been cut
short just at the point when he might have picked up information that
might have made his fortune.

"I wonder what they're talking about?" he muttered, as he limped
painfully and slowly across the Downs towards Seton Manor. "I suppose I
had better give Mr. Copley a tip. I can send it to him from one of these
pubs. He doesn't deserve any consideration from me, but it will be worth
a fiver later. Now for breakfast and just one drink--only one before I
get back to London and draw my money. There will be plenty of time for
fun this evening. What a fool I've been! If I could only have kept off
that accursed liquor I should have had a stud of my own by this time."

With this philosophy on his lips Chaffey turned into the bar of the
nearest public-house.

CHAPTER XXVII

DRIVING IT HOME

Copley sat at the breakfast-table waiting for Foster to come down. He
had glanced impatiently through his letters, none of which appeared to
be particularly interesting. Then he picked up a repulsive-looking
envelope that lay by the side of his plate. The envelope was greasy and
forbidding, though the handwriting upon it was fairly neat and clear, if
a trifle unsteady. Copley was on the point of pitching it into the fire,
feeling pretty sure it was something in the nature of a begging epistle,
when he changed his mind and opened it.

"Dear sir," it ran, "I was on the Downs this morning and saw the trial I
was speaking to you about last night. Sir George's head man thought it a
dead secret, but I had had it from a sure quarter, and I saw the race
between the Blenheim colt and another at half-past seven. The colt was
quite stale, and, if I am any judge of such matters, I think it will
take all their time to wind him up for the Guineas. I thought you would
like to know this, because, properly handled, there is money in it.
Perhaps it may be worth a five-pound note to me the next time we meet."

There was no signature to this document, but Copley guessed where it
came from. He rose from the table and stood for a while thinking this
over. There was money in the tidings, but not in the way hinted at by
Chaffey.

"Anything fresh?" Foster asked, as he attacked his breakfast with zest.
"You look rather pleased about something."

"Well, I am," Copley said, with a sinister smile he found it hard to
conceal. "I've got something here that looks like good business if we
can only hold on a bit longer. As you know, we don't quite ag