Friend of yours, Miss Daisy?"

"Who--Tom?  Well, he's not exactly a friend, he's an acquaintance.
He's not the kind of man I would have any dealings or associations
with," she said.

"That's exactly what I said to Mr. Challoner," said Educated Evans
triumphantly, and the smile faded from the girl's face.

"Mr. Challoner?" she said, a little sharply.  "Do you mean that
detective?  Surely you don't have anything to do with him?  You're the
last person in the world I should think was a snout--nose, I mean,
Aren't I being unladylike?"

"In a way he's a friend of mine," said Evans, a little taken aback.
"He has my selections, so, in a manner of speaking, he's a client."

Her face cleared.

"Oh, if that's all," she said.  "I know these birds do bet on the sly,
and then they go round pinching the poor little street bookmakers,
don't they?  I've read about that in the newspapers," she added quickly.

It was arranged before they parted that they should meet on the
following Wednesday at Waterloo Station under the clock; and Evans,
having despatched innumerable messages, both by hand and telegram,
dealing with the outstanding possibilities of Glue Pot winning the mile
seller, hurried forth to meet his lady.

The sight of her took his breath away.  Never a more ladylike person
had he seen in her simple blue costume and little black hat.  Nothing
flash, nothing ikey, just plain and ladylike.  He was proud to be seen
with her.

They travelled to Esher first class.  For once in his life Educated
Evans travelled on a first-class ticket.  And all the way down he spoke
on a subject agreeable to himself, namely--Educated Evans.

They were walking across the park when he broached the subject which
was in his mind.

"If I was you, Miss Daisy, I don't think I should have any truck with
young Tom Ropes," he said, but she raised her eyebrows.

"Why ever not?" she asked.  "Isn't that him in front?"

"Yes, with some of his leery pals," said Educated Evans, "so don't walk
fast."

"But why shouldn't I, Mr. Evans?" asked Daisy.  "You are making me so
terribly frightened.  Isn't he honest?"

"He never robbed me of anything," said Evans diplomatically.

"I should hate to think he wasn't honest," said Daisy Mawker, shaking
her head.  "I can't abide people who aren't perfectly straightforward,
can you, Mr. Evans?  What I mean to say is that if they're on the hook
they're so unreliable.  You never know where they are, do you?  There's
a friend of mine, she's got a fianc, and she never knows his address.
Sometimes he's at Wormwood Scrubs, sometimes he's at Wandsworth--it's
just wasting stamps to write to him."

"Yes, yes," said Evans, a little dazed.

He had no fault to find with her lady-like behaviour throughout the
day.  She stood on the top of the stone steps of the stand, and Evans
went down to do her betting for her, and every time she won he brought
the money back, and every time she lost she said:

"You must remind me to pay you that five shillings on our way home, Mr.
Evans."

The crowd was a tremendous one, as it always is on Eclipse Day, and
just before the last race the sensible girl suggested that they should
make a move to the station.  When they reached the other side of the
course, however, she changed her mind and insisted on seeing the last
race.  And then, and only then, did they make their way to the railway
arch under which the passengers must pass en route to the station
platform.

"Don't let's go any farther.  I saw some friends of mine," she said.
"We'll wait here until they come."

"You won't get a seat in the train," he warned her.

"Oh, yes, I shall," she said, with a saucy toss of her head.  "You wait
here beside me.  Now don't you leave me, Mr. Evans."

"Do you think I would?" breathed Educated Evans tenderly, and he
thrilled as she caught his hand and squeezed his little finger.

The stream of home-goers that crossed the park was now multiplied in
size, and presently Evans saw young Tom Ropes, though apparently that
youthful brigand did not see Evans, for he showed no sign of
recognition.

The press was now tremendous, and he and the girl had to flatten
themselves against the wall, and it was with difficulty that the crowd
squeezed past.  Every now and again some one would bump against Evans.
Twice it was young Tom Ropes, who also seemed to be waiting for a
friend.

And then of a sudden there was a stir in the crowd.  Somebody struck
out, and Evans looked with open mouth at the strange spectacle of young
Tom Ropes in the hands of "The Miller."  Where "The Miller" had come
from, unless he had dropped through a crack in the arch, Evans could
not guess.

In an instant the archway was alive with plain-clothes police.

"Let us get out of this," said Miss Mawker hurriedly.

She had not taken two steps when somebody gripped her arm.  Evans was
on the point of asserting himself when, looking up, he recognised "The
Miller."

"Want you, Daisy," said "The Miller" pleasantly.  "We've got the rest
of the gang, I think."

"Look here, Mr. Challoner," began Educated Evans, struggling to follow
the sergeant and his captive.

In a quiet and secluded station on the other side of the line six
bedraggled men were in the process of being ushered into a waiting
police van when Evans, following "The Miller" and Miss Daisy Mawker,
came upon the scene.

"We've got the men, and we haven't got the loot," said an officer who
was evidently in charge, and added, "Hullo, Daisy, had a good day?"

Daisy made a reply which shocked Educated Evans beyond words.

"I suppose this somethinged 'can' was snouting for you?" she said.
"Well, he's in it with the rest of us."

"I know all about that," said "The Miller."  "Turn out your overcoat
pockets, Evans!"

"Me?" said the horrified Evans.

"You," said "The Miller."  "I'll give you a clean bill because I know
just how they brought you into it."

In Evans' pockets were eight watches, seven note-cases, five purses,
two scarf-pins, and a lady's diamond brooch.  Evans could only watch
like a man in a dream as the property came to light.

