d the finish of one of the shorter courses, by
suggesting that he should share my umbrella.

Before accepting he glanced suspiciously at me through the rills that
streamed from his unprotected hat-brim. 'I'm afraid,' I said, 'it is
rather like shutting the stable-door after the steed is stolen.'

He started. 'He _was_ stolen, then,' he cried; 'so you have heard?'

I explained that I had only used an old proverb which I thought might
appeal to him, and he sighed heavily.

'I was misled for the moment,' he said: 'you have guessed, then, that I
have been accustomed to horses?'

'You have hardly made any great secret of it.'

'The fact is,' he said, instantly understanding this allusion to his
costume, 'I--I put on these things so as not to lose the habit of
riding altogether--I have not been on horseback lately. At one time I
used to ride constantly--constantly. I was a regular attendant in Rotten
Row--until something occurred which shook my nerve, and I am only
waiting now for the shock to subside.'

I did not like to ask any questions, and we walked back to the station,
and travelled up to Waterloo in company, without any further reference
to the subject.

As we were parting, however, he said, 'I wonder if you would care to
hear my full story some day? I cannot help thinking it would interest
you, and it would be a relief to me.'

I was ready enough to hear whatever he chose to tell me; and persuaded
him to dine with me at my rooms that evening, and unbosom himself
afterwards, which he did to an extent for which I confess I was
unprepared.

That he himself implicitly believed in his own story, I could not doubt;
and he told it throughout with the oddest mixture of vanity and modesty,
and an obvious struggle between a dim perception of his own absurdity
and the determination to spare himself in no single particular, which,
though it did not overcome my scepticism, could not fail to enlist
sympathy. But for all that, by the time he entered upon the more
sensational part of his case, I was driven to form conclusions
respecting it which, as they will probably force themselves upon the
reader's own mind, I need not anticipate here.

I give the story, as far as possible, in the words of its author; and
have only to add that it would never have been published here without
his full consent and approval.

'My name,' said he, 'is Gustavus Pulvertoft. I have no occupation, and
six hundred a year. I lived a quiet an