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MR. EVANS had concluded his ablutions and had hung the towel on the bed-rail to dry. The yellow sunlight which slanted through the open window proclaimed the coming of spring; the piles of unopened letters that covered the table proclaimed the Turn of the Tide.

Until the small hours of the morning he had been turning the handle of the Duplicating Machine that a Child Could Work, and littering the bed was his latest pronunciamento.

Mr. Evans picked up a hectographed sheet and read it with satisfaction. He had struck a blow at the very heart of his enemies. Seven successive three star naps had Old Sam sent forth in his Midnight Special, and each and every one of them had gone down the sink.

He heard footsteps on the stairs, but did not turn round, even when a shadow came into the room.

"Good morning, Mr. Evans."

The educated man spun round and his face went pale. Standing in the doorway was Mrs. Lube, and in her hand a large bunch of primroses.

"Many happy returns of the day, Mr. Evans, an' let by-gorns be by-gorns."

Once you knew Mr. Evans' birthday it was well-nigh impossible to forget it, for he first saw the light on April 1st in the year—well, never mind about the year.

"Um—same to you, Mrs. Lube."

He took the flowers gingerly, expecting them to explode at any moment.

"May I come in, Mr. Evans?"

He indicated a chair and watched her warily, ready to jump at the first sign of a poker. But not only was Mrs. Lube unarmed, she was disarming.

"I daresay you wonder why I come, Mr. Evans," she said. "After all the bickerin' an' unpleasantness we've had and what not. But what I say is live an' let live, but I've been talking it over with my dear gran'father an' my dear husband an' I says 'What's the use of us tryin' to down dear Mr. Evans?' I says, 'the only thing to do,' I says, 'is to get him to help us,' I says."

Evans found his voice gruffly.

"I got nothing to give away," he said.

Mrs. Lube swallowed something.

"Yes, you have, Mr. Evans." She was very earnest, or appeared to be. "You've got education. I says to my poor dear gran'father, 'What's the use of our goin' on as we're goin' on without education?' "

Educated Evans coughed and fingered his chin importantly.

"I says," continued Mrs. Lube, "the only thing is to throw ourselves on his mercy an' for me to ask him to educate me."

Mr. Evans coughed again.

"In a manner of speakin' you're right," he said. "Take biology an' science. What's water? In French it's 'O.' In science it's H.3.0., in German it's something altogether different. Take the world, which revolves or turns on its axle once in every twenty-four hours, thus causin' the stars to shine. Take history. The War of the Roses was caused through Lancashire beatin' Yorkshire and vicer verser, which is Latin. Which brings us to Julia Caesar, the far-famed wife that was always suspicious of her husband owin' to his carryin' on with Lewdcreature Burgia the female Crippen of Italy. Where's Italy, you ask me? That's geography again and brings us to the question of Mussel Enos, the far-famed Fassykist."

Mrs. Lube blinked rapidly.

"My poor brain!" she said disparagingly. "What a headpiece you've got, Mr. Evans!"

"Take botomy, the science of vegetables," said Evans, warming to his subject. "By studyin' the ways an' means of flowers we arrive at zoo-ology or caterpillars which change into butterflies by metamorphious methods commonly called hibernation...."

Mrs. Lube stayed two hours and had a grounding in erudition.

"It's your idea, Elfred," she said to her husband on her return, "and if it turns out that I've bin wastin' my time on that old so-and- so, I'll have something to say to you!"

"We've got to do something," said Alfred.

Detective-Inspector Arbuthnot Challoner was taking what was literally and figuratively a constitutional. In other words he was engaged in the improvement of his system by the exercise of his limbs and the improvement of Camden Town by the employment of his senses.

He called at the Blue Pig, to the embarrassment of a young married gentleman who had left his wife chargeable to the Parish of St. Pancras; he looked in at Hookey's Coffee Bar and Good Pull Up for Carmen and found Spicey Brown and Cully Parks intent upon dominoes—they invariably planned their busts over a game, and used the pieces to model the house they intended to burgle.

("Say that double-six is the front door," Cully was saying when The Miller arrived, "and that four-one is the pantry winder, all we gotter do is to get down the area an' the job's as good as done....")

The pieces were swept into confusion on The Miller's approach, and two innocent men greeted him with sycophantic pleasure.

Mr. Challoner's next call was at a fried-fish shop off the High Street, where one who was born Lieverbaum but was now styled Leverbrown carried on a small spieling club in the back parlour.

Comparatively speaking, Camden Town was law-abiding and almost chaste.

"All the boys have gorn racin', Mr. Challoner," said Lieverbaum, rubbing his podgy hands. "It's a blessing this racing, ain't it? Keeps the boys out of mischief, yes? An' what with Edjercated Evings doin' so well—three winners right orf the reel—the man's marvellous. The bookmakers are doin' rotten."

He spoke feelingly, for Mr. Lieverbaum was notoriously an evader of the law, being a ready money bookmaker, and had been three times convicted.