"You were the carrier," said "The Miller" on the way back to town.
"They always get a mug for that job.  She planted you against the
railway arch so that the gang should have some one to take the plunder
as they found it.  By the way, she's young Tom's sweetheart."

"She ain't mine," said Educated Evans savagely.  "I'm done with wimmin!"




XII

THE PROUD HORSE

Educated Evans left the Italian Club, having lost 4 18s. at a game
which was known locally as "Prop and Cop."  He had propped so
misguidedly, and copped with such bad lack of brilliance, that the
wonder was--as "The Miller," to whom he confided his woes, told
him--that he had any trousers left.

Yet Educated Evans was not an unhappy man; for that day had seen the
success of his 5 Special.  And on the previous Sunday "Tattenham" had
said nasty things about a trainer who was reputedly an enemy to all
touts and tipsters, and had expressed his views on the same in the
public Press.

Sergeant Challoner walked with Evans to the end of the mews wherein the
educated man had his habitation.  As they stood talking, the keen-eyed
"Miller" saw a light shining at one of the windows above a stable.

"The Turners are up late," he said.

"The kid's ill," said Educated Evans shortly, and, taking leave of the
detective, he made his way rapidly along the uneven roadway.  He did
not go direct to his own room, but, climbing the opposite stairs, came
to a pause on a landing very similar to his own, and knocked at the
door which led to the lighted room.  He knocked gently, but the door
was instantly opened by a haggard-looking woman.

"How is he?" asked Educated Evans, quietly; and she made way for him to
enter.

The room was a little better furnished than Evans' room, but it was
less airy.  On a stuffy bed lay a small boy, very wan and hollow-eyed.
The perspiration glistened on his white forehead, but he grinned at the
sight of Evans.

"Hullo, Mr. Evans!" he piped.

"Hullo, Ernie!" said Evans, sitting down on a chair by the side of the
bed.

"Been to the races, Mr. Evans?"

"No, I can't say that I have," admitted Evans.

"And I'll bet your horse didn't win," said the child, speaking with
difficulty, and fixing his solemn eyes upon the bare-headed tipster.

"If you bet that you'd bet wrong, Ernie.  It did win!  I thought you
was better or I'd have come home earlier."

Ernie was an old pal of Educated Evans.  They were in the habit of
holding speech together across the intervening space which separated
one balcony from the other.  Mrs. Turner was a widow; her husband had
been killed in an accident when working for the firm that owned the
stables above which she lived.  They had given her a small pension,
and, more important at that time, had given her the two rooms rent free
for life.

The woman herself did not come into the purview of Educated Evans, for
she was not interested in the thoroughbred racehorse, nor very greatly
interested in Mr. Evans.  But Ernie and he went walking together,
surveyed the spring glories of the park, and sailed boats upon the lake.

He went to the door with the woman.

"What did the doctor say?" he asked in a low voice.

"He says he ought to go away into the country, and it's his only
chance," said the woman, with a catch in her breath.  "He'll die if he
stays here.  The doctor's tried to get him into a convalescent home,
but there's no vacancies; and I can't afford to keep him away for any
time."

"Mr. Evans!"

He turned to the bed.

The child had struggled up on to his elbow and was watching him with
his odd, pitiful face.

"What about that prahd 'orse?"

"That what?" said Evans, puzzled.

"You told me you'd let me see a prahd 'orse."

"Oh, a proud horse," said Evans correctly, and remembered his promise.
"What do you mean by a proud horse, Ernie?" he asked.

"You know, Mr. Evans--the 'orses that 'old their 'eads up in the air,
they're so prahd.  There used to be two down 'ere--the undertaker's
'orses; but he took 'em away.  I'd like to see a prahd 'orse.  I could
sit all day and look at a prahd 'orse," said the child, with queer
earnestness.

"Ain't there any proud horses in the mews?" asked Evans.  "What about
Haggitt's?"

The child's pale lip lifted contemptuously.

"'E isn't a prahd 'orse," he said scornfully.  "Why, 'e 'olds 'is 'ead
down like a cow.  I'd like to see a prahd 'orse, Mr. Evans--them that
champs their feet on the ground."

Evans scratched his nose.

"Now you come to mention it, Ernie, I'll confess I haven't seen a proud
horse for years.  I think the motor-cars must have knocked all the
pride out of 'em."

"There are lots.  The undertaker's 'orses was prahd," said the small
boy.

Evans crossed over to his room, feeling uneasy in his mind.
Financially, things were not going too well with him, or he would have
offered, without hesitation, to send the child away into the country.
His was the kind of nature that goes out to children, and it hurt him
to even think of that queer little morsel of humanity in the stuffy bed
in that hot and airless room.  Once he got out in the night and looked
out of the window.  The light was still burning.  When he did go to
sleep it was to dream of proud horses, black as night, with high,
arched necks and frothing mouths and hoofs that pawed incessantly.  And
in his dream they were pulling a shabby little coach.  And under the
driving seat was a little white coffin.

He woke up sweating, pushed open the window.  The dawn was in the sky
and the air smelt sweet and good.  The windows opposite were closed,
hermetically sealed; the door was jammed tight and locked.

Evans lit the gas and sat down to study the day's programme published
in the overnight paper, but he could not keep his mind to the
possibilities of profit.  Every entry was a proud horse with an arched
neck that "champed" the ground.

