Next day the following account was given in most of the daily papers:—"Raid on a betting man in the West End. William Latch, 35, landlord of the 'King's Head,' Dean Street, Soho, was charged that he, being a licensed person, did keep and use his public-house for the purpose of betting with persons resorting thereto. Thomas William, 35, billiard marker, Gaulden Street, Battersea; Arthur Henry Parsons, 25, waiter, Northumberland Street, Marylebone; Joseph Stack, 52, gentleman; Harold Journeyman, 45, gentleman, High Street, Norwood; Philip Hutchinson, grocer, Bisey Road, Fulham; William Tann, piano-tuner, Standard Street, Soho; Charles Ketley, butterman, Green Street, Soho; John Randal, Frith Street, Soho; Charles Muller, 44, tailor, Marylebone Lane; Arthur Bartram, stationer, East Street Buildings; William Burton, harness maker, Blue Lion Street, Bond Street, were charged with using the 'King's Head' for the purpose of betting. Evidence was given by the police regarding the room upstairs, where a good deal of drinking went on after hours. There had been cases of disorder, and the magistrate unfortunately remembered that a servant-girl, who had pledged her master's plate to obtain money to back a horse, had been arrested in the 'King's Head.' Taking these facts into consideration, it seemed to him that he could not do less than inflict a fine of £100. The men who were found in Latch's house he ordered to be bound over."

Who had first given information? That was the question. Old John sat smoking in his corner. Journeyman leaned against the yellow-painted partition, his legs thrust out. Stack stood square, his dark, crimson-tinted skin contrasting with sallow-faced little Ketley.

"Don't the omens throw no light on this 'ere matter?" said Journeyman.

Ketley started from his reverie.

"Ah," said William, "if I only knew who the b—— was."

"Ain't you got no idea of any sort?" said Stack.

"There was a Salvation chap who came in some months ago and told my wife that the betting was corrupting the neighbourhood. That it would have to be put a stop to. It may 'ave been 'e."

"You don't ask no one to bet with you. They does as they like."

"Does as they like! No one does that nowadays. There's a temperance party, a purity party, and a hanti-gambling party, and what they is working for is just to stop folk from doing as they like."

"That's it," said Journeyman.

Stack raised his glass to his lips and said, "Here's luck."

"There's not much of that about," said William. "We seem to be losing all round. I'd like to know where the money goes. I think it is the 'ouse; it's gone unlucky, and I'm thinking of clearing out."

"We may live in a 'ouse a long while before we find what its luck really is," said Ketley. "I've been in my old 'ouse these twenty years, and it ain't nothing like what I thought it."

"You are that superstitious," said Journeyman. "If there was anything the matter with the 'ouse you'd've know'd it before now."

"Ain't you doing the trade you was?" said Stack.

"No, my butter and egg trade have fallen dreadful lately."

The conversation paused. It was Stack who broke the silence.

"Do you intend to do no more betting 'ere?" he asked.

"What, after being fined £100? You 'eard the way he went on about Sarah, and all on account of her being took here. I think he might have left Sarah out."

"It warn't for betting she took the plate," said Journeyman; "it was 'cause her chap said if she did he'd marry her."

"I wonder you ever left the course," said Stack.

"It was on account of my 'ealth. I caught a dreadful cold at Kempton, standing about in the mud. I've never quite got over that cold."

"I remember," said Ketley; "you couldn't speak above a whisper for two months."

"Two months! more like three."

"Fourteen weeks," said Esther.

She was in favour of disposing of the house and going to live in the country. But it was soon found that the conviction for keeping a betting-house had spoiled their chance of an advantageous sale. If, however, the licence were renewed next year, and the business did not in the meantime decline, they would be in a position to obtain better terms. So all their energies should be devoted to the improvement of their business. Esther engaged another servant, and she provided the best meat and vegetables that money could buy; William ordered beer and spirits of a quality that could be procured nowhere else in the neighbourhood; but all to no purpose. As soon as it became known that it was no longer possible to pass half a crown or a shilling wrapped up in a piece of paper across the bar, their custom began to decline.

At last William could stand it no longer, and he obtained his wife's permission to once more begin book-making on the course. His health had begun to improve with the spring weather, and there was no use keeping him at home eating his heart out with vexation because they were doing no business. So did Esther reason, and it reminded her of old times when he came back with his race-glasses slung round his shoulder. "Favourites all beaten today; what have you got for me to eat, old girl?" Esther forgot her dislike of racing in the joy of seeing her husband happy, if he'd only pick up a bit of flesh; but he seemed to get thinner and thinner, and his food didn't seem to do him any good.

One day he came home complaining that the ring was six inches of soft mud; he was wet to the skin, and he sat shivering the whole evening, with the sensation of a long illness upon him. He was laid up for several weeks, and his voice seemed as if it would never return to him again. There was little or no occupation for him in the bar; and instead of laying he began to take the odds. He backed a few winners, it is true; but they could not rely on that. Most of their trade had slipped from them, so it did not much matter to them if they were found out. He might as well be hung for an old sheep as a lamb, and surreptitiously at first, and then more openly, he began to take money across the bar, and with every shilling he took for a bet another shilling was spent in drink. Custom came back in ripples, and then in stronger waves, until once again the bar of the "King's Head" was full to overflowing. Another conviction meant ruin, but they must risk it, so said William; and Esther, like a good wife, acquiesced in her husband's decision. But he took money only from those whom he was quite sure of. He required an introduction, and was careful to make inquiries concerning every new backer. "In this way," he said to Ketley, "so long as one is content to bet on a small scale, I think it can be kept dark; but if you try to extend your connection you're bound to come across a wrong 'un sooner or later. It was that room upstairs that did for me."

