"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."