“I must be drinking too much,” Filby murmured. “But really! Who wants to risk his ten thou?”

“A man named Lous Willison. An American.”

“What’s he do?”

“He’s a builder.”

“From Alabama?”

“Not bad,” Smith shot Filby a glance that was half-wondering, half-amused. “Yes — Alabama and Georgia.”

“Is he in a big way?”

“As a builder, I don’t know. I checked with the American Consulate, Trade Division — said I was contemplating putting up a factory there and I’d been recommended to use Willison. They gave him a perfectly good reference but said he wasn’t a very big operator.”

“Black or white?”

“What do you mean?” Smith asked, then suddenly saw the implication and said shortly, his voice hardening: “White. But what difference does that make?”

“Could make a lot,” replied Filby, soothingly. “If there’s a group of negroes who would like to see their man win Wimbledon —” He broke off, choking back a laugh. “Could be they’ve got a bombshell and see Wimbledon as a terrific race symbol?”

“As a matter of fact,” Smith told him, soberly, “it could have a bloody big impact-don’t make any mistake about that. And when you get a good negro athlete-look how nearly Ashe pulled it off! How long ago was that?”

“Last year. The question is, did you take the bet?”

“I stalled.”

“Lay it off with the smaller boys, Archie,” Filby advised, as if tiring of the subject.

“Not yet.” Smith’s mind was obviously quite made up. “First, I want to know if anyone else is putting heavy money on Barnaby Rudge. Barnaby Rudge,” he repeated, in a puzzled way. “Isn’t that name familiar?”

“You could read a chap called Dickens,” Filby said drily. “All right, I’ll keep my antennae out, and pass on any news.” Their drinks had been set down as he spoke and he handed Smith his and then raised his own. “Cheers. How’s the money shaping, on the Derby?”