"I never did think much of that room upstairs," said Ketley. "There was a something about it that I didn't like. Be sure you never bet in that jug and bottle bar, whatever you do. There's just the same look there as in the room upstairs. Haven't you noticed it?"

"Can't say I've, nor am I sure that I know exactly what you mean."

"If you don't see it, you don't see it; but it's plain enough to me, and don't you bet with nobody standing in that bar. I wouldn't go in there for a sovereign."

William laughed. He thought at first that Ketley was joking, but he soon saw that Ketley regarded the jug and bottle entrance with real suspicion. When pressed to explain, he told Journeyman that it wasn't that he was afraid of the place, he merely didn't like it. "There's some places that you likes better than others, ain't they?" Journeyman was obliged to confess that there were.

"Well, then, that's one of the places I don't like. Don't you hear a voice talking there, a soft, low voice, with a bit of a jeer in it?"

On another occasion he shaded his eyes and peered curiously into the left-hand corner.

"What are you looking at?" asked Journeyman.

"At nothing that you can see," Ketley answered; and he drank his whisky as if lost in consideration of grave and difficult things. A few weeks later they noticed that he always got as far from the jug and bottle entrance as possible, and he was afflicted with a long story concerning a danger that awaited him. "He's waiting; but nothing will happen if I don't go in there. He can't follow me; he is waiting for me to go to him."

"Then keep out of his way," said Journeyman. "You might ask your bloody friend if he can tell us anything about the Leger."

"I'm trying to keep out of his way, but he's always watching and a-beckoning of me."

"Can you see him now?" asked Stack.

"Yes," said Ketley; "he's a-sitting there, and he seems to say that if I don't come to him worse will happen."

"Don't say nothing to him," William whispered to Journeyman. "I don't think he's quite right in 'is 'ead; he's been losing a lot lately."

One day Journeyman was surprised to see Ketley sitting quite composedly in the jug and bottle bar.

"He got me at last; I had to go, the whispering got so loud in my head as I was a-coming down the street. I tried to get out into the middle of the street, but a drunken chap pushed me across the pavement, and he was at the door waiting, and he said, 'Now, you'd better come in; you know what will happen if you don't.'"

"Don't talk rot, old pal; come round and have a drink with us."

"I can't just at present—I may later on."

"What do he mean?" said Stack.

"Lord, I don't know," said Journeyman. "It's only his wandering talk."

They tried to discuss the chances of the various horses they were interested in, but they could not detach their thoughts from Ketley, and their eyes went back to the queer little sallow-faced man who sat on a high stool in the adjoining bar paring his nails.

They felt something was going to happen, and before they could say the word he had plunged the knife deep into his neck, and had fallen heavily on the floor. William vaulted over the counter. As he did so he felt something break in his throat, and when Stack and Journeyman came to his assistance he was almost as white as the corpse at his feet. Blood flowed from his mouth and from Ketley's neck in a deep stream that swelled into a great pool and thickened on the sawdust.

"It was jumping over that bar," William replied, faintly.

"I'll see to my husband," said Esther.

A rush of blood cut short his words, and, leaning on his wife, he walked feebly round into the back parlour. Esther rang the bell violently.

"Go round at once to Doctor Green," she said; "and if he isn't in inquire which is the nearest. Don't come back without a doctor."

William had broken a small blood-vessel, and the doctor said he would have to be very careful for a long time. It was likely to prove a long case. But Ketley had severed the jugular at one swift, keen stroke, and had died almost instantly. Of course there was an inquest, and the coroner asked many questions regarding the habits of the deceased. Mrs. Ketley was one of the witnesses called, and she deposed that he had lost a great deal of money lately in betting, and that he went to the "King's Head" for the purpose of betting. The police deposed that the landlord of the "King's Head" had been fined a hundred pounds for keeping a betting-house, and the foreman of the jury remarked that betting-houses were the ruin of the poorer classes, and that they ought to be put a stop to. The coroner added that such places as the "King's Head" should not be licensed. That was the simplest and most effectual way of dealing with the nuisance.

"There never was no luck about this house," said William, "and what there was has left us; in three months' time we shall be turned out of it neck and crop. Another conviction would mean a fine of a couple of hundred, or most like three months, and that would just about be the end of me."

"They'll never license us again," said Esther, "and the boy at school and doing so well."

"I'm sorry, Esther, to have brought this trouble on you. We must do the best we can, get the best price we can for the 'ouse. I may be lucky enough to back a few winners. That's all there is to be said—the 'ouse was always an unlucky one. I hate the place, and shall be glad to get out of it."

Esther sighed. She didn't like to hear the house spoken ill of, and after so many years it did seem a shame.