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Peace reigned in Selbany Street Police Station. The station sergeant nodded over his book, the policeman on duty at the door yawned frequently and wondered if the clock over Disreili's, the High Class Jewellers, had stopped.

The hour was 1 a.m., and it was raining greasily as it can only rain in Somers Town. It had been a dull night, being Thursday, when men go soberly to their homes and play draughts with their children and win—if the children have any discretion. A night when the picture houses are half empty, and the bung at the Rose and Cabbage leant his bloated hands on the zinc counter and severely condemned socialism to an empty saloon.

There were only three men and one perfect lady in the cells at the back of the station: crime for the moment was unpopular.

Sergeant Arbuthnot Challoner, whom men called The Miller because he chewed straws, came in hastily out of the darkness, put his reeking umbrella in one corner of the hall and hung his shining mackintosh on a peg.

"Yes," he said sardonically, in reply to the grey-haired station sergeant, "it is a nice night!"

The clock ticked solemnly and noisily.

"Nothing doing?"

"Nothing," said The Miller shortly. He had been standing for two hours in the rain waiting for a motor-car thief who was expected to retrieve the car he had garaged.

At that moment, when the night seemed as barren of promise as the pages of Dr. Stott's sermons, a car drew up opposite the station entrance and there sailed into the charge room Miss Florrie Beaches and her ma. Miss Beaches was golden-haired and blue-eyed. She wore an evening dress of gold and crimson and a theatre wrap of blue and white. She had orchids at her waist and about her neck a choker of imitation pearls the size of pigeons' eggs. Her ma was more soberly arrayed in black with glittering jet ornaments.

"Is this the police court?" asked Miss Beaches with a certain ferocity.

"It is the police station," said The Miller. Florrie closed her eyes and nodded.

"That will do," she said quietly. "I wish to have a summons against Mr. Cris Holborn for insulting my dear mother and breach of promise, though I wouldn't marry the dirty dog not if he went down on his bare knees to me! He's a low type and if my poor dear father had been alive he'd have bashed his face in!"

"He would indeed," murmured Mrs. Beaches.

The Miller would have explained, but—

"When a lady lowers herself to be seen out with a common horse trainer," Miss

Beaches went on rapidly, "when she does everything for a man as I've done, introducing him into society so to speak, and when he didn't know what a fish knife was till me dear mother taught him, it's hard to hear your dear mother called an interfering hag."

"Old hag," murmured Mrs. Beaches. "Don't forget the winder glass, Flo."

"I'm coming to that, ma. Also I wish to charge him with breaking two panes of glass in our front door by his violent temper. I'm going to show this man up! Him and his lords that he knows!"

"Which we don't believe," prompted Mrs. Beaches.

"And the words he said about publicans is a disgrace," Florrie went on, "him and his horse that's going to win at Lincoln—"

"With twenty-one pound in hand," added the other under her breath.

"With twenty-one pounds in hand?" repeated The Miller thoughtfully.

"That's what he says," said Miss Florrie, "though I know nothing about horse-racing, my dear papa having brought me up very strict. Now I want to know if I can't have a summons—"

"Excuse me, miss," said The Miller gently, almost benevolently, what was the name of this horse?

"I can't think of it for the moment," said Miss Florrie, to whom the identity of the animal was much less important than the exposition of her grievances "but if I did know I should tell that common man that always used to be hanging about Camden Town—Elevated Evans."

"Educated Evans," corrected The Miller.

"He is not living here just now, but if I can do anything in the way of spreading the good news—"

"That's neither here nor there," said Miss Florrie tartly. "Can I have a summons "

And The Miller explained that summonses were never granted at a police station, and certainly never granted at one o'clock in the morning. He also expressed his doubt as to whether the offence of Mr. Holborn had been as heinous as she imagined. To the best of his ability he gave her the law on the subject. It is not unlawful to refer to a future mother-in-law in terms of opprobrium, and he also explained that the word "hag," whilst it might mean a vicious old lady, might also describe one who could bewitch.

