it worth his while to say many impressive things about the fine studs he had been seeing and the purchases he had made on a journey in the north from which he had just returned.  Gentlemen present were assured that when they could show him anything to cut out a blood mare, a bay, rising four, which was to be seen at Doncaster if they chose to go and look at it, Mr. Bambridge would gratify them by being shot “from here to Hereford.”  Also, a pair of blacks which he was going to put into the break recalled vividly to his mind a pair which he had sold to Faulkner in ’19, for a hundred guineas, and which Faulkner had sold for a hundred and sixty two months later—­any gent who could disprove this statement being offered the privilege of calling Mr. Bambridge by a very ugly name until the exercise made his throat dry.

When the discourse was at this point of animation, came up Mr. Frank Hawley.  He was not a man to compromise his dignity by lounging at the Green Dragon, but happening to pass along the High Street and seeing Bambridge on the other side, he took some of his long strides across to ask the horsedealer whether he had found the first-rate gig-horse which he had engaged to look for.  Mr. Hawley was requested to wait until he had seen a gray selected at Bilkley:  if that did not meet his wishes to a hair, Bambridge did not know a horse when he saw it, which seemed to be the highest conceivable unlikelihood.  Mr. Hawley, standing with his back to the street, was fixing a time for looking at the gray and seeing it tried, when a horseman passed slowly by.

“Bulstrode!” said two or three voices at once in a low tone, one of them, which was the draper’s, respectfully prefixing the “Mr.;” but nobody having more intention in this interjectural naming than if they had said “the Riverston coach” when that vehicle appeared in the distance.  Mr. Hawley gave a careless glance round at Bulstrode’s back, but as Bambridge’s eyes followed it he made a sarcastic grimace.

“By jingo! that reminds me,” he began, lowering his voice a little, “I picked up something else at Bilkley besides your gig-horse, Mr. Hawley.  I picked up a fine story about Bulstrode.  Do you know how he came by his fortune?  Any gentleman wanting a bit of curious information, I can give it him free of expense.  If everybody got their deserts, Bulstrode might have had to say his prayers at Botany Bay.”

“What do you mean?” said Mr. Hawley, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and pushing a little forward under the archway.  If Bulstrode should turn out to be a rascal, Frank Hawley had a prophetic soul.

“I had it from a party who was an old chum of Bulstrode’s.  I’ll tell you where I first picked him up,” said Bambridge, with a sudden gesture of his fore-finger.  “He was at Larcher’s sale, but I knew nothing of him then—­he slipped through my fingers—­ was after Bulstrode, no doubt.  He tells me he can tap Bulstrode to any amount, knows all his secrets.