“We had an odd one in, today,” he remarked, owlishly.

“Concerned with what?” asked Filby.

“Barnaby Rudge.”

“The tennis chap, you mean?”

“The darkie,” Smith nodded, “from Alabama.”

“What’s so odd about him?” Filby queried, blankly.

“Didn’t say odd about him, old boy! An odd one about him. Ten thousand pounds on any odds the chap could get, that Rudge will win Wimbledon.”

“Take it!” urged Filby, promptly. “He hasn’t an earthly. Even at a hundred to one, you’d pick up ten thou. Want to hedge some of it?”

“I want to know more about it.” Smith’s deep-set, periwinkle-blue eyes had a speculative glint. “I checked around a bit. No one else has been approached. The general feeling was a hundred to one others — and he’s one of them!”

“Humph,” ejaculated Filby.

“And if he won,” Smith pointed out, “someone would be a million down!”

Filby sat up, contemplated his glass as if suspicious of its cleanliness, and then looked hard at Smith.

“I see what you mean,” he said. “Impossible.”

“A pony,” Smith shrugged. “Even a hundred. Possibly a thousand quid — I could understand anyone putting it on as a long shot. But ten thousand! That isn’t chicken-feed, even to a millionaire.”

Filby sipped, stared moodily at his glass, tossed the drink down and raised a hand for a waiter.

“Who’s behind it?” he asked.

“I’ve no idea.”

“No name? Same again, by the way?”

“Ta. I can manage one more.”

Filby raised two fingers and as the waiter turned and went off, he echoed: “No idea?”‘

“Oh, I know who wants to put the money up.”

“Cash?”

“You’re not very bright tonight, old boy!” Smith protested. “You don’t think anyone would be expected to take that on credit, do you?”