y numbers folk of all kinds, from the member of
a swagger West End club to the humble seller of cards on the various
courses. Amongst these, in his place, came Aaron Phillips. If he had
been asked, he would probably have said that he was a professional
backer of horses, a description which covers a wide field and embraces
many methods of getting a living--more or less honestly.

In all likelihood Phillips would have resented the imputation that he
was not a sportsman, and have declared emphatically that he was nothing
else. He had been connected with racing ever since he could recollect,
but had never been across a horse in his life, and would have found it
impossible to pick out the good points of an animal. But he was fond of
horses in his way. He had heard them talked about for years, and most of
the frequenters of his father's public-house were either followers of
racing or indirectly mixed up with the "sport of kings." He had been
born, too, in the vicinity of a classic course and had always taken the
greatest interest in the dramatic side of the turf. There was not an
ingenious swindle but he had the details of it by heart.

For some years before his departure for South Africa he had followed
racing from one course to another. Though he had never done anything
deliberately dishonest, he was up to every dodge, always seemed to have
money in his pocket, and was invariably well dressed. The fact that his
mother had belonged to one of the leading Romany tribes Phillips found
greatly to his advantage. He was never above passing the time of day
with such nomads as he encountered, and more than once had benefited by
this politeness. Had he ever wanted a useful and faithful tool,
something uncommonly smart in the way of a human ferret, he knew where
to put his hand on such a person. Strange as it may seem, there was
never a great fraud connected with the turf that was not freely
whispered amongst its humble followers long before it reached the ears
of the authorities. More than once Phillips had listened to the outline
of a story which would have astonished the magnates of the Jockey Club
if they could have heard it. And it was by such means that he had
managed to pick up the threads of a plot which, before long, seemed
likely to promise sensational disclosures. It was an additional
satisfaction to Phillips to know that the main persons in this plot were
his old enemies Raymond Copley and Foster. He had followed up the cl