They passed into the house, and Basil was left alone. It was a

favourite trick of his to put his thoughts into unspoken words; he had

encouraged the habit, finding it led to clearness and generally, when

he was in doubt, to some definite issue. In his disturbed mood he

found this a suitable time for this mental indulgence. Something

should be done, clearly; but what?

"Poor Annette!" he thought. "Poor child! What will now become of her?

What will be her future? That brute--he is no less--who boasts so

sardonically that he intends to teach her principles, will poison her

mind against me. If I do not see her again she will grow to hate me.

It is dreadful to think of. She has none but kind thoughts of me now;

and though in a short time we may be parted for ever, and all chance

of ever seeing her again will be lost, I should dearly like to feel

that if she thinks of me in the future it will be with gentleness and

affection. I have done nothing to forfeit her affection, except that I

am unfortunate.

"My bright dreams are suddenly snapped. A few short hours have changed

happiness to woe. Still--still I have committed no wrong. Of that I am

sure, and it is a comfort--but poor Annette! If I could assure her

that I am not to blame, I could bear it. She would believe me, and I

could go on my way with a less sorrowful heart.

"That brute will try his hardest to prevent my seeing her. The blow

that has fallen upon her may prostrate her. She may die--it is

horrible, horrible! If that should happen, Gilbert Bidaud will come

into possession of everything. Is that the end to which he will work?

He is capable of it, capable of any villainy. Can I do nothing to save

her?

"I am powerless. I have no claim upon her; I have no right to be here.

But I will not go away without seeing, without speaking to her. If he

takes her from this place, which is likely enough, I will follow them.

She must not, she must not be left to the tender mercies of that

jackal.

"All very fine to talk, Basil. You will follow them? Why, man, you

must live. It is a necessity. And to live you must work. How much

money have you in your pocket to commence the fight of existence

with?--to say nothing of the grand things you are going to do for

sweet Annette.

"She has got hold of my heart-strings. I shall never, never forget

her. Certain words spoken by my dear friend, Anthony Bidaud, last

night, come to my mind. Let me recall them, exactly as he spoke them.

"'We are drawn to each other,' he said. And before that: 'By accident

you enter into our lives. I use the term accident, but I believe it to

be a providence.' How if it should be so? The shadow of death was

hanging over him, and at such times some men have been gifted with

prophetic insight. If it were so with Anthony Bidaud, this is not the

end. The thought I have expressed, the very word 'insight' I have

used, were his. 'I have observed you closely,' he said, 'and am

satisfied to deliver into your hands a sacred charge, the charge of a

young girl's future. At such moments as these there comes to some men

a subtle, unfathomable insight. It comes to me. I firmly believe that

there is a link between you and my child, which, if you do not

recognise it now, you will be bound to recognise in the future. It may

be broken in the present, but the threads will be joined as surely as

we stand here side by side.'"

"With all my heart I hope so, but it is the wildest, the most

unreasonable of hopes.

"Can nothing, nothing be done?

"He said he had made no will; but he may have left papers expressing

his wishes. How to get a sight of them? If I had sufficient means to

take me to Sydney I would hasten there, to Anthony Bidaud's lawyer,

and lay the case before him. But my purse is empty. I have, however,

something about me of value. My gold watch and chain, given to me by

my dear father. That is worth a certain sum, but it would not carry me

to Sydney. It would carry me, however, to Gum Flat, where perhaps I

can find a lawyer who will advise her. In the saddle I could reach

there to-night, and be back to-morrow. Where can I obtain a horse? I

dare not take one from the plantation. Gilbert Bidaud would accuse me

of theft, and he would be within his right. Ah! Old Corrie!"

Here he stopped. His unspoken thoughts had led him to a definite

issue.

Gum Flat was the name of the nearest township, if township it could be

called. In the Australian colonies they delight in singular names for

places. Old Corrie was a man who, by permission of Anthony Bidaud,

occupied a hut which he had built with his own hands on the

plantation, some two miles from the spot upon which Basil at that

moment stood. He was not employed on the estate, but did odd jobs in

wood splitting and the felling of trees for the master of the

plantation. The man had "taken" to Basil, as the saying is, and in his

odd way had shown a liking for the young man, who always had a

pleasant word for any agreeable person he chanced to fall across.

Old Corrie was not an old man, his age being about forty, but he was

dubbed Old Corrie because he was angular, because he was crooked,

because he had a mouth all awry, because he chose to keep himself from

his fellows. He owned a horse, and it occurred to Basil that he might

lend it to him for the journey to Gum Flat, which was distant some

forty-five miles. To Old Corrie's hut, therefore, Basil betook

himself, stepping out with a will.

