"My very worthy and particular," he replied oracularly, "you've got a thing or two to learn before you're quite awake. Why? Because it pays better the other way. To each one of your subscribers you send a circular, with the name of one of the horses from your list, so that if you get three hundred subscribers, and divide the list fairly, there will be thirty subs to every horse. Of course the circular says that it is impossible for the horse to lose; that the stable are backing it heavily, and all that sort of thing. Well, one of the horses wins--Taraban, Christopher Sly, or any other--it doesn't matter which. Then you look out the names of the subs to whom you sent the winning horse, and you send them congratulatory letters--you hope they have won a pot, and that they will send you a percentage on their winnings; you've got a rare good tip for the next big race, which you will be glad to send to them. You'll get something from them, depend upon it, if it's only half-a-crown's worth of stamps. A fellow sent me a fiver only last week, and I've got plenty of post-office orders for sovs. That's the reason why, my worthy particular. Because it pays better, and because" (tapping his nose with his finger knowingly) "honesty's the best policy." If all Con Stavely's systems are as simple as this one, gulls must abound, indeed, to make them profitable. As Con Stavely sits and smokes and works on this summer afternoon, he hears an uncertain foot upon the stairs. "It's the old un," he says. The reference to the "old un," which to uninstructed ears might have borne a diabolical signification, applies to an old man--older than his years, which may be about fifty--who presently enters the room. An old man, with restless eyes that seek the ground, as if fearful of looking any one in the face; a very shabby, sad, and worn old man. All his clothes are too large for him, and are kept together by a very few buttons and a great many pins. "Well, Muzzy," says Con, "got plenty of letters?" Muzzy, with trembling hands, produces letters from every pocket, and deposits them on the table. All these letters are addressed to Captain Leonard Maginn, who, as represented by Muzzy, is certainly not a credit to the army; and they all contains stamps from persons eager to be let into the precious secret which Captain Maginn, otherwise Muzzy, is willing to impart to them for a trifling consideration. "Is this the lot, Muzzy?" inquires Con Staveley, when the old man has completed the slow process of emptying his pockets. "Yes, Mr. Con, that's the lot," is the answer, in a shaky, hesitating voice. "Haven't kept a few stamps back to get drunk with, eh, Muzzy?"