At the particular moment when the kindly heart of Educated Evans was
lacerated by the thought of suffering childhood, a proud horse was
being pulled up on the Wiltshire Downs.  His name was Veriti.  He had
cost, as a yearling at the Doncaster sales, 13,500 guineas, and he was,
so Mr. Yardley, the eminent trainer, told the owner in dispassionate
tones, worth exactly 13,500 marks at the present rate of exchange.

"He looks good enough," said Lord Teller, a shivering man who had been
dragged out of bed to witness the wholly unsatisfactory trial in the
cold hours of the morning.

"Unfortunately, my lord," said Mr. Yardley politely, "the London Cup is
not a beauty show.  If it was, I think Veriti would get very nearly
first prize."

Being the great Yardley he could talk to one of the newest of the
peerage frankly and in plain words.

"He can do it if he would do it," he said bitterly, watching the
beautiful Veriti as he stepped daintily round and round the waiting
circle; "and it isn't lack of courage.  It's just
wilfulness--super-intelligence, perhaps."

"What will you do?" said his lordship.

"I shall run him," said Yardley.  "He will start a hot favourite, and
when he finishes down the course knowledgable people will look at one
another meaningly, and the _hoi polloi_ will talk about another one of
Yardley's mysteries, and yet another nail will be driven into my
reputation."

He walked over to the horse, smoothed its arched neck and patted it.

"You're a dirty dog, Jim," he said.

(His lordship learnt for the first time that the name under which a
horse is registered is not the name by which it is known in a stable.)

"You're a mouldy old thief!  What's the matter with you?"

Veriti did not wink, but Yardley, who understood the very souls of
horses, thought he saw a look of amusement in his eyes.

"You'll have one chance, my lad, and that's at Alexandra Park.  A
cab-horse can win at Alexandra Park.  And if you don't behave yourself
on Saturday, you'll go to the stud at nine guineas, and you know what
that means!"

Veriti did not raise his eyebrows, but he raised his ears as though he
understood.  And really the question of his fee was less important to
Veriti than his popularity.  For the moment he was exceedingly
unpopular, but that did not worry him.

Mr. Yardley was a painstaking and thorough trainer, and it was all to
his advantage that veiled Press comments and innuendoes passed him by
without making the slightest impression.  He was that gentleman whose
practice it was to run two horses in a race and win with the outsider.
It was the popular idea that these results were cleverly planned.  To
such a suggestion Mr. Yardley merely offered a cryptic smile and the
remark that horses were not machines.

He brought Veriti out two mornings after, and gave him a gallop with
the two best horses in his stable.  And he was not overwhelmingly
surprised when Veriti won the gallop pulling up, because he was, as Mr.
Lyndall would say, "a horse of moods."

"I suppose that means that you'll finish down that infernal course on
Saturday," mused Mr. Yardley, looking into Veriti's eyes--and it may
have been a coincidence, but Veriti nodded.

Educated Evans had made up his mind to have a great day on the
Saturday, for his punters were, in the main, people who speculated
their maximum on that day.  He had planned a grand circularising of
every name on his books with the winner of the London Cup.  That he
should have chosen Veriti is not remarkable, for Veriti had run second
in the Chesterfield Plate at Goodwood.  But somehow the zip had gone
out of Evans' life that week.  Morning and night, and sometimes in the
middle of the day, he was to be found in the widow's room, sitting by
the child, who seemed to fade before his very eyes.

Evans saw the doctor, a busy man with very little time to fuss.

"The child would be saved if you could get him away to the country and
keep him there," he said to Evans, when the educated man met him at the
bottom of the stairs.  "I am giving this advice, well knowing that this
poor woman cannot afford to send the child away.  I've done my utmost
to find a free convalescent home for him, but without success."

"What would it cost, doctor?"

"Three or four pounds a week," said the doctor brusquely, and Evans'
heart sank, for he was very near the end of his own resources, and his
livelihood was a precarious one.

"Do you know what I think, Mr. Evans?" said the mother, coming outside
the door on to the landing and talking in a hushed voice.  "I think
that boy's life would be saved if he could see that kind of horse he's
always talking about.  It's funny how things run in your mind when
you're ill.  That's all Ernie wants."

Evans went into the room.  The child was lying with his wasted hands
beneath his cheeks, his eyes fixed on vacancy.

"Hullo, Ernie, old boy!"

Evans patted his shoulder gently.  The dark eyes turned up to meet the
tipster's face.

"What about that prahd 'orse?" he said weakly.

"I'm going to see what I can do about it," said Evans.  "I'll be
bringing one down the mews, and then I'll carry you to the window, and
you can see it for yourself.  Mrs. Turner, don't you think you might
have your windows open a bit?"

She was shocked at the suggestion.

"That's what the doctor's always saying," she complained.  "That means
that Ernie will lie in a draught and catch a cold."

To Evans's discerning eye the boy was slowly sinking; and he spent the
Friday afternoon, when he should have been attending to his business,
in a vain search of the neighbouring mews for any horse that bore the
slightest resemblance to Ernie's description.  Not even the funeral
horses were available, for it was a bad summer and the horses were
working overtime.  Evans could not help thinking----

He had to go to Alexandra Park; there was nothing else to do.  The
child was getting on his mind; and everlastingly that thin, whining
voice intoning, "Want to see a prahd 'orse," rang in Evans' ears.

He himself saw one.  In a half-hearted way he had sent Veriti to some
fifty clients, and he saw Veriti finish a bad ninth.