The Miller stopped long enough to warn him against this practice, and resumed his stroll. And then, turning past the Nag's Head in the direction of Regent's Park, he beheld a sight which left him dazed and gasping. There flashed past him one of those handsome limousines which can be hired by the mile or by the hour, and wedged on the back seat thereof was Mrs. Lube, a white-bearded old gentleman, and Mr. Evans of Myra Gray Mansions.

The Miller's first thought was that his unfortunate friend had been kidnapped, and his hand strayed to his pocket where he kept his whistle. In another second the car had vanished in the direction of the park.

That evening, being off duty, he made a call in Bayham Mews and found Mr. Evans pressing his best trousers.

"Good evenin', inspector—mind you don't knock over them flowers." He hastily saved the jam jar full of primroses and put it on the mantelpiece. "They were sent to me by a friend."

"Mrs. Lube?"

The Miller meant to be ironical. He was staggered when Mr. Evans nodded.

"We're goin' into partnership, me an' Old Sam," he said calmly. "The man's got his points, but, as Amelia says—

"Who's Amelia?" demanded the baffled detective.

"Mrs. Lube—we're like brothers and sisters."

The detective looked at him suspiciously. "What's the idea?" he demanded.

"Education an' combinations," said Evans profoundly.

"Let us keep the conversation clean," said The Miller.

And then Evans explained. It was, he said (untruthfully), his own idea. By some curious workings of chance, which even The Miller had observed, it fell out that luck balanced up and down. When Old Sam's Midnight Special was successful, Evans was unsuccessful. When Evans' fortune hit the beam, gloom reigned in the house of Lube. Why not therefore conclude a secret arrangement? Both parties to work independent one of the other and to pool profits. In this way, the misfortune of Old Sam would be relieved by the swelling coffers of Educated Evans. On the other hand, when the fickle goddess had deserted Evans, his exchequer would be supplied from the surpluses which came from his rival.

"Umph!" said The Miller. "That won't work!"

Mr. Evans could afford to smile.

"As a matter of fact it's workin'," he said simply. "We've both had a good week, but he's had better than me an' sent me four pun' six an' ninepence difference."

It appeared that Mrs. Lube was keeping the books, that Mrs. Lube's cousin was acting as accountant, and Mrs. Lube's sister-in-law was preparing the balance sheet, and the money was to be kept in Mrs. Lube's bank.

"It's a hundred to one against you, Evans," said The Miller ominously. Evans smiled again.

If it was not to be registered, the partnership was to be a very high-class affair. It was Mr. Evans who suggested the telegraphic address, "Evanlube, London," and in his enthusiasm paid the two guineas required by the postal authorities. "Not," said Mrs. Lube, "that it makes much difference, for all the telegrams we shall ever get." Still, it gave the firm an importance when added to Old Sam's flamboyant notehead with a rubber stamp.

The week that followed was a tragic one for the followers of Educated Evans. He gave four £5 Specials that failed to finish in the first nine. His unbeatable cert for Friday (widely circularised) was a non-runner. On Saturday he called at the Lube household confidently, for Old Sam had had a wonderful run, including two 100-8 winners.

There was no accident about this except the fluke of Alfred finding Mr. Dewbring, a watcher of horses at Carshott. It happened that the three trainers at Carshott were enjoying the fruits of their industry and cunning, and sending out winners almost every day.

Evans knocked at the door with a gay heart and was admitted. Mrs. Lube received him in the parlour and her manner was as distinctly cold as Evans' was distinctly genial.

"I've had a temp'ry setback in fortune," he said breezily. "As dear old Hamlet said, you can't win all the time."

He produced from his trousers pocket a very small bundle of Treasury notes, mostly, as Mrs. Lube saw with a discriminating eye, green.

"Two pun' six," he said cheerily, and placed it on the table.

Mrs. Lube's lips tightened. With some reluctance she produced her books.

"That's seven pun' five I've got to pay you," she said ungraciously. "What with all this money goin' out an' none cumin' in and five mouths to fill, the instalment on the pianner due next week, I dunno, I'm sure."

What she did not know she did not specify.

"I got something up me sleeve for Tuesday, Amelia," said Evans darkly as he pocketed his money. "Something that could fall down, get up an' then win. I had it from the boy that does him—a girl named Jackson who's keepin' company—"

"I dunno, I'm sure," said Mrs. Lube again, and with those cryptic words dismissed the partner in her new business.

On the following Tuesday Mr. Evans started badly. He sent out Bollybill "tried 21 lbs. better than Coronach," and Bollybill finished a bad last. On the Wednesday he pleaded with all clients new and old to go for Snatcher. "This horse" (to quote his own words) "is a Rod in Pickle. He's been brought over specially from Ireland for a coop." Snatcher was seventh in a field of eight. On the Thursday The Miller met Mr. Evans at the entrance of Bayham Mews.

"I've just headed off a small deputation that was calling upon you. I don't know whether I oughtn't to have pinched them for conspiring to murder."

