They found themselves on the roof presently. By feeling about they could
trace the flex of the extension to a square wooden box screwed down to
the leads. The box did not appear to be locked, and it was easy for
Phillips to fumble about inside it until he drew out a cylinder of gutta
percha with something glittering at either end.

"Stoop down and light a match," he whispered, "and hide the flame under
your coat. Now, then, bend down here. That's right."

The match burst into flame under cover of Fielden's coat. The feeble
light displayed another telephone receiver attached to the end of a
somewhat long flex.

"You can blow out the match," Phillips went on, "and don't forget to put
the end in your pocket. It is just as well to be careful when dealing
with such a gang. Perhaps you begin to understand? You don't know, I
expect, that this roof commands the whole racecourse, and enables one to
see everything from start to finish. Now a man could sit down here on
this box and watch the race with the telephone receiver to his mouth. If
he were a really good judge of racing--I mean, if he were any good as a
judge of a finish--he would be able to spot the winner in nine cases out
of ten fifty lengths from home, and therefore, if there was some one at
the other end in the office of Jolly & Co., the result of a particular
race would be known in London before the horse was past the post. Do you
follow?"

"Yes, that's all very well," Fielden objected, "but that does not
account for the fact that----"

"That the information is conveyed in the smoking room of the Post Club.
Of course it doesn't. That, I confess, is where I am beaten for the
present. I am certain that a second later the confederate in the Post
Club knows what has happened. Don't ask me to tell you how the final
touches are put on, because I don't know. But, knowing as much as I do,
we shall soon find out, and I think you will admit that we haven't
wasted our evening. You understand now why either Copley or a
confederate was here this afternoon. The man, whoever he was, came with
the intention of sending the result of the three o'clock race to Covent
Garden. Why the three o'clock race is always picked out for this
swindle we don't know, but that will be made plain sooner or later. They
didn't make anything yesterday or to-day, because on both occasions the
race was run in a snowstorm. It was the snowstorm that first put the
idea into my head; in fact, it was the