And then a great idea was born in his mind, and he hurried out of the
cheap ring along the road and into the paddock.  That he got into the
paddock at all without the necessary ticket was a tribute to his
courage and resourcefulness.

He arrived as Veriti was being sheeted under the disapproving eye of
the great Yardley; and surely Veriti was a picture of a horse.
Unfortunately, they will not pay out on pictures, as Mr. Yardley had
truly said.

"Excuse me, sir."

Yardley turned and saw a face which for the moment eluded him.

"I know you.  Who are you?" he asked, not being in the mood for polite
conversation.

"You remember me, sir, I'm Educated Evans."

For a moment Yardley glared, and then a twinkle came into his eyes.

"Oh, you are!  I remember you, you rascal.  What do you want?  I've no
tips for you, and I'm broke."

"I don't want any money, sir," said Evans huskily, and oppressed by the
fearful liberty he was taking.  "But is there any chance of this horse
coming to Bayham Mews?" he blurted.

"To where?" asked the startled Yardley.

"To Bayham Mews, sir--Camden Town."

"There's a chance of his going into a cab, if that's what you mean.
There's also a chance of him going into the cats'-meat shop," said
Yardley.  "What do you mean, my friend?"

Brokenly, incoherently, Educated Evans told his story, gulping out the
plaint of little Ernie.

"A proud horse?  What is a proud horse?  Oh, I think I know what you
mean," said Yardley slowly, and turned his eyes upon Veriti.  "He's
proud enough, though God knows why," he said, and chuckled in spite of
himself.  "Yes, I think he'd fill the bill.  But you really don't
imagine I should send his lordship's horse to amuse a small slum child,
do you?"

"No, sir," said Evans miserably.

"Then you're a damned fool," said Yardley.  "What is your address?"

Educated Evans, scarcely believing his ears, gave ample directions.  At
a quarter past six that evening, when he was sitting with Ernie, not
daring to believe that the trainer would carry out his promise, there
came a clatter of hoofs in the yard, and Evans dashed to the window.

Coming back without a word, he lifted the child in his arms, and, in
spite of Mrs. Turner's protests, carried him on to the landing.  And
there Ernie saw the proudest horse he had ever seen--a horse so proud
that it refused to run with other horses, but invariably and sedately
trailed in the rear.

"O-oh!" said Ernie, and his round eyes grew rounder.

Veriti never looked better.  He had been stripped of his sheet, and his
coat glistened in the afternoon sun.

"O-oh!" said Ernie.  "Ain't 'e prahd?"

And proud he was, with his head held high and his delicate feet picking
a way across the cobbled stones.

For a moment the horse held the eye of Educated Evans; then, looking
past him, he saw Yardley.  The great trainer came slowly towards him
and mounted the stairs.

"Is this the child?" he said.

"Yes, sir," said Educated Evans.

"Looks as if a little fresh air would do him a world of good," said
Yardley.  "What do you think of my proud horse, laddie?"

"He _is_ prahd!" said Ernie.

"I should say he was," said the grim Yardley.  "Nothing infectious
about this child, is there?"

"No, sir," said the woman, to whom he spoke.

"I'll send my car for him the first thing in the morning.  The wife of
my head lad will look after him, if he's well enough to travel."

And so Ernie Turner went down into Wiltshire, and there was an amazing
sequel.  As though conscious of the compliment that had been paid to
him, Veriti won the next time out, and won pulling up.  He started at
100 to 7.  The favourite, which finished down the course and started at
6 to 4, was also one of Yardley's.  And in the paddock after the race,
wherever men congregated, it was agreed unanimously that Yardley ought
to be warned off.




XIII

THROUGH THE CARD

"I have often wondered," said "The Miller" reflectively, "why a man of
your education and ability doesn't find another way of earning a
living, Evans.  I admit that it is better than thieving, and more
desirable than a good many other methods of earning a livelihood that
are followed by mutual friends.  But it's a little precarious, isn't
it, or do you make so much money that you expect to retire?"

Educated Evans scratched his chin and looked up at his visitor.
Detective-Inspector Challoner, C.I.D., was a frequent caller at the
little room over the stable which was Evans' dwelling-place, and he had
come that morning at a very unpropitious and depressing moment, for
Evans had set out twelve consecutive losers, and it almost seemed as if
he would never touch a winner again.

So depressed was he that he was engaged in his favourite course of
study, which was the sixth volume of Chambers's Encyclopdia, which
began at the Humber and finished at Malta.

On these and on all matters in between, except perhaps such subjects as
the habits of the Lecythidac, which was a little above him, he was an
authority.  He knew all about Robert Lee and Pope Joan, Japan, and
Iron, and International Law, and Ink and Indiarubber, and Incantations,
the Lick Observatory and the Liturgy, because these were dealt with in
the volume.  And he had no other volume.

He was half-way through a learned article on "The Use of Lights in
Public Worship" when "The Miller's" big frame loomed up in the doorway.

"I owe three weeks' rent," said Educated Evans despondently.  "The
washer-woman's got me shirts, and won't let me have 'em back until I
pay her up all the back.  I owe twenty-three and twopence for gas, and
I've got four and sixpence that I borrowed from Li Jacobs.  That's the
money I've saved!"

"What do you do with all your money?" asked "The Miller" in quiet
wonder.  "You must make a lot sometimes, Evans."

"Some people," said Educated Evans, "like the celebrated Henry the
Eighth, who married twenty-five wives, do in their stuff on horses and
women.  You have to be a king to do it in that way.  I've done all mine
in on horses without the assistance of any young lady."

