ues
in his patient way, and at last had something really definite to go
upon.

It might be inferred that Phillips already had these two in the hollow
of his hand. But he had learnt patience in the hard school of adversity,
and had no intention of throwing away the chance of making money for the
mere sake of revenge. At any moment he might have pricked the glittering
bubble which Copley had blown, and laid both scoundrels by the heels in
gaol, but that would have entailed loss of time and a considerable
sojourn in South Africa, without any material return beyond that of
triumph over his enemies. Now he was beginning to see a way to crush
both Copley and Foster, and fill his own pockets at the same time.

He was not without his peculiar code of honour. Harry Fielden had
defended him at one time and he was not going to forget it. Fielden
would have been astonished to learn how much Phillips knew about his
affairs. He knew, for instance, all about May Haredale. He knew that
Copley was infatuated with the girl and was prepared to go any lengths
to make her his wife. He knew too, pretty well what was in old Raffle's
mind, and chuckled as he thought of it. And now the time had come to
fire the first shot.

He turned out of his lodgings on a sunny Friday in February, and made
his way to Russell Square. He was more carefully dressed than usual and
wore a dark, quiet-looking suit, with a grey overcoat and felt hat. His
gloves were neat, his boots well polished, and, save the horseshoe pin
in his white cravat, there was no suggestion of the racing man about
him. He turned presently into Kelly Street, and, knocking at the door of
a certain house, asked for Major Carden. The Major, he was informed, was
just finishing breakfast, but would see Mr. Phillips.

It was the usual room in a lodging-house--shabby Axminster carpet, dingy
horsehair furniture, with the inevitable lustres on the mantelpiece. The
tablecloth was none too clean, though on it was a vase or two of
flowers, tastefully arranged. At one end of the table sat a stout
pink-faced person with a carefully-trimmed grey moustache. He was a
typical specimen of the retired military man, bluff and hearty in
manner, with a pair of faded grey eyes faintly tinged with pink.
Evidently, too, he had been accustomed to mix with the best people, as
he would have phrased it himself. Probably, he still belonged to a good
club, and no doubt found it exceedingly difficult to make both end