on, a good many people would be anxious
to have an interview with Raymond Copley, the South African millionaire.
Then there's that scoundrel Phillips to be reckoned with. But come
along, let us go before anybody sees us. After breakfast----"

"Breakfast be hanged!" the other man broke out impatiently. "What's the
use of worrying about breakfast with a bit of information like this in
our pockets? The delay of half an hour may make all the difference in
the world. Besides, there may be a dozen other people watching for all
we know."

"Well, what do you suggest?" Copley asked.

"Suggest, who wants to suggest anything? What we have to do is to get
back to your place as soon as possible and take the motor straight to
town. By ten o'clock we can get our commission on the market at our own
price. Then we can have as much breakfast as you like. That's the worst
of you, Copley. You always think everything can wait. Now come on."

The voices died away in the distance, and then Fielden straightened
himself again. He was somewhat mystified by what he had seen. He was
puzzled to know what Joe Raffle and Mallow were driving at. But no doubt
the old man would tell him at the first opportunity. Some clever scheme
was in the wind. It was just possible, too, that Raffle expected that
Copley and his friend would be there. It was more than possible that
Raffle knew the class of scoundrel he had to deal with. The old man was
coming down the wide stretch of turf, and Fielden looked eagerly towards
him. As he vaulted a patch of gorse, his left foot dropped on something
soft, like a bundle, and he was thrown violently to his knees. Then he
turned to find that he had stumbled upon the figure of a man lying at
the foot of the gorse bush, snugly rolled up in a railway rug. Here was
another tout, beyond doubt, another of the hateful tribe which has
always been the detestation of every racing man. Fielden turned upon him
savagely and demanded what he was doing there. He bent over the stranger
threateningly, and the latter rose to his feet.

"Keep your temper," he said. "I'm doing no harm. I'm not the only one
who has earned a bit on the Downs this morning. Hands off, please. Why,
bless my soul! if it isn't Mr. Fielden."

Harry stared in amazement at the mention of his name. For a moment he
did not recognize the dark unshaven features of the man. They seemed
familiar, yet somehow he failed to connect them with time, or space, or
locality.

T