He got up and went to the mantel-piece and filled a clay pipe, and the
fact that he was reserving the end of a cigar that lay by its side was
sufficient evidence that his position was a parlous one.

"I've done with horses from now onwards," said Educated Evans.  "It's
phantom gold," he said recklessly.  "Find me a job: I'll take it."

"Higgs wants a man," suggested "The Miller."

"Higgs!" said the scornful Evans.  "Do you think I'd work for a man
like that?  He's a twister.  A ten-pun' note wouldn't pay what that man
owes me for information supplied at great cost--you've no idea of my
expenses, what with travellin', giving money to stable boys and head
lads----"

"You're amongst friends," said "The Miller" soothingly.  "Don't let's
tell the tale.  What about Mr. Walters?  He'd give you a job."

Evans shrugged his shoulders.

"Am I the kind of man who'd work for a fellow like Walters?" he asked
haughtily.  "A man, so to speak, who makes a mock of education?  No,
Mr. Challoner, I'll see what Saturday brings in.  And if Roving Betty
doesn't win the Duke of York Stakes, then I'll have to look around.
I'm not grousing"--he was very serious now--"but somehow I've never
been able to touch big money, Mr. Challoner.  Facts been against me."

"You mean Fate," said "The Miller."

"I'm talking about bookmakers more particularly," said Educated Evans.
"I've never been able to bring off a coup.  Not a real coup.  Of
course, I've bragged a lot in printin'--I wish I had the money that
I've spent with Dickens the printer--but between friends, if I may
presume, I've never touched the money that I've always dreamt about.
I'm a bit of a dreamer, Mr. Challoner."

"So I've noticed," said the other, not unkindly.

"I can sit here," said Evans, tapping the book in front of him, "and
dream as only educated people can dream.  I've ridden Derby winners,
I've owned the biggest sprinter of the age, I've taken a hundred
thousand pounds a day out of the ring--in my dreams.  And, mind you, I
wouldn't be without 'em for anything.  Of course, I never shall take a
hundred thousand out of the ring, and I'll never get that cottage and
field."

The interested "Miller" sat down.

"Let us hear about your cottage and field, Evans.  That's a new one on
me."

"I've got an idea of a beautiful little cottage in the country.  I saw
one advertised for sale the other day on the back page of _The Times_.
Two thousand pounds!  Me doing the kitchen gardening and making a bit
by selling flowers and teas for cyclists--if they drank beer they'd
fall off--and a horse in the field.  Get an old selling plater and
breed from her.  That's my idea of happiness."

"The Miller" puffed slowly at his long cigar.

"And it's not a bad idea either," he said.  "But if you had the money
you'd do it in, Evans."

"Not me!" said Evans decisively.  "If I ever touch for a bit--and God
knows I never shall--I'd give up buying _The Sportsman_ and take in
_The Christian Herald_--it's more exciting, anyway.  I took a 'bus down
to Bromley the other day for a bit of fresh air, and it's a nice ride.
There's a place with about two acres--a little cottage, an old well,
just like in the pictures.  Why, I'd be a king there!"

"What would it cost?"

"Eight hundred and fifty pounds.  I saw the owner.  Kidded him I might
be buying it one of these days," said Evans dismally.  "Me buy a house!
Why, I couldn't buy a rabbit-hutch!"

Friday afternoon saw Evans, with his dwindling stock of envelopes,
folding what he knew was his last appeal to an incredulous public.
Most of the circulars were delivered locally.  Saturday brought him a
solitary five-shilling postal order.  Evans went without breakfast that
morning and carried his overcoat to a repository near at hand, and
received in exchange 4s. and a ticket.

He stood on the kerb, his hands in his pockets, the picture of
dejection, staring blankly at the White Hart, the landlord of which had
once welcomed him as a friend, and the shadow of ruin was upon him.

Evans was not a great drinker.  His magnificence in his cups had led to
so many awkward and embarrassing moments that he had abandoned the
practice with no great regret, for drinking to Evans was one of the
most expensive forms of recreation.

In his pocket he had 11s., and if he carried out the mad idea which
possessed him that morning and went to Kempton Park he might starve on
the morrow.

So brooding, "The Miller" passed him on his motor-bicycle, and, seeing
the melancholy figure, stopped his machine and got off.

"How did they come in, Evans?"

"They came in one by one," said Evans bitterly.  "The first has
arrived; the second may come at any time between now and Christmas.
I've got a dollar, and it cost me more than that for envelopes."

"Can I lend you a pound?" asked "The Miller," but Evans shook his head.

"You'll never get it back," he said miserably.

"Take it," said "The Miller," and, thrusting the note into his hands,
moved off.

"Don't forget Bactive Lad," called Evans after him, the ruling passion
strong in death.

He stood with the note in his hand, and then a sudden resolve came to
him, and he crossed the road and walked into the saloon bar.  The
proprietor was not visible, but the chief officer eyed him
suspiciously.  It seemed that the news of Evans' poverty had spread
throughout the land.

"A double Scotch and soda," said Evans firmly.

He had never drunk whisky before in the morning, but he felt that he
must do something or die of sheer inanition.  He threw the pound note
on the counter and tossed down the drink at a gulp.

"I'll have another," he said, and when he had had the other and had
leant against the bar, frowning thoughtfully for fully five minutes
without saying a word, he came to a sudden decision.

"Going to Kempton, Evans?" asked the senior barman.

Educated Evans turned his stony eyes upon his interrogator.

