"Was it?" Phillips asked. "Well, I confess I didn't find it so.

Yesterday at the time of the three o'clock race I was at the Post Club, and, singular to say, we had the same blinding snowstorm in Covent Garden. Now it surprises you, but from your point of view and mine that snowstorm was the most fortunate thing that could have happened. When I sat smoking my cigar in the Post Club there came to me the inspiration of a lifetime. I seemed to see in a flash exactly what had happened, and soon I shall know to a dead certainty. You must restrain your curiosity for a little longer. You will probably know all about it before you go to bed. Try one of these cigars. They are excellent."

Fielden had hardly got his cigar aglow before the landlady came in with a telegram, which Phillips opened eagerly. There was a smile of triumph on his face as he handed it to Fielden.

"What do you make of that?" he asked.

"I can make nothing of it," Fielden said. "It is a wire to the effect that no important wager was made this afternoon on the three o'clock race at the Post Club, and is signed Carden. I presume that is our stout friend with the florid face and ingratiating manner, who was talking to you this afternoon. But how it helps us I haven't the ghost of an idea."

Phillips rose and threw his cigar in the fire.

"Come," he said. "It is time to start. You haven't much longer to wait."

CHAPTER XIX

THE EMPTY HOUSE

There was just enough moonlight for Phillips' purpose, but not enough to render his task dangerous. Fielden asked no questions, partly because he deemed it would be useless, and partly because he did not wish to spoil what appeared to have in it the making of a dramatic adventure. His spirits were rising, and he was looking forward keenly to something in the way of enterprise. He and Phillips had been in more than one tight place together, and he had every confidence in his companion.

They made their way along the main street in silence, and came presently to the deserted racecourse. There was very little evidence of the afternoon's sport, nothing but a few partially dismantled tents and booths, and the extraordinary remnants of reeking humanity that always haunt a race meeting.

They went across the heath, and by and by Phillips pulled up in front of the avenue to The Nook.

"This is the place," he said quietly.

"Oh, is it?" Fielden asked. "Perhaps you had better tell me before we go farther 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 antic.i.p.ated. 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. .h.i.t 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 the horse has won, and the man in the smoking-room of the Post Club knows it before the judge has given his decision."

"Impossible," Fielden exclaimed.

"I know it seems impossible, and twenty years ago you would have said the telephone was impossible, and people would have scouted the idea of wireless telegraphy. But they both came, like the phonograph and other wonders."

"Oh, that's all very well," Fielden smiled. "But you are not going to ask me to believe that this thing is done by thought-reading or anything of that sort? You won't tell me that this famous member of the Post Club is a clairvoyant who sees the race finished while it is being run?

Because, if that were the case, the favoured person would have no need of a syndicate to help him; he would do it all by himself."

"I am not suggesting anything of the kind," Phillips said. "There's nothing occult about the business. The thing is capable of explanation, and I am in a position to give it, except for the finishing touches, which make this dodge almost a work of genius. I know who is at the bottom of it, I know who is working it, and I know how the information is conveyed to within a few feet of the tape machines in the Post Club.

But how that information is filtered to the man inside is the thing that beats me at present. But so much I have found out. In the very next office to the smoking-room of the Post Club is a firm who call themselves Jolly & Co. Now Jolly & Co. only took their office last September or October. There is not the slightest sign of any business being done there, because I have been in the office myself. Taken in conjunction with what I have told you, it must strike you as an odd thing that this mysterious Jolly & Co. shut up the office and went abroad last year after the flat-racing was over. Probably Jolly & Co.

went off to make a bit in the Riviera, or Egypt, or some other fashionable resort where fools and money congregate. It is an odd thing that during the January meeting at Mirst Park Jolly & Co. should turn up again and resume operations in Covent Garden. Now I called to see Mr.

Jolly. He had left his office, but I guessed that before I called, or I shouldn't have ventured. The first thing I saw was a telephone with an unusually long flex to it. I don't quite understand why this flex is so long, but I can make a shrewd guess. It cost me an hour or two and plenty of hard thinking to get farther in my investigations, but I found late in the evening that Jolly & Co.'s telephone was a private wire leading from Covent Garden to his residence at Mirst Park. Now do you begin to understand?"