In less than half-an-hour he reached the old fellow's dwelling. Old

Corrie was not at home, but Basil heard the sound of his axe in the

woods. It was not very near, but men's ears get trained to fine sounds

in the bush. Guided by the thud of the axe Basil in a short time found

himself face to face with the woodman.

Old Corrie went on with his work, merely glancing up and giving Basil

a friendly nod. From another living creature Basil received a more

boisterous greeting, a laughing jackass which Old Corrie had tamed

bursting into an outrageous fit of laughter without the least apparent

cause. This bird, which is sometimes called the bushman's clock, was

an uncouth-looking object, as big as a crow, of a rich chestnut-brown

colour with light-blue wings; its beak was long and pointed, and its

mouth inordinately large. These characteristics, in alliance with a

formidable crest, invested it with a ferocious air; but this

particular specimen was exceedingly gentle despite the extravagant

sounds it emitted, which might have been excruciatingly prolonged had

not its sharp eye caught sight of a carpet snake wriggling through the

underwood. Down darted the laughing jackass, and commenced a battle

with the snake which terminated in the bird throwing the dead body of

the reptile into the air, with a series of triumphant chuckles; after

which it sat silent on a branch, contemplating the dead snake with an

air partly comical, partly profound, and waiting in grim patience for

a movement on the part of its victim which would furnish an excuse for

a renewal of hostilities.

Basil had time to note all this, for Old Corrie did not speak, and the

young man was debating how to commence.

"Well, Master Basil," said Old Corrie, presently, throwing down his

axe and taking out his pipe, a common short clay which he would not

have exchanged for thrice its weight in gold, "what brings you this

way? Any message from Mr. Bidaud?"

"No, Corrie," replied Basil sadly, "you will receive no more messages

from him."

"I was thinking myself," said Corrie, glancing at Basil; and not

immediately recognising the gravity of the reply, "that there mightn't

be any more."

"What made you think that?" asked Basil, in doubt whether the man knew

of Anthony Bidaud's death.

"I'm down with the fever, Master Basil."

"I am sorry to hear that, Corrie," said Basil in surprise, for Old

Corrie was the picture of health and strength. "Can I do anything for

you?"

"No, Master Basil," said Old Corrie, with a smile and a kindly look at

Basil. "The fever I'm down with ain't the kind of fever that's in your

mind. It's the gold fever I'm down with."

"Oh," said Basil, "I understand."

"The wonder is that I've never been down with it before. If I don't

strike a rich claim or find a big nugget or two, I can always come

back to this."

"Have you heard any news, then?"

"Well, two men camped out here last night, and we had a talk. I gave

'em some tea, and their tongues got loosened a bit. There's a new

goldfield discovered somewhere in the north, and they're after it. A

regular Tom Tiddler's ground, Mr. Basil, only it's all gold and no

silver. Twenty ounces to the tub."

"And you're off?"

"When I've finished this job for Mr. Bidaud."

"How long will that take you?"

"About three weeks."

"Is it a contract job?"

"Yes."

"Signed on paper?"

"No, we never had need of that. Mr. Bidaud's word is as good as his

bond; so's mine."

"I would not go on with it, Corrie, if I were you, till I made sure."

"Why?"

"Because the gentleman who made the contract with you by word of mouth

is dead."

"Dead!"

"Died this morning, suddenly, I grieve to say."

Old Corrie took his pipe from his mouth, and sent a look of reproach

in the direction of the laughing jackass, from whose throat proceeded

a faint gurgle of laughter. At this look the quaint bird--as odd a

specimen of the feathered tribes as Old Corrie was of the human

race--checked--its mirth, and cocking its head knowingly on one side,

inquired with its speaking eye what was the matter.

"That's bad news, Master Basil."

"The worst of news, Corrie."

"Died suddenly?"

"Quite suddenly. It is a great shock."

"What's to become of the little lady?" asked Old Corrie, in a

sympathising tone. The inquiry was addressed as much to himself as to

Basil.

"That is one of the things that are troubling me, Corrie. You are a

favourite of hers."

"I've seen her grow up, and remember her mother well. I've cause. Once

when I was down with the colonial fever--almost as bad as the gold

fever, Master Basil--Mrs. Bidaud as good as nursed me through it,

coming or sending every day for two months and more, till I got

strong. When I was well I went up to the house to thank her. The

little lady was just toddling about, and made friends with me. I shall

never forget Mrs. Bidaud; I went to her funeral. You stopped at my hut

before you came here, I expect."