"At the same time," he said sympathetically, "I feel that I would like to help you get your own back, Miss Beaches, and if you would mention the name of this horse I'd see—"

At this point the silent mother became voluble.

"It's no good your wasting your time here, my dear. They can't do anything, and if they could they wouldn't. All these men stick together. The best thing to do is to see your dear father's solicitors in the morning. If I don't have the law on Cris Holborn..."

They made a noisy exeunt.

It was rather strange, as they say in Somers Town when they mean to imply coincidence, that this reference to Educated Evans should have been followed up that very morning by the appearance in court of a local larcenist who in the old days invariably traced his downfall to the fact that he was a subscriber to Educated Evans' £5 specials; for Mr. Evans had been the World's Champion Prophet and Turf Adviser.

Miss Beaches had gone home with her mother, some of her ardour for vengeance a little cooled. She awoke at nine o'clock to find her mother with a letter in her hand. It had come by hand from her outrageous lover—she recognised his novel spelling.

"Ah, well, ma!" she said. "Perhaps I was hard on him: I knew he'd send me an humble apology first thing in the morning."

"It's got to be humble," said her ma ominously. " 'Ag I may be, but old I'm not!"

"You've got to allow something for youth," said Florrie romantically as she tore open the envelope. "The poor boy wasn't himself—"

She read the letter: it was very short.

I'm done with you and that old nagger your ma. I'm lowering myself to associate with a lot of bung's relations. Farewell. Never cross my parth again. CRIS.

P.S.—Send back the ring I gave you, I may want it.

Florrie didn't scream, she did not faint. She jerked her hair savagely into a ball and jabbed a hairpin into the confusion.

"That settles him!" she hissed.

Her ma was making savage noises. Florrie ran to the door and pulled it open. "Em-ma!" she screamed.

Her maid, who was also housemaid, parlourmaid and errand girl, flew up the stairs.

"Go and find that tipping man you was—were talking about yesterday—go and bring him here at once!"

She returned, rolling up the sleeves of her kimono pugilistically.

"Nagger... !" moaned her ma.

"Goin' to make thousands of pounds, is he!" said Florrie fiendishly. "I mustn't tell anybody, mustn't I? I'll show him... Digger Boy! That's the name of the horse, ma! Digger Boy—I'll Digger Boy him."

She said other things—such as may be pardonable in a lady under the sad circumstances.

In the meantime Emma was searching Camden Town for a local prophet who was not without honour in his own district.

A day or two later Camden Town was startled by the most stupendous item of intelligence that had been dropped in years. Educated Evans was back!

The news ran like a prairie fire from the Midland Goods Yard to the Holloway Road—from Great College Street to the Nag's head. Men heard and halted their pewter pots between counter and lip and said "Go on!" Some confessed that they thought he was dead; others corrected this impression regretfully. Down at the "White Hart" an old man stirred and glanced uneasily at the door. Miss Pluter, the new barmaid at the "Stag and Crown" (she who wore "Gertrude" in diamonds across her blouse) expressed a desire to see the man about whom she had heard so much, and a dozen knights and squires of the saloon bar offered eagerly to fetch Evans the very next night.

Mr. Evans had returned to the scenes of his vicissitudes and triumphs! He had once gone through the card at Kempton one remarkable day and had made two, three, five, ten thousand pounds according to the source of report. He had retired; he was an owner of houses; he had an estate in the country and occasionally wrote to former clients on note-paper headed "Haddon Hall, Pilberry Road, Bromley," and that in printed characters.

It was believed that he had a servant of his own and was so rich that he wore a clean collar every day of his life. Further, it was alleged by one who had visited him that he had his dinner at the hour when most respectable people have finished their tea and are having a sluice in the kitchen preparatory to a visit to the pictures. This story, however, was not credited.

Nor did the news of his return find general acceptance. Camden Town had been an uneducated place since Mr. Evans drove away in a taxi- cab smoking a Masa cigar ("all the fragrance of Havana for 6d."), waving his hand graciously from the window. Many a man who could not afford a mouthpiece regretted his going, for Evans was as good as a lawyer, and many an address, calculated to move the stoniest-hearted magistrate, had he composed. It was Evans who got Bill Barrett off a lagging by a defence (read by Bill in the dock) showing that he had suffered from loss of memory and sleep-walking since a child. Bill certainly boggled some of the words (his pronunciation of "somnambulism" was wonderful to hear), but there were tears in his eyes as he read things about himself that he had never known till that moment.

