"You are much more vehement today," I said slowly, 'than you were yesterday. "

He sat back.

"Yesterday I didn't need to convince you. But I felt just the same."

"There must be someone in England who can dig Out the information you want," I protested.

"People who know the ins and outs of your racing.

I know nothing at all. I left your country when I was nine. I'd be useless. It's impossible. "

That's better, I approved myself. That's much firmer.

He looked down at his glass, and spoke as if with reluctance.

"Well we did approach someone in England… A racing journalist, actually. Very good nose for news; very discreet, too; we thought he was just the chap. Unfortunately he dug away without success for some weeks. And then he was killed in a car crash, poor fellow."

"Why not try someone else?" I persisted.

"It was only in June that he died, during steeplechas- ing's summer recess. The new season started in August and it was not until after that that we thought of the stable lad idea, with all its difficulties."

"Try a farmer's son," I suggested.

"Country accent, knowledge of horses… the lot."

He shook his head.

" England is too small. Send a farmer's son to walk a horse round the parade ring at the races, and what he was doing would soon be no secret. Too many people would recognize him, and ask questions."

"A farm worker's son, then, with a high IQ."

"Do we hold an exam?" he said sourly.

There was a pause, and he looked up from his glass. His face was solemn, almost severe.

"Well?" he said.