“Ah, that’s what I wish _you_ to tell me,” I said--this time at least with absolute truthfulness, for as a matter of fact I did not know as much as the name of one of the horses, or what was the race which we were supposed to be discussing. “Greased Lightning’s the lay,” he said. “It’s a dead cert. I can get yer level money now. It’ll be four to two hon to-morrow. How much are yer going to spring?” I replied that he could put a “flimsy” on for me; and after he had entered the amount and my name--which I gave as Henry Watson--in a greasy notebook, I wished him good morning, promising to call again soon to see if there were any letters. The rest of the day I spent for the most part in my bedroom watching the customers who patronised Professor Lawrance’s saloon; nor was my vigil without result in assisting me to form an opinion as to the class of business which was there carried on. Not more than a dozen people entered the establishment during the day, and the majority of them had called neither to be shaved nor to have their hair cut. My reason for coming to this conclusion was not that I had such telescopic and microscopic eyes as to be able to detect in every case whether the caller had been under the barber’s hand since his entrance, but because most of Professor Lawrance’s customers did not remain inside his shop more than half a minute, and because, too, I saw a letter in the hand of more than one of those who came out. And as the postman never passed the door without making a delivery, and the callers were all more or less horsey in dress and appearance, the evidence seemed to point pretty clearly to the fact that Professor Lawrance was, as I had already surmised, more of a betting agent than a barber. I looked in next morning, ostensibly to be shaved, but in reality to try to get sight of any letters which might have come addressed to the Professor’s care. That worthy forestalled me by gruffly volunteering the information that there were no letters; nor could I succeed in leading the conversation to the subject in which I was interested. The morning after, however, I waited until I saw some one--who looked more like a customer in search of a barber than of a betting agent--enter the shop, and then followed him. He was at that moment being lathered for shaving, so after wishing the Professor good-morning, and remarking that I was in no hurry, I took a seat close to the mantel-shelf and pretended to read the “Daily Telegraph.” It was on this mantel-shelf, as I was aware, that the box containing the letters was kept, but on looking round I saw to my dismay that the mantel-shelf had been cleared for the display of a big coarsely-coloured picture of “The Great Fight between Slade and Scroggins.” The picture was labelled, “To be raffled for--the proceeds for the benefit of the widow.”