"'Kildonen.' It's a dead cert. What's yours?"
"I don't know till this evening. The whole thing is rather quaint. The other night I was coming down Shaftesbury Avenue very late, when I saw a fellow being set on by two or three rough-looking brutes, so I ran across to lend him a hand. He was very grateful, and turned out to be McFadden, the tipster—you know, the chap who is always advertising in the sporting papers. Well, he insisted on taking my name and address, and this morning I got a letter from him asking me to dine at the Troc. He said he could put me on to a good thing for the Manchester Cup."
"You back 'Kildonen,'" said Steele sceptically. "I got it straight from my brother, who is a pal of the trainer. Ten to one McFadden will put you on to some rotter."
"We shall see," answered Barton, getting up to attend to a customer who had just come in. "At all events, I will let you know what he says."
* * * * * * *
Barton lit his cigar and, leaning back in his comfortable seat, looked round the big restaurant with a quiet satisfaction born of an excellent dinner, a bottle of good champagne, and a really first-class Larranaga. Barton's companion, a big, sun-burnt man, with a large moustache, twinkling black eyes, and a face heavily pitted with the remnants of smallpox, waited until the men serving liqueurs and coffee had moved on to the next table, and then resumed the conversation.
"I didn't want those chaps to get hold of what I was saying," he explained; "they know me, and it would be all over London to-morrow."
Barton leaned slightly across the table towards him, and lowering his voice, McFadden continued: "It's the chance of a lifetime. Not a soul witnessed the trial except Rainsford and Burch, and you can trust them to keep it dark. They want the money; besides, Rainsford is the sort of man who would cut his throat rather than give away a tip; and I know Burch has told no one but myself. Even Relf, the jockey, thinks that he was carrying about ten pounds less than he was; so you can take it from me that, with the exception of us four, there isn't a living soul who has an idea of what 'Mountain Lady' can do. She will start at twenty to one, and unless she is left at the post or drops dead on the course, nothing will get near her. Why, just think, man, according to the trial, that would put 'Night-jar' in at about eight stone four; while, as a matter of fact, he would be carrying nine stone, and then be a hot favourite. You must have something on—something worth winning. If you can beg or borrow 'a monkey' for a couple of days you are made for life. I could get it on for you with Cook at twenty to one, but he would want to see the cash first, and I have none to spare at present, or I would do it for you. It means simply picking up ten thousand. I am sticking on every penny I can spare myself. We shall have to back to win, for there won't be more than six runners but it's as safe as the Bank of England." His face was flushed with excitement as he finished. Picking up his glass of liqueur, he drained it at a gulp.
Barton had listened intently; his eyes had never left McFadden's face, and he felt sure that the man had been telling him what he at all events believed to be the truth. "It is very kind of you to have given me the tip," he said, "and such an excellent dinner into the bargain."
"Bosh!" returned the other shortly. "Waiter! two more liqueur brandies. Look here, youngster, you acted like a gentleman the other night—got me out of a damned tight place—and I never forget a pal."