He dialed his number rather slowly. He had watched the movements of Mr. Immelbern's fingers closely, on every one of that gentleman's five calls; and his keen ears had listened and calculated every click of the returning dial. It would not be his fault if he got the wrong number.
The receiver at the other end of the line was lifted. The voice spoke.
"Baby Face," it said hollowly.
Simon Templar drew a deep breath, and a gigantic grin of bliss deployed itself over his inside. But outwardly he did not bat an eyelid.
"Two hundred pounds on Baby Face for Mr. Templar," he said; and the partners were too absorbed with other things to notice that he spoke in a very fair imitation of Mr. Immelbern's deep rumble.
He turned back to them, smiling.
"Baby Face," he said, with the quietness of absolute certitude, "will win the three o'clock race at Sandown Park."
Lieut.-Colonel Uppingdon fingered his superb white moustachios.
"By Gad!" he said.
Half an hour later the three of them went out together for a newspaper. Baby Face had won — at ten to one.