"AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN"
As most people are aware, the camp-followers of the turf are a large
body whose ways of earning a living are, to say the least of it,
peculiar. This noble army 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 clues
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 ends
meet.
The second person at the breakfast table was an exceedingly pretty
girl, who looked none the less refined and attractive because her black
dress was of the plainest. She was chattering gaily as Phillips came in.
She appeared to have a proper respect and affection for her father,
whose words she seemed to hang upon. The Major looked up from the table
and nodded genially.
"You are punctual, Phillips," he said. "I am afraid I am a little late
this morning. Alice, my dear, this is Mr. Phillips. He is the
distinguished journalist I was telling you about last night. We are both
connected with the same papers."
As the Major spoke, he winked swiftly at Phillips, and the latter
smiled. What the Major was driving at he hadn't the remotest idea.
"Oh, yes," he murmured. "The Major and I are old friends."
The girl smiled pleasantly. She appeared a trifle shy, and gave Phillips
the impression that she had no friends, and that her young life was, for
the most part, a constant sacrifice for her selfish and dissipated
father. She rose presently, and with an excuse left the two men
together. Immediately she was gone the Major crossed the room and
produced a bottle of brandy, from which he helped himself liberally.
Phillips curtly refused.
"I met some old friends last night," the Major said. "I am afraid I was
just a little--well, you know how it is."
"I do," Phillips said shortly. "But what did you tell that lie for? What
have we got to do with journalism?"
"My dear sir, there are times when one must dissemble. I know I am a bit
of an old scamp, but, you see, my daughter doesn't know it. I wouldn't
for worlds like her to know the life I am leading. She is a good girl
and believes in me, and I have managed to give her a fine education. She
is the only thing I have in the world to care for. She is the only thing
that has kept me from going headlong to the dogs. I daresay when I am
done with, some of my relations will look after her. Meanwhile, they
take precious good care to keep me at arm's length. I don't blame them,
either. I hit upon the journalistic dodge to account for my late hours.
I was afraid you might give me away. I am bound to tell you this, and I
hope you will respect my confidence. Well, now, what do you want me for?
Sit down a minute."
"I have come to put a little money in your way," Phillips replied. "I
gave you a hint of what I was after the night before last. They tell me
you are a member of the Post Club."
"Oh, yes," Carden replied. "I have managed, somehow or other, to keep
myself on the club books. Not that I go to the Post very much, because I
can't afford it. If I meet a young friend occasionally who is anxious to
see life, I take him there to lunch, on the strict understanding, of
course, that he repays me."
"Then I want you to take me there. I would like to lunch there to-day,
and I wish you to introduce me to Mr. Rickerby, the commission agent. It
is a very simple matter. If you can bring this about and get me half an
hour's conversation with Rickerby after lunch, I'll give you a tenner
and pay for the lunch besides. There's no risk and no responsibility as
far as you are concerned."
The Major pondered the matter.
"What are you up to?" he asked presently.
"That," Phillips said, "is no business of yours. But I assure you that I
am up to nothing wrong. Nothing I can say or do will get you into
trouble. I don't mind telling you there is a big swindle on foot to rob
the leading bookmakers and commission agents and I am trying to expose
it. If I do, there will be a good round sum of money for me, and if I
fail, I shall be none the worse off. Now, are you game?"
The Major smiled. At that moment ten-pound notes were scarce, and
Phillips' offer came in the nature of a windfall. But it was not part of
his diplomacy to accept the suggestion too eagerly.
"I think so," he said. "I don't see why I shouldn't accommodate you.
Perhaps, later, you might have something else to put in my way."
"Very well, then," Phillips replied. "I need not detain you now. I'll
meet you at the club at half-past one."