In the days of his activities Educated Evans had had one faithful servant. His name was Samuel Toggs, he having been so christened in the dim and glorious ages when hansom cabs were a novelty and malefactors were publicly executed before Horsemonger Lane Gaol. He was called "Old Sam," partly because Sam was his name and partly because of his many years. His occupation in life, in those days, was the support of the "White Hart," a noble hostelry. He supported this palace of sin by keeping his back against it from 10 a.m. to chucking-out time. In olden days he drew water for thirsty cab-horses and received a penny for each draw, but horses belonged to the past and he knew not petrol. A strange, burly old gentleman, with tender feet and an opalescent beard that might have been white with care, he wore, summer and winter, two overcoats and a pair of black woollen mittens, a woollen scarf and a bowler hat that he had found in the roadway after a fight on Christmas Day, 1891.

Mr. Evans had been a force in Camden Town, being an educated man and one learned in the ways of thoroughbred racehorses. So, if you believed him, no horse won unless he had received Mr. Evans' express permission to do so, and that in writing. Sometimes he gave them permission and they didn't win, but, as he said, horses are not machines. He asked his clients (for he supplied information for a trifle to all who acted honourable) to remember that he gave Braxted (What a beauty! What a beauty!) at 20-1. He made a lot of money and retired to the country: what was more natural than that, when he lost a lot of money, he should come back to town?

It is strange that, as Educated Evans had journeyed towards the metropolis, he should think kindly, almost tenderly, of Old Sam. That beer- soddened ancient was in a sense a protégé of Evans'. Though from morning until night he propped up the walls of the "White Hart," standing with his back firmly fixed to the wall, and refusing to be enticed away by any save the potman, he had made an exception in the case of Mr. Evans, for whom he ran errands, hobbled about with messages to clients, and sometimes collected money on behalf of his patron. Old Sam had touched his cap to the educated man and had once called him "sir," but this was on the night that Sam had paid for his own drink twice.

It was not until two mornings after his return that stress of business permitted the educated man to look up his old acquaintances, and it was by a pure accident that the first of these should be The Miller—a lover of racing and no bad friend to Evans.

Mr. Challoner was standing opposite the Cobden statue, doing nothing, when his absent gaze rested on a man who was walking up Bayham Street. He was not tall, he was not broad. He was to an extent well-dressed. In one corner of his mouth was a large cigar; he swung a nearly-gold-headed cane as he strutted towards High Street, and if his bowler hat and brown boots did not accord with his morning coat, he had the air of a nobleman.

The Miller's jaw dropped as the man came nearer, for he recognised instantly the World's Premier Prophet and Turf Adviser.

"Well, well!" said The Miller, when the first greetings were over. "So you're back, and Camden Town has one more mug."

"It's all very well for you to go passing personal remarks," said Educated Evans, with a touch of asperity in his voice, "but what's the good of locking the stable door after the horse has ate his wild oats, I ask you, Mr. Challoner?"

Sergeant Challoner did not take offence at the brusqueness, even rudeness, of the reply, but continued to nibble his straw reflectively, his grave eyes fixed upon the Prophet.

"You had a fortune," he said slowly. "You won it by being clever enough not to back your own tips, and by reducing yourself to a condition of beastly intoxication before you went racing. When you handed up your money and told the bookmakers what horse was going to win, you happened to speak the truth—in vino veritas."

"I know Veritas—he's a two-year-old in Persse's stable—but Vino is an animal I don't remember."

"Having accumulated this wealth, you took your ill-gotten gains, purchased a farm, and not only committed the unspeakable folly of owning racehorses, but added the general lunacy of attempting to train them."

Educated Evans shook his head sorrowfully.

