whaler. True, the pay did not amount to much, but it found me in pocket-money and clothes, and I saved my keep.

Having now, as I hope, done with digressions and placed myself en rapport with my readers, I will return to the principal personage of my story.

The next time I met Mr. Fortescue was at Harlow Bush. He was quite as well mounted as before, and accompanied, as usual, by Rawlings and two grooms with their second horses. On this occasion Mr. Fortescue did not hold himself nearly so much aloof as he had done at Matching Green, perhaps because he was more noticed; and he was doubtless more noticed because the fame of his wealth and the lavish use he made of it were becoming more widely known. The master gave him a friendly nod and a gracious smile, and expressed a hope that we should have good sport; the secretary engaged him in a lively conversation; the hunt servants touched their caps to him with profound respect, and he received greetings from most of the swells.

We drew Latton, found in a few minutes, and had a “real good thing,” a grand run of nearly two hours, with only one or two trifling checks, which, as I am not writing a hunting story, I need not describe any further than to remark that we had plenty of fencing, a good deal of hard galloping, a kill in the open, and that of the sixty or seventy who were present at the start only about a score were up at the finish. Among the fortunate few were Mr. Fortescue and his pilot. During the latter part of the run we rode side by side, and pulled up at the same instant, just as the fox was rolled over.

“A very fine run,” I took the liberty to observe, as I stepped from my saddle and slackened my horse’s girths. “It will be a long time before we have a better.”

“Two hours and two minutes,” shouted the secretary, looking at his watch, “and straight. We are in the heart of the Puckeridge country.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Fortescue, quietly, “it was a very enjoyable run. You like hunting, I think?”

“Like it! I should rather think I do. I regard fox-hunting as the very prince of sports. It is manly, health-giving, and exhilarating. There is no sport in which so many participate and so heartily enjoy. We enjoy it, the horses enjoy it, and the hounds enjoy it.”

“How about the fox?”

“Oh, the fox! Well, the fox is allowed to exist on condition of being occasionally hunted. If there were no hunting there would be no foxes. On the whole, I regard him as a fortunate and rather pampered individual; and I have even heard it said that he rather likes being hunted than otherwise.”

“As for the general question, I dare say you are right. But I don’t think the fox likes it much. It once happened to me to be hunted, and I know I did not like it.”

This was rather startling, and had Mr. Fortescue spoken less gravely and not been so obviously in earnest, I should have thought he was joking.

“You don’t mean—Was it a paper-chase?” I said, rather foolishly.

“No; it was not a paper-chase,” he answered, grimly. “There were no paper-chases in my time. I mean that I was once hunted, just as we have been hunting that fox.”

“With a pack of hounds?”

“Yes, with a pack of hounds.”

I was about to ask what sort of a chase it was, and how and where he was hunted, when Cuffe came up, and, on behalf of the master, offered Mr. Fortescue the brush.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Fortescue, taking the brush and handing it to Rawlings. “Here is something for you”—tipping the huntsman a sovereign, which he put in his pocket with a “Thank you kindly, sir,” and a gratified smile.

And then flasks were uncorked, sandwich-cases opened, cigars lighted, and the conversation becoming general, I had no other opportunity—at that time—of making further inquiry of Mr. Fortescue touching the singular episode in his career which he had just mentioned. A few minutes later a move was made for our own country, and as we were jogging along I found myself near Jim Rawlings.

“That’s a fresh hoss you’ve got, I think, sir,” he said.

“Yes, I have ridden him two or three times with the harriers; but this is the first time I have had him out with fox-hounds.”

“He carried you very well in the run, sir.”

“You are quite right; he did. Very well.”

“Does he lay hold on you at all, Mr. Bacon?”

“Not a bit.”

“Light in the mouth, a clever jumper, and a free goer.”

“All three.”

“Yes, he’s the right sort, he is, sir; and if ever you feel disposed to sell him, I could, may be, find you a customer.”

Accepting this as a delicate intimation that Mr. Fortescue had taken a fancy to the horse and would like to buy him, I told Jim that I was quite willing to sell at a fair price.

“And what might you consider a fair price, if it is a fair question?” asked the man.

“A hundred guineas,” I answered; for, as I knew that Mr. Fortescue would not “look at a horse,” as Tawney put it, under that figure, it would have been useless to ask less.

“Very well, sir. I will speak to my master, and let you know.”

Ranger, as I called the horse, was a purchase of Alston’s. Liking his looks (though Bertie was really a very indifferent judge), he had bought him out of a hansom-cab for forty pounds, and after a little “schooling,” the creature took to jumping as naturally as a duck takes to water. Sixty pounds may seem rather an unconscionable profit, but considering that Ranger was quite sound and up to weight, I don’t think a hundred guineas was too much. A dealer would have asked a hundred and fifty.

At any rate, Mr. Fortescue did not think it too much, for Rawlings presently brought me word that his master would take the horse at the price I had named, if I could warrant him sound.

“In that case it is a bargain,” I said, “for I can warrant him sound.”

“All right, sir. I’ll send one of the grooms over to your place for him to-morrow.”

Shortly afterward I fell in with Keyworth, and as a matter of course we talked about Mr. Fortescue.

“Do you know anything about him?” I asked.

“Not much. I believe he is rich—and respectable.”

“That is pretty evident, I think.”

“I am not sure. A man who spends a good deal of money is presumably rich; but it by no means follows that he is respectable. There are such people in the world as successful rogues and wealthy swindlers. Not that I think Mr. Fortescue is either one or the other. I learned, from the check he sent me for his subscription, who his bankers are, and through a friend of mine, who is intimate with one of the directors, I got a confidential report about him. It does not amount to much; but it is satisfactory so far as it goes. They say he is a man of large fortune, and, as they believe, highly respectable.”

“Is that all?”

“All there was in the report. But Tomlinson—that’s my friend—has heard that he has spent the greater part of his life abroad, and that he made his money in South America.”

The mention of South America interested me, for I had made voyages both to Rio de Janeiro and several places on the Spanish Main.

“South America is rather vague,” I observed. “You might almost as well say ‘Southern Asia.’ Have you any idea in what part of it?”

“Not the least. I have told you all I know. I should be glad to know more; but for the present it is quite enough for my purpose. I intend to call upon Mr. Fortescue.”

It is hardly necessary to say that I had no such intention, for having neither a “position in the county,” as the phrase goes, a house of my own, nor any official connection with the hunt, a call from me would probably have been regarded, and rightly so, as a piece of presumption. As it happened, however, I not only called on Mr. Fortescue before the secretary, but became his guest, greatly to my surprise,