He drew on his cigarette, and tapped the ash off, and looked out of the window.

"A year or two ago we had a great deal of trouble with the doping of racehorses," he said abruptly.

"A very great deal of trouble. There were trials and prison sentences, and stringent all-round tightening of stable security, and a stepping-up of regular saliva and urine tests. We began to test the first four horses in many races, to stop doping-to-win, and we tested every suspiciously beaten favourite for doping-to-lose. Nearly all the results since the new regulations came into force have been negative."

"How satisfactory," I said, not desperately interested.

"No. It isn't. Someone has discovered a drug which our analysts cannot identify."

"That doesn't sound possible," I said politely. The afternoon was slipping away unprofitably, I felt, and I still had a lot to do.

He sensed my lack of enthusiasm.

"There have been ten cases, all winners. Ten that we are sure of. The horses apparently look conspicuously stimulated I haven't myself actually seen one but nothing shows up in the tests." He paused.

"Doping is nearly always an inside job," he said, transferring his gaze back to me.

"That is to say, stable lads are nearly always involved somehow, even if it is only to point out to someone else which horse is in which box." I nodded. Australia had had her troubles, too.

"We, that is to say, the other two Stewards of the National Hunt Committee, and myself, have once or twice discussed trying to find out about the doping from the inside, so to speak…"

"By getting a stable lad to spy for you?" I said.

He winced slightly.

"You Australians are so direct," he murmured.

"But that was the general idea, yes. We didn't do anything more than talk about it, though, because there are many difficulties to such a plan and frankly we didn't see how we could positively guarantee that any lad we approached was not already working for… er… the other side."