He slid into a seat fronting a billiard table by a blue jowled, plump man with a frosty eye, who enveloped his hand in a leg of mutton fist.

“How are ye, Mr. Labar? Just looking round or are ye here to do a bit of business? I’ll lay ten to one that you want to know sommat. What are ye takin’?”

“A small tonic will do me, thank you, Mr. Dickinson.”

The big north-countryman (known to every racecourse frequenter in the country from royalty downwards as “Dickie,” and reputed to have acquired a colossal fortune on the turf) protested at the mildness of the drink. Labar, however, was firm and the other gave the order.

“Now I know ye’re after ferreting sommat out of me, lad. Spit it out. What dost want to know?”