Evans smiled tolerantly.

"What's one man's meat," he said, "is another man's poison, which is French for chickens. My dear old partner Sam has brought home two eight-to-one shots. Next week it'll be my turn. Mr. Challoner, I got a horse for you on Saturday. He's a stone pinch. I had her from the boy—"

"If I were you," interrupted The Miller gently, "I should lose that boy."

On the Thursday afternoon Mrs. Lube made up her mind. The telegraphic address was expunged from the notehead, and a penny postcard sent to the local post office informing the official in charge that "Evanlube" might in the future indicate Evans, but it did not indicate Lube.

"Nobody sends us telegrams," explained Amelia to her husband, "except Mr. Dewbring, and he puts our full name and address."

"What are you going to do?" asked Alf.

Mrs. Lube smiled unpleasantly.

On the Friday afternoon she came to Myra Gray Mansions, and there was something very determined in her mien.

"Good afternoon, Amelia," began Evans. "You're just in time for a little bit of education. Take astronomy or the heavens—"

"We've had enough 'eavens, educated an' uneducated," said Mrs. Lube, "and I'll thank you not to call me Amelia. Me husband objects. How have you done?"

Too well she knew how Mr. Evans had "done."

"I don't suppose I've took a couple of pounds," said Evans cheerfully, "but luck will turn—"

"So will worms," said Mrs. Lube. "You don't think me an' my poor dear gran'father's going to keep you in idleness an' losin' our connection what we've built up through information v. gaswork?"

"Here, hold hard," said Evans, stung to annoyance by this gross plagiarism.

"You don't suppose,' Mrs. Lube went on, "that we're goin' to put your measly two pounds to our fifty day after day an' week after week an' year after year an' keep you in the bread of idleness with five mouths to fill an' my poor dear gran'father gettin' older every day?"

"Who ain't?" asked Evans loudly. "That's the evolution of nature, as I've told you till I'm sick of telling you. It's due to the subcutaneous tissues and bones—"

"Never mind about bones," said Mrs. Lube, even more loudly. "You'll soon be gnawin' them if this goes on."

She planked a piece of paper on the table. "There's five pounds—that's your share, and the partnership's over. We're not goin' to be ruined by educated has-beens and whatnots."

Evans turned pale with fury.

"You come to me for education—" he began.

"And we got it," said Mrs. Lube. "The partnership's over."

Evans watched the departure of the lady from the top of the steps, walked back with a shrug, and applied himself to the task of composition.

That night, from information received, there was delivered by hand, or posted, to all clients old and new an important statement.

"Educated Evans is once more Educated Evans. Partnership with Uneducated People Dissolved and Abolished.

"Educated Evans, the World's Premier Turf Prophet and Adviser to the Nobility (by request) begs to announce that he has taken away his valuable advice from the so-called Old Sam (lately assistant and messenger boy to the well-known Educated Evans) and now henceforward and herewith is on his own. Clients new and old who have received Educated Evans' beauties can now have a horse that he's been keeping up his sleeve till he'd dropped all his low connections.

WET WHITE.

WET WHITE.

WET WHITE.

"All clients new and old are advised to have their limit upon this unbeatable gem, especially kept up the sleeve of Educated Evans. No connection with any other business, no longer adviser to Old Sam."

Great minds think alike. That evening Mrs. Lube was turning the handle of a rotary machine which announced to the world that:

"We have dismissed our assistant tipster, E. Evans, having no use for same."

"Do you think," asked Alfred Lube thoughtfully, as they sat at breakfast and he read Mr. Evans' flamboyant claim, "do you think he's got anything up his sleeve?"

"His sleeve?" scoffed the infrequent partner of his joys. "He's had nothing up his sleeve, not even a shirt!"

Yet Wet White won; and on the Monday, at a Midland meeting, Too Gladly won at 100-6 and was Evans' special three-star help-yourself selection. And on the Tuesday Wiggletoe won, and was Mr. Evans' confident and unbeatable gem. And on the Wednesday up popped Small Schweppe in a two-year-old seller. Popped was hardly the word, since he exploded at the brilliant price of 20's.

Mrs. Lube put on her hat and went out to interview Evans.

"Fair's fair all the world over, Mr. Evans," was her opening. "Me an' my dear gran'father have got the idea that we've been a bit hasty—"

And then she stopped. On the table was a telegraph envelope addressed to "E. Evans, Esq., Myra Gray Mansions, Bayham Mews." And by its side was a telegram, but the address was different: it was simply "Evanlube London." Slowly there dawned upon the good lady the horrible revelation. She had transferred the telegraphic address without realising that she had been receiving Evanlube wires all the time! She seized the telegraph form and read:

"BLINKEYE CERTAINTY TO-MORROW.—DEWBRING."

"A gentleman at Carshott," said Evans. "He's been sending me winners all the week. I don't know why. What was you saying, Mrs. What's-yer- name?"

But Mrs. What's-yer-name was speechless.