"It was the feeding that done it," he said. "Was I to know that horses didn't eat bones and birdseed? Is there a book published on the subject? Did Mr. Gilpings when he wrote his highly clarsical articles in the weekly newspapers, mention anything about feeding animals? Anyway," he added hopefully, "I'll get it all back over the Lincoln. There's a horse in that race that hasn't been tryin' for four years. There's a big stable commission, and he's loose! This horse could hop home on his fetlocks. I'm sending it out on my Five-Pound Owner's Special Wire, so don't put it about, Miller."

The detective sighed.

"Camden Town has been a dull and truthful place without you," he said. "What's the name of this horse?"

"Otono," said Educated Evans. "I've got a thousand pounds to twenty about it from Izzy Isaacsheim."

The Miller rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

"He was scratched this morning," he said gently, and Mr. Evans made a clucking noise with his mouth.

"Thank Gawd I didn't back him!" he said, and did not even attempt to excuse his perjury. "With that animal out of the way, it's a stone certainty for Cold Meat. That horse has been specially kep' for this race. I've had it from the boy who does him."

"When you get anything good, you might come and see me," said The Miller, preparing to mount his bicycle. Cold Meat's been sold to go to Belgium. I thought you might have seen it in the papers yesterday—the way they send these worn-out old horses to Belgium is a scandal."

He waited, and then:

"How's Old Sam?" asked Evans.

The Miller got down from the pedal of his bicycle.

"Haven't you heard?" he asked, in a hushed whisper.

"Not dead?" asked Evans, preparing to be shocked.

"No," said The Miller, and then: "There's no room for you here, Evans—you've lost the art of tipping losers."

Mr. Evans shrugged his shoulders.

"It's a nistoric fac'," he said, "that once you're a bricklayer you're always a bricklayer. It's in your blood. Look at Napoleon Bonaparte, the well-known French officer. When he was took away an' imprisoned on the Isle of Dogs did he sit down an' moan? No, Mr. Challoner, he sees a spider comin' down from the ceilin' an' he says 'Turn again, Napoleon,' an' sure enough he did."

"What?" asked the dazed Miller.

"Turn," said Evans, "an' I've turned. When I read in the so- called sporting press the ad. of this feller an' that feller—actually boastin' about the 7-4 winners they've give, I remember Braxted—20-1. What a beauty! an' Eton Boy, 100-12. What a beauty! an' such like high-class predictions an' prophecies, an' I says to myself, 'Evans,' I says, 'don't let them daylight robbers have all the loot to theirselves 'op in and help yourself.' "

Mr. Evans gave a hitch to his shepherd plaid trousers, lit again his towsled cigar and wiped his moustache on the back of his hand.

"Did Camden Town hang out its flags when you came back?" asked The Miller.

"Sarcasm don't mean nothing to me," said Evans; "it passes me by like Cardinal Richloo, the highly respected clergyman said, like water on a duck's back in one yerhole and out of the other yerhole."

"I seem to have heard that ancient wheeze at the Bedford—in the early nine-ties," said The Miller. "What are you going to do?"

Mr. Evans studied the busy prospect of High Street before he answered.

"I'm gettin' together my army of touts," he said. "I've appointed me Newmarket an' Lambourn men—an' to all clients new an' old I say 'Fear Nothing!' "

"And what do they say?" asked the interested Miller.

Evans coughed.

"They ain't had time to reply yet," he said. "I only sent out yesterday to a few clients—about three thousand."

"Liar," said The Miller softly, and Mr. Evans smiled as though he knew better.

"Seen anything of young Harry Leafer—he used to be a client of yours?"

The question was carelessly put but Mr. Evans shot a suspicious glance at him. For the whisper had gone round and it had reached him, that young Harry had disappeared suddenly and urgently only that morning. It was even said that he had gone to Brighton or some other foreign part.

"I don't know nothing about young Harry," he said, hurt. "Can't you get it out of your head that I'm a 'nose,' Mr. Challoner?"

"'Nose' is vulgar—say unofficial detective," murmured The Miller, and made preparations to go.