"'Mister Evans,' if you don't mind," he said haughtily.  "'The
Honourable Mr. Evans,' my good feller."

"I'm sorry," said the barman, aghast.

"You took a liberty," said Evans, "that no common man should take with
an educated gentleman."

He brushed some invisible dust from his sleeve, and with a shrug of his
shoulders walked out.

Providentially a taxicab was passing, and Evans hailed it.

"Waterloo, my man," he said, "Get there in ten minutes and I'll give
you a fiver."

Happily the cabman recognised him.

"What's the hurry, Evans?  There are plenty of trains."

"I have a special train," said Evans gravely, and fell into the
taxicab.  He intended to step in, but he fell in, for his foot slipped
on the running-board.

Mr. Evans alighted at Waterloo with greater _clat_.  He stepped out of
his cab on to the foot of Henry B. Norman, an American millionaire and
an excellent sportsman.

"Say, haven't you any feet of your own to walk on?" said the plutocrat.

"Pardon," said Evans in his stateliest manner, and threw five shillings
at the taxi-driver.  "As a gentleman I apologise.  As a gentleman you
accept.  God bless you!"  And he seized the hand of the astonished
millionaire and wrung it.  "Come and have a drink," said Evans.

Mr. Norman's eyes narrowed.

"I guess you've had almost as much as you can take, my friend," he
said.  "You're all lit up like the Hotel Dooda!"

"Come and have a drink," insisted Evans, closing his eyes.  He always
closed his eyes in these circumstances; it lent him a certain dignity
which was impressive.

Now, Mr. Norman was waiting for a friend who had not turned up.  He was
going to Kempton Park because, as the owner of an American stud, he was
keenly interested in English racing.  But that morning, when he had
left his valet's hands, he had not the slightest idea that at
eleven-thirty he would be standing in the public bar drinking whisky
with a disreputable gentleman who hinted mysteriously at his noble
birth.

"It's not generally known," said Evans, leaning affectionately on the
counter, "that my father was the fourteenth Earl of Pogmore.  I'm not
sure if it's Pogmore or Frogmore, but what does it matter?"

"Precisely."

"You're an American.  I knew in ten minutes," said Educated Evans,
nodding his head wisely.  "That's wunner things I learnt at Eton."

"At Eton?" said the staggered American.

"I was brought up at Eton and Harrow," said Evans, "but it's not
generally known."

"Who the dickens are you, then?" asked the American, thinking that he
had by chance happened upon a member of the shabby nobility.

"Lord Evans, of Bayham House--of Bayham Castle, I mean," said Evans.

"Going to Kempton?"

"I'll go through the card.  There isn't a horse running to-day, my dear
American fellow, that I don't know everything about.  Owners, trainers,
jockeys----" he waggled his head expressively--"I get everything!"

It was at that moment that the millionaire's friend found him.

"Good-bye, Mr. Evans, or Lord Evans, as the case may be," said Norman
good-humouredly.

He shook hands with his host, and was half-way to the door when he
stopped.

"I'll give this poor soak the surprise of his life," he said, and
taking out five clean, crisp notes from his pocket-book.  "A present
from the United States," he said, and slipped them into Evans' hand.

Things were going remarkably well with Evans.

He arrived at Kempton by a very ordinary train.  "The Miller," who had
cycled down, watched him, open-mouthed, as he strolled into
Tattersall's, slamming down a five-pound note.

"Here, what's wrong with you, Evans?" "The Miller" tackled him as he
entered Tattersall's ring.

"Ha, 'Miller,' I owe you a pound, I think?  Take it, my good fellow."

He waved the note in the air, and "The Miller," anxious to avoid a
scene, took it.

"'Miller,' old boy"--he gripped the detective's arm--"I've got summun
to tell you.  I'm not what you think I am, dear old boy."  He forced
back the tears that had come into his eyes with an effort, blew his
nose, and repeated: "I am not what you think I am."

"You're soused," said "The Miller," reproachfully.

"No, no, old boy, I'm not soused.  I'm an unfortunate man, dear
'Miller.'"

His attentions were becoming more than embarrassing, for he had his arm
affectionately round "The Miller's" shoulder--as far as it would reach."

"Dear old boy, I'm the nat'ral son of the Earl of Evans!  Now you know!"

He stepped back dramatically, and came into collision with a bookmaker
who was taking a light al fresco lunch.

"I'm not that either," said Evans, in reply to the bookmaker's
observation.  "I'm----"

He looked round for "The Miller," but the latter had seized the
opportunity and vanished.

The horses were at the post when Evans, sitting on the steps of the
stand, his head between his hands, suddenly woke with a start.
Fumbling with his card, and walking to the nearest bookmaker, he
demanded so loudly that it could be heard almost all over the ring:

"What price Midget's Pride?"

"Eight to one to you," said the bookmaker.

Evans dropped a roll of money in his hand, and with some difficulty the
bookmaker counted it.

"Twenty-three pounds seventeen and six-pence.  Do you want it to this?"
he asked, incredulously.

"To that," said the grave Evans.

"Take back the silver.  I'm not betting that way."  He thrust the coins
into Evans' hand.  "A hundred and ninety-four to twenty-three Midget's
Pride.  You needn't take a ticket.  I'll know that dial anywhere."

Midget's Pride won cleverly.  Evans was unaware of the fact until the
bookmaker hailed him.

"Hi, you!  Come and get this money you've robbed me of!"

Evans thrust the notes into his pocket and went into the bar.  When he
emerged he was another man.  His eyes were bright, his head was high.
He had lost his hat.