"Yes; I thought you might be there."

"Did you hear anything?"

"Only the sound of your axe in the woods."

"I mean inside the hut. There's a magpie there that's got the sense of

a human being and a voice like a flute. I only got it a fortnight ago,

and I've tamed it already, surprising. Back as white as snow, Master

Basil, and breast and wings shining like black satin. A handsome bird,

and quite young. It says 'Little lady; Little lady!' and 'Miss

Annette!' in a way that'll astonish you. I'm doing it for the little

lady herself, and I'm glad I began it because I'm going away."

"It will please her greatly, Corrie, if she is allowed to accept it."

"What's to prevent her? Poor little lady! First her mother, then her

father. I thought there was trouble in your face when I saw it. Would

you mind explaining, Master Basil, about this wood-splitting contract

of mine? Why shouldn't I finish it till I made sure."

Then Basil told of the arrival of the dead man's brother and sister,

and was not delicate in expressing his opinion of Gilbert Bidaud.

"You're not the sort of man," said Old Corrie thoughtfully, "to speak,

ill behind another's back without good reason. Little lady's uncle

must be a bad lot. A man and a woman, you say, foreign looking. They

must be the pair that passed my hut early this morning when I was

getting up. They didn't stop; she wanted to, I think, but he wouldn't

let her. 'Curse you!' I heard him say, 'What are you lagging for? Put

life into your miserable limbs; we haven't got far to go.' It seemed

to me as if he laid hands on her to drag her along. I came out of the

hut, and saw them ahead, the woman walking as if she was dead beat,

and the man lugging her on. They never turned to look behind, and I

watched till they were out of sight. I'm sorry for the little lady.

I'll go up to the house to-day, and judge for myself."

"You may hear something against me, Corrie. Don't believe it."

"I won't, without reason. I make up my mind slow, Master Basil.

Perhaps you've got something more to tell me. It won't be thrown

away."

Wishing to stand well with Old Corrie, Basil became more

communicative, and put the woodman in possession, of the particulars

of what had passed between himself and Anthony Bidaud on the previous

evening, and also of his interviews with Anthony's brother.

"It looks black," said Old Corrie. "It's a pity you didn't leave him

to the alligator. And now, Master Basil, you've something else in your

mind. Out with it."

"I came to ask you to do me a great service."

"Give it mouth."

"It may be that poor Annette's father has left some papers with

respect to her future which the law might declare valid. If that is

so, and her uncle finds them, he will destroy them; it may be to his

interest to do so, and in that case he will allow no considerations of

right and wrong to stand in his way. The presence of a lawyer may

prevent this. Then there is the slanderous talk he is sure to set

going against me; I want to clear myself of it. The precise cause of

Anthony Bidaud's death should be ascertained and declared by a

competent and disinterested person, and I thought of going to Gum Flat

and enlisting the services of a lawyer and a doctor, whom I would

bring back with me."

"It would be a proper thing to do," said Corrie.

"But I am in a difficulty. I could walk the distance, but I could not

get there till to-morrow. Coming and going, four days at least would

be wasted, and in that time Annette's uncle could work his own ends

without interruption. Now, if I had a horse I could get there this

evening, and back to-morrow."

"You want me to lend you my mare?"

"That is what I came to ask you."

"You can have her; she's a willing creature, and 'll go till she

drops."

"It is kind of you, Corrie."

"Not at all. I do it a little bit for your sake, but a good deal more

for the sake of the little lady."

"You run a risk, Corrie. My story may not be true; I may never come

back."

"I'll take security, then."

"I have no money. The only thing I possess of value is this watch and

chain."

"I won't take that; you may need it to pay the lawyer and the doctor

with. Besides that isn't the security I mean. I'll take your word."

"You're a real good fellow, Corrie. Some day I may be able to repay

you."

"If I had any idea of looking out for that day I shouldn't do what I'm

doing. Look here, Master Basil. I know a gentleman when I see one; and

you're a gentleman. I believe every word you've told me. This fellow

that's turned up, the little lady's uncle, is a scoundrel, or he

wouldn't have spoken the words I heard to a woman nearly dead with

fatigue--his own sister, too. Come along; let's saddle the mare."

Before that was done, however, Old Corrie insisted that Basil should

eat a hearty meal and see the magpie he was training for Annette. Then

Basil mounted the willing mare, and with a grip of the hand and a

hearty "Good luck, mate," from Old Corrie, the young man started for

Gum Flat.

CHAPTER IX.