"Look up Old Sam: he'll be tickled to death to see you," he said at parting. Educated Evans sniffed.

"The likes of him look me up," he said. "He knows where to find me."

There are few keener pleasures than the happy sense of anticipation which is enjoyed by the wanderer returned to his native home. He pictures the enthusiasm which the news of his return will bring; he sees in his mind's eye men crossing the road to greet him, or the shy children he left behind, now radiant and beautiful young women, advancing timidly to hold his hand, and gazing with awe upon one who had ventured abroad. Educated Evans had not been abroad, but Bromley is a very long way from Camden Town.

He saw no recognisable shy maidens, High Street being notoriously deficient in this quantity. Nor did anybody rush across the road, in imminent peril of being run over, to grasp him warmly by the hand. The landlord of the "Red Lion" gave him a curt nod and did not seem to be aware of the fact that he had been away at all. An acquaintance of other days certainly joined him at the bar at his invitation, but Mr. Evans realised that he would join anybody who uttered the magic password to conviviality, "Wotshors?"

"How's Old Sam?" asked Mr. Evans.

His guest for the moment coughed and looked uneasy.

"Oh, he's all right," he said, and changed the subject.

"I'm opening my new office this week," said Evans carelessly.

His acquaintance coughed again.

"I hope you'll give some winners," he said unpromisingly.

"Braxted," murmured Evans. "People have got a short memory."

"Personally I was at school when Braxted won," said the other with a certain significance.

At the "Old Albany Arms" Evans found two clients of other days, and broke it to them that he was back in business. They seemed uncomfortable. When he asked after Old Sam they were embarrassed.

Was the aged man ill? wondered Evans as he strolled forth into the High Street, and there came upon him the spirit of philanthropy and loving-kindness. Old Sam used to live in a house up a very narrow passage which was called locally "Little Hell," though there were many people who thought that the adjective hardly described the character of the place.

Evans called. Old Sam's landlady was out. Her slatternly granddaughter told him that Old Sam was living in Great College Street. Mr. Evans was shocked. Great College Street is a thoroughfare more or less devoted to the plutocrat.

He sought out the address: a highly respectable and classy one. There was a lawn in front of the house and white curtains at the window, and the bit of a servant girl who answered the door piped that Mr. Toggs was out, and would Mr. Evans come into his sitting-room and wait?

Educated Evans went out into the street, a little dazed. Had Old Sam come into money? He was to learn.

He wended his way to his newly recovered flat in Bayham Mews. He referred to it as a "flat," though in truth it was two rooms over a stable, and he was very lucky to get back his old quarters. Fortune had come to him, as The Miller had said, and he had started forth upon a hectic career as owner and trainer, freely backing his own horses, in consequence of which he had returned to Bayham Mews with ten pounds, one pair of plaid trousers, a gold- plated safety razor and a few inconsiderable articles of property which he had salved from the wreckage of his estate.

Evans had work to do. He had acquired for a song a patent duplicator. A child could work it. There was in fact a picture in the advertisement of a pretty little girl turning out thousands of copies in an hour and smiling the while, as though at the ridiculous ease with which handbills, accounts and announcements of all kinds (to quote the literature which accompanied the picture) might be copied. Evans would like to have met that child. He guessed she was a weight-lifter in her spare moments.

It was easy enough to write your announcement on wax paper. You used a stylo and the point went through. Then you fixed the wax paper on the machine, inked a roller and turned a handle. At first nothing happened. Then a violet oblong, covered with all the available ink, came out.

Evans preferred a rubber stamp, or, alternatively, the services of a young lady in Great College Street, who did that kind of work at a reasonable price and with great rapidity.

Nevertheless, he determined on one more attempt with the patent duplicator. So working, he heard the slow thump of feet on the wooden step that led to his door, and presently the door itself opened, revealing the bulbous face of an aged man. It was Old Sam. But Old Sam in a frock coat—Old Sam in a top hat!

"Hullo, Evans," said Sam huskily, and Mr. Evans nearly dropped.

"Hullo, Evans!" And this from a man who was, so to speak, a slave!

He blinked into the room suspiciously.