The second race was a two-year-old seller.  A horse started a hot
favourite at 13 to 8.  Evans took 6 to 4 to all the money he could find
in his pocket.

Just before the last race "The Miller" was standing by the rails
discussing with a brother professional the appearance of several
well-known faces in the ring when he saw Educated Evans strutting along
the alley-way that led from the paddock.

"Good-morning, 'Miller.'  Good-morning, my man," he said, with a lordly
wave of his hand.

"Been through the card?"

"Right through the card.  Look at this."  He put both hands in his
pockets and drew forth notes in such profusion that dozens fell to the
ground.  "Let 'em be," said Evans loftily.  "Leave 'em there for the
common people.  I've just seen the Stewards about that dead-heat in the
last race.  Disgustin'!"

"There wasn't a dead-heat in the last race, you damned fool!" growled
"The Miller."  "The winner was a clear length in front of everything
else."

"It looked like a dead-heat to me," said Evans.  "I distinctly saw two
horses."

As the field was going to the post Evans staggered to the leading
bookmaker of Tattersall's.

"Good-morning, Mr. Slumber," he said.  (In other times and
circumstances he would have trembled to approach the great man.)  "What
price Standoff?"

The great Harry Slumber surveyed his customer with a calm and critical
eye.

"Seven to one."

"Lay me fifty-nine thousand to seven thousand and the money is yours,"
said Evans gravely.

It was then that "The Miller" thought he ought to interfere.

      *      *      *      *      *

Evans woke the next morning with a feeling that by some tragic accident
his head had been caught between steam rollers and slightly flattened.
When his hand went up, however, he found no difference in the shape.
He was aching in every limb, and, staring round, he found he was in a
room of familiar appearance.

There was a steel door and a grating, a bell-push, a hard,
leather-covered pillow and a blanket.  The bed itself was a wooden
bench.  A large jug of water slaked his burning thirst, and then, just
as he was going to ring the bell and ask for information, a lock
snapped and the door of the cell opened.  "The Miller" looked at him
and shook his head.

"What a nice man you are, Evans!" he said bitterly.  "After I'd taken
the trouble to bring you home and put you to bed!"

"What did I do?" asked Evans.

"What did you do?" said "The Miller." "You came and kissed Inspector
Pine, that's what you did!  I thought he'd have killed you."

Evans groaned.

"I've had such a wonderful dream.  I dreamt I had been to Kempton and
won thousands."

"Three thousand two hundred pounds," said "The Miller," calmly, "and
you're a lucky man to have it."

Evans jumped up as if he had been shot.

"Did I go through the card?" he asked hollowly.

"You went through the card, and the boys would have gone through you if
I hadn't been there," said "The Miller."  "Evans, you're a disgusting
fellow.  And here comes Inspector Pine," he said, "to ask if your
intentions were serious."




LONDON AND GLASGOW: COLLINS' CLEAR-TYPE PRESS




      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *




  COLLINS' POPULAR NOVELS

  BY FOREMOST WRITERS OF THE DAY

  FULL CLOTH 3/6 LIBRARY BINDING

  _Detective Novels_

  155.  The Instrument of Destiny.  J. D. BERESFORD
  147.  The Silk Stocking Murders.  A. BERKELEY
  143.  The Slip Carriage Mystery.  LYNN BROCK
  108.  The Big Four.  AGATHA CHRISTIE
   40.  The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.  AGATHA CHRISTIE
  137.  The Mystery of the Blue Train.  AGATHA CHRISTIE
  148.  The Man from the River.  G. D. H. AND M. COLE
  174.  Superintendent Wilson's Holiday.   G. D. H. AND M. COLE
  105.  Inspector French and the Starvel Tragedy.  FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS
   44.  Inspector French and the Cheyne Mystery.  FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS
   51.  The Groote Park Murder.  FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS
  133.  The Dalehouse Murder.  FRANCIS EVERTON
  142.  The Net Around Joan Ingilby.  A. FIELDING
   19.  The Diamonds.  J. S. FLETCHER
  144.  The Golden Venture.  J. S. FLETCHER
  141.  The Time-Worn Town.  A. FIELDING
  152.  The Ravenswood Mystery.  J. S. FLETCHER
  132.  Queen of Clubs.  HULBERT FOOTNER
  127.  The Murder of an M.P.  ROBERT GORE-BROWNE
  156.  The Murder of Mrs. Davenport.  ANTHONY GILBERT
  128.  The Tragedy at Freyne.  ANTHONY GILBERT
  164.  The White Crow.  PHILIP MACDONALD
  177.  The Rasp.  PHILIP MACDONALD
  168.  Without Judge or Jury.  RALPH ROOD


