ht hours."

"I've made good use of my time!" he chuckled, with a knowing grin.
"Although I say it myself, Mr. Middlebrook, I'm a bit of a hustler.
Well, self-praise, they say, is no recommendation, though to be sure
I'm no believer in that old proverb, for, after all, who knows a man
better than himself? So we'll get to the story. I came here, of
course, to see if I could learn anything of a man of this place who
answered to what I had already learnt about Netherfield of the
_Elizabeth Robinson_. I went to the likely people for news, and I very
soon found out something. Nobody knew anything of any man, old or
young, named William Netherfield, belonging, present or past, to this
town. But a good many people--most, if not all people--do know of a
man who used to be in much evidence here some years ago; a man of the
name of Netherfield Baxter."

"Netherfield Baxter," I repeated. "Not a name to be readily
forgotten--once known."

"He's not forgotten," said Scarterfield, grimly, "and he was well
enough known, here, once upon a time, and not so long since, either.
And now, who was Netherfield Baxter? Well, he was the only child of an
old tradesman of this town, whose wife died when Netherfield was a
mere boy, and who died himself when his son was only seventeen years
of age. Old Baxter was a remarkably foolish man. He left all he had to
this lad--some twelve thousand pounds--in such a fashion that he came
into absolute, uncontrolled possession of it on attaining his
twenty-first birthday. Now then you can imagine what happened! My
young gentleman, nobody to say him nay, no father, mother, sister,
brother, to restrain him or give him a word in season--or a hearty
kicking, which would have been more to the purpose!--went the pace,
pretty considerably. Horses, cards, champagne--you know! The twelve
thousand began to melt like wax in a fire. He carried on longer than
was expected, for now and then he had luck on the race-course; won a
good deal once, I heard, on the big race at Newcastle--what they call
the Pitman's Darby. But it went--all of it went!--and by the beginning
of the year 1904--bear the date in mind, Mr. Middlebrook--Netherfield
Baxter was just about on his last legs--he was, in fact, living from
hand to mouth. He was then--I've been particular about collecting
facts and statistics--just twenty-nine years of age, so, one way or
another, he'd made his little fortune last him eight years; he still
had good clothes-