ther who lives here."

"That is precisely what we've come to find out," Phillips said coolly.
"I've got a pretty shrewd notion, but that isn't good enough for me.
I've told you that there's a gang of clever swindlers in England who
have put their heads together to rob the betting ring of an enormous sum
of money. Operations began last autumn, but the flat-racing was nearly
finished, so that they did not make quite such a haul as they had
anticipated. Still, they made enough to keep themselves in luxury all
the winter and to find the necessary funds for carrying on the campaign
in the spring. It is a big combine, and unless something is done to stop
it, these people will make colossal fortunes. Mind you, one or two of
the large bookmakers have a suspicion, but up to now they haven't been
able to prove anything. Indeed, without egotism, I may say they would be
powerless without me. I got some vague idea of the scheme three years
ago from a man who is now dead. Then when racing began again this year I
fancied I could see a trace of the same idea in this business. I knew I
was right when I discovered that Copley was operating on a large scale.
I lunched at the Post Club with a member who gave me an introduction to
Rickerby, the financial agent. You remember him?"

"I ought to," Fielden said drily. "Goodness knows, his firm had enough
of my money. But go on."

"Well, I pumped Rickerby. I don't mind telling you that I went to the
Post Club on purpose. He has been pretty hard hit. He believes he has
been the victim of a swindle, and he is right, though it was no part of
my policy at the time to tell him so. He can't very well refuse to take
big bets, even when he feels there is something underhand going on. Only
a short time ago he was hit for some thousands of pounds by one of the
gang, and, moreover, had to pay the money."

"This sounds very interesting," Fielden said, "but what has it to do
with our present adventure?"

"Oh, I am coming to that," Phillips went on quietly. "You see, these
bets are always made in the same way. One of the conspirators, who is
actually a member of the Post Club, strolls into the smoking-room some
five or six minutes before--well, we'll say before the three o'clock
race. He hangs about till the horses are about finishing and then, in
the most casual way in the world, makes a bet. Now, mind you, this bet
is booked before the race is finished, as a careful comparison of the
time shows. Yet th