Fielden shook his head.

"It begins to smell suspicious," he said. "I am bound to confess it looks very like a deep-laid conspiracy. But I must confess myself too dense to follow it."

"Oh, it requires explanation. But luck favoured me in my investigations, and I managed to pick up a good many unlooked for clues. Still, the fact remains that from this house here to an office next door to the Post Club there is a private telephone. Now a child would admit that no one would have a private telephone from here to an office in London, at a cost of something like a hundred and fifty pounds a year, merely for the sake of sending domestic messages. I came here to have a good look at The Nook, as this house is called, and I found, not altogether unexpectedly, that n.o.body was living here. I was told by a gardener that the tenant had not yet taken possession, though it has been furnished for some time. I had rung the bell a few times, and when the man came professed I had called to see some one who used to live here.

Considering that it is supposed to be a fully-furnished house, that bell made a great deal of noise. I am ready to bet that the house is practically empty. At any rate, I have come here to find out for myself, and as I believe there is n.o.body on the premises our task ought not to be difficult."

"I don't like it," Fielden said. "It smells very much like burglary, and if we were discovered we should find some difficulty in giving an explanation which would satisfy the police. Isn't there any other way?"

Phillips waved the suggestion aside impatiently.

"You can go back if you like, sir," he said. "As for me, I will see this thing through. We might never have such an opportunity again. And, besides, I want to have a look at that telephone. I think we shall find something that will open our eyes. I am not in a position actually to prove it, but I am convinced that Jolly & Co. will be found to be part and parcel of Copley and Foster. Now you understand why I am so anxious to enter the house. Still, if you prefer to remain outside and leave the matter to me----"

"Oh, no," Fielden said hastily. "Having come so far I won't turn back. I am taking it that you are correct in thinking the house is empty."

"Of course it is, there is no question about that. The gardener told me so, and I see no reason to doubt his statement. I wouldn't miss this chance for anything. Even if I get nothing out of it, I should like to know how this swindle is being worked. But come along, we are wasting time. There is enough moonlight to help us without using lights, which is so far fortunate. It may be a little awkward for you, connected as you are with Copley, but it is all in the game."

"Lead on," Fielden said curtly.

They turned into the avenue and came presently to the front of the house. Somebody had evidently been in since Phillips' visit, for all the blinds had been pulled down. Then they walked cautiously round, looking for a weak spot where they could effect an entrance.

CHAPTER XX

INSIDE

The adventurers managed to squeeze through a scullery window, the latch of which had not been secured, and a moment later were in the house. As Phillips had surmised, the place was empty. There were, however, cooking utensils in the kitchen, a quant.i.ty of plates and dishes and gla.s.s, with two baskets containing a small supply of cutlery and silver. Floorcloth had been laid down on the kitchen floor and a carpet in the hall, and there were carpets on the stairs, but three of the four living-rooms on the ground floor were empty. But the fourth room was comfortably furnished. A fire was still burning in the grate, and on the tiled hearth Phillips detected the ends of two or three cigarettes. There was a faint aroma of tobacco on the air, not the sort of tobacco likely to be consumed by a caretaker.

"It is just as I told you," Phillips chuckled. "I felt sure we should find the house empty."

"Yet you are not altogether right," Fielden replied. "Somebody has been here recently, and somebody who knows how to appreciate a good cigarette. Besides, look at that fire. I don't like it, Phillips, and wish we were well out of it. We don't happen to be in South Africa now."

"Oh, that's all right," Phillips said cheerfully. "No doubt the fire was lighted this morning by the gardener, and no doubt also one of the conspirators has been here. In fact, I should have been disappointed if I hadn't found traces of him. It isn't necessary for our friends to come often, but they couldn't very well work their scheme unless they were on the spot when racing is taking place at Mirst Park. I wonder what our friend thought of the snowstorm about three o'clock. I guess that must have upset his calculations a bit. Now look at this."

Phillips bent down to the fireplace and lifted one of the cigarette ends, which he handed to Fielden.

"Do you know anybody who smokes these?" he asked.

"I think so," Fielden said after close inspection. "They are particularly expensive cigarettes, and can't be had unless specially ordered. The only man I know who smokes them is Raymond Copley."