      *      *      *      *      *


  COLLINS' POPULAR NOVELS

  BY FOREMOST WRITERS OF THE DAY

  FULL CLOTH 3/6 LIBRARY BINDING

  _Wild West Novels_

  113.  The Desert Girl.  ROBERT AMES BENNET
  124.  The Two-Gun Girl.  ROBERT AMES BENNET
  156.  The Cow Country Killers.  ROBERT AMES BENNET
  151.  Ken of the Cow Country.  ROBERT AMES BENNET
  165.  Deep Canyon.  ROBERT AMES BENNET
  178.  The Mystery of the Four Abreast.  COURTNEY RYLEY COOPER
  154.  Bird of Freedom.  HUGH PENDEXTER
  140.  The Boss of the Double E.  FRANK C. ROBERTSON
  157.  The Boss of the Ten Mile Basin.  FRANK C. ROBERTSON
  146.  The Boss of the Flying M.  FRANK C. ROBERTSON
  175.  The Hidden Cabin.  FRANK C. ROBERTSON
  179.  The Far Horizon.  FRANK C. ROBERTSON
  131.  The Corral Riders.  CHARLES WESLEY SANDERS
  169.  The Crimson Trail.  CHARLES WESLEY SANDERS
  126.  Hashknife of the Canyon Trail.  W. C. TUTTLE
  111.  Hashknife of the Double Bar 8.  W. C. TUTTLE
  111.  Hashknife Lends a Hand.  W. C. TUTTLE
   82.  Sun-Dog Loot.  W. C. TUTTLE
   83.  Rustlers' Roost.  W. C. TUTTLE
   84.  The Dead-Line.  W. C. TUTTLE


      *      *      *      *      *


  COLLINS' POPULAR NOVELS

  BY FOREMOST WRITERS OF THE DAY

  FULL CLOTH 3/6 LIBRARY BINDING

  _Complete List of Titles_

    4.  These Charming People.  MICHAEL ARLEN
    5.  Piracy.  MICHAEL ARLEN
    6.  The Romantic Lady.  MICHAEL ARLEN
   50.  The Green Hat.  MICHAEL ARLEN
   70.  May Fair.  MICHAEL ARLEN
  139.  Claire and Circumstances.  E. MARIA ALBANESI
  176.  The Moon Thro' Glass.  E. MARIA ALBANESI
   85.  The Splendour of Asia.  L. ADAMS BECK
   27.  The Treasure of Ho.  L. ADAMS BECK
   37.  The Way of Stars.  L. ADAMS BECK
  117.  The Decoy.  J. D. BERESFORD
   86.  The Tapestry.  J. D. BERESFORD
   87.  Unity.  J. D. BERESFORD
   88.  Love's Pilgrim.  J. D. BERESFORD
   14.  The Monkey Puzzle.  J. D. BERESFORD
   39.  That Kind of Man.  J. D. BERESFORD
  138.  All or Nothing.  J. D. BERESFORD
  118.  Wild Grapes.  PHYLLIS BOTTOME
   89.  The Belated Reckoning.  PHYLLIS BOTTOME
   36.  Old Wine.  PHYLLIS BOTTOME
   69.  The Kingfisher.  PHYLLIS BOTTOME
  150.  Strange Fruit.  PHYLLIS BOTTOME
   64.  Experience.  CATHERINE COTTON
   96.  A Gay Lover.  RUTHERFORD CROCKETT
   97.  Safety Last.  RUTHERFORD CROCKETT
    1.  The Return.  WALTER DE LA MARE
    3.  Memoirs of a Midget.  WALTER DE LA MARE
  135.  Brighton Beach.  MRS. HENRY DUDENEY
  162.  Fair Lady.  MAY EDGINTON
  167.  Life Isn't so Bad.  MAY EDGINTON
   14.  The Foolish Lovers.  ST. JOHN ERVINE
  129.  The Wayward Man.  ST. JOHN ERVINE
  166.  Martin Pippin.  ELEANOR FARJEON
  170.  Kaleidoscope.  ELEANOR FARJEON
  120.  Deep Currents.  A. FIELDING
  173.  Lucien the Dreamer.  J. S. FLETCHER
   53.  The Crater.  ROBERT GORE-BROWNE
  171.  An Imperfect Lover.  ROBERT GORE-BROWNE
   67.  My Lady of the Chimney Corner.  DR. ALEXANDER IRVINE
   68.  The Souls of Poor Folk.  DR. ALEXANDER IRVINE
   98.  Told by an Idiot.  ROSE MACAULAY
   99.  Mystery at Geneva.  ROSE MACAULAY
  100.  Potterism.  ROSE MACAULAY
    8.  Dangerous Ages.  ROSE MACAULAY
    7.  Orphan Island.  ROSE MACAULAY
   52.  Crewe Train.  ROSE MACAULAY
  149.  Keeping Up Appearances.  ROSE MACAULAY
  134.  Patrol.  PHILIP MACDONALD
  121.  Soldier Born.  CONAL O'RIORDAN
   11.  Adam of Dublin.  CONAL O'RIORDAN
   12.  Adam and Caroline.  CONAL O'RIORDAN
   35.  In London.  CONAL O'RIORDAN
   43.  Married Life.  CONAL O'RIORDAN
  153.  Soldier of Waterloo.  CONAL O'RIORDAN
    9.  Sayonara.  JOHN PARIS
   10.  Kimono.  JOHN PARIS
   33.  Banzai.  JOHN PARIS
  163.  A Man Beguiled.  RALPH RODD
  122.  The Bride's Prelude.  MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK
  103.  London Mixture.  MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK
  104.  Humming Bird.  MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK
   53.  Sack and Sugar.  MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK
   63.  None-Go-By.  MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK
  161.  Come-by-Chance.  MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK
   95.  Haroun of London.  KATHARINE TYNAN
  145.  The Respectable Lady.  KATHARINE TYNAN
  171.  Lover of Women.  KATHARINE TYNAN
  119.  Greenlow.  ROMER WILSON
   41.  The Death of Society.  ROMER WILSON
  130.  Irene in the Centre.  HANNAH YATES
  158.  Dim Star.  HANNAH YATES






[End of Educated Evans, by Edgar Wallace]