"Hullo, Evans," he said again.

The educated man waved his hand haughtily.

"Push off—I've got nothing to give away," he said.

Such a rebuff would have reduced a sensitive man to tears of mortification. Old Sam scratched himself thoughtfully.

"I gotta tip for Digger Boy first day at Lincoln," he said, and Evans gasped at the insolence. Even in his delirium he realised that he'd never heard of such a horse as Digger Boy. But imagine the feelings of Michelangelo in receipt of a letter from a Florentine Correspondence School headed "Let us Show You How to Paint—Send No Money!" or Shakespeare being chided at rehearsal by a small-part lady for splitting his infinitives.

"A what!" asked Mr. Evans, scarcely believing his ears.

"Got it from the young lady who knows the trainer," wheezed Old Sam, stroking his variegated beard. "What a beauty, what a beauty! Help yourself!"

The room spun round. This... this common loafer, this holder-open of taxi doors... this embeered and senile servant to the pot . . . actually employing terms which were sacred to Mr. Evans' exclusive profession.

"Wait a minute—a young lady gave you this... horse? Why?"

Old Sam came farther into view. He was resplendent. A cable chain of gold was stretched across his portliness. He wore patent leather boots.

"She sent for me," he said hoarsely, "me havin' a reputation—she sent for me!"

Mr. Evans held on to a chair for support. Had the great revolution arrived? Had the masses destroyed the intelligentsia of the country and assumed control of affairs? Were the lower orders on top and the aristocracy of brains destroyed?

"'Ere, what's the game?" said Mr. Evans, a little breathlessly.

Sam looked uneasy for a moment.

"When you went away I took up this tippin' business an' I've done well," he said. "Can't read myself, but got a boy to look through the papers, and if I liked the name I give it—'aven't you 'eard of Old Sam's Specials?"

Mr. Evans was not dreaming.

"Old Sam's Specials?" he repeated hollowly. "What did you sell 'em for?"

Mr. Toggs shuffled his feet in his embarrassment.

"Tuppence," he said, and Educated Evans nearly swooned.

"Tuppence!"

He looked round for something to throw at the visitor, but there was only the patent duplicator, and even a child could not have thrown that.... Sam was halfway down the stairs before Evans could bring his numbed brain to work. He rushed to the landing and looked down into the face of the plagiarist.

"... Robbin' my brains, you perishin' old swiper..." he yelled.

"Digger Boy... 'ad 'im from 'eadquarters!" bellowed Sam. "An' don't go pinchin' any of my customers!"

Evans put on his hat and went out to make inquiries. It was true. Almost every little newsagent in Camden Town sold Old Sam's Specials.

"I admit they're different to yours," said one agent, and added: "They win.''

It was night time when the real tragedy came home to him. He called at the White Hart, expecting to see Old Sam supporting the wall and to pass him by in disdain. He saw The Miller talking to a policeman near the saloon entrance, but Old Sam was in the private bar. Evans heard him as he opened the door.

"I gotta horse for Lincoln that can't lose... this horse could fall down an' get up an' win. Lady sent for me specially to tell me. She says, 'Are you the well-known Educated man?' I says, 'Yes, miss —I'm known as Educated Toggs...' "

Evans flung open the door with a savage howl and dashed in.

It was fortunate that The Miller saw and gripped him in time and dragged him out: most unfortunate for Sam that he followed in a valiant mood: a crowning calamity that he should mistake the uniformed policeman with whom The Miller had been talking for his old patron, and should assault him with a pewter pot.

They carried Old Sam to the station on an ambulance, and the next morning an unsympathetic magistrate sent him down for three weeks.

"I hated putting the old man away," said The Miller. "Anyway, Evans, the coast is clear for you now your rival has gone."

"Rival " sneered Evans. "That pie-can! Why, he don't know a horse from a step-ladder. I wish he'd been out when I started my season! I'm sendin' out a horse that couldn't lose if he was scratched."

"What is this horse?" asked The Miller.

"Digger Boy—help yourself—and don't forget I've got a mouth!" said Mr. Evans.