It was three months since Basil had passed through the conglomeration

of canvas tents and stores which rejoiced in a title which certainly

could not be called euphonious, and then, although those were its most

prosperous days, it struck him as being a wretched hole. Rumours of

rich finds of gold had originally attracted a population to Gum Flat

township, but the glowing anticipations of the gold diggers who

flocked to the false El Dorado were doomed to disappointment. It was

not a gold-diggers' but a storekeepers' rush, and the result was a

foregone conclusion; after a time the miners who had flocked thither

began to desert the place. Not, however, before they gave it a fair

trial. They marked out claims, they prospected the hills and gullies,

they turned the waters of a large creek, they sank shafts in many a

likely-looking spot, they followed spurs of stones on the ranges in

the hope that they would lead them to a rich quartz reef, but their

labours were unrewarded. A couple of specks to the dish and the

faintest traces of gold in the quartz were not sufficient to pay for

powder and tobacco, and the men gradually began to leave the

uninviting locality. A few remained, but not to dig for gold; these

were chiefly loafers, and lived on each other, playing billiards

during the day on the one billiard table that had been left behind,

and cards during the nights, for fabulous and visionary sums of money

which, really lost and won, would have transformed beggars into

millionaires and millionaires into beggars. The poorer they grew the

larger the stakes they played for, and their delusions created for

their delectation the most delicious paroxysms of infinite joy and

overwhelming despair. These they enjoyed to the full, reckoning up

their losses and gains with wild eyes and radiant countenances. One

beggarly loafer, who for the last five years had not had five pounds

to bless himself with, went to the creek one dark night after a

visionary loss of a hundred thousand pounds or so, and insisted upon

drowning himself. It required a vast amount of insistence on his part,

for the creek just then was not more than three feet deep. Anyway, he

was found dead the next morning, with a letter in his pocket to the

effect that he was financially ruined and could not survive the

disgrace; whereupon his principal creditor, who, in the matter of

finances, was no better off than the drowned man, perambulated High

Street in a state of fury, fiercely denouncing his debtor who had not

the courage to live and pay his debts of honour.

Some means of subsistence, however inadequate, Gum Flat must have had;

these were found in the persons of a half-a-dozen drivers of bullock

drays, who every two weeks brought their earnings there and spent them

royally. This process lasted on each occasion exactly three days,

during which time the population, numbering in all not more than

thirty souls, were in clover. When the bullock drivers returned to

their avocations the loafers declared that the colonies were going to

the dogs, and resumed the routine of their dismal days, gambling,

drinking, quarrelling, until the six solvent men returned again to

gladden their hearts.

Even this miserable state of affairs came to an end after a time, and

reached a more deplorable stage. The bullock drivers discovered more

agreeable quarters, and in their turn deserted the township. Driven by

sheer necessity the loafers, one by one, followed their example, and

slunk from the place, until only four remained. Such was the condition

of Gum Flat as Basil rode towards the township on a day eventful

enough in the story of his life, but scarcely less eventful than the

night which followed it was destined to be. Had he been aware of this

he would have thought twice before he made up his mind to proceed

thither in search of lawyer and doctor; but such is the irony of

circumstances that, had he not set forth on his present journey, the

entire course of his future life would have drifted into channels

which would, almost to a certainty, have separated him from Annette

for ever. Accident or fate, which you will; but the course of many

lives is thus determined.

He rode all day through the tracks he remembered, and concerning which

he had been refreshed by Old Corrie, who was as ignorant as himself of

the deplorable change that had taken place. The road for a few miles

lay along great plains of rich black soil, dotted here and there with

masses of blue and barley grass, among which might be found the native

leek and wild cucumber; then followed a tract of country somewhat

lightly timbered but heavily grassed, where he came across a nasty bit

of "devil devil" land, fortunately of not great extent, for he had to

ride with a loose rein and leave it to his horse to pick the safest

way. On his left were large lagoons in which a wondrous variety of

wild fowl abounded; on his right was a belt of impenetrable scrub; but

the track was well defined, and after riding twenty miles he entered a

thickly wooded forest, for the shade of which he was grateful, the sun

now being high in the heavens. Emerging from this forest he halted

near a vast sheet of water, in which tall reeds grew, and where he

found the wild banana. Off this fruit and some cold meat and bread

which Old Corrie had forced upon him, he made a sufficient meal, and

then resumed his journey. In the afternoon the road lay through a more

even country, and he reckoned upon reaching Gum Flat before sundown.

But he reckoned without his host, for the distance was longer than he

calculated, and at sunset he was still, according to the information

given to him by the driver of a bullock dray, eight or ten miles from

the township. This man was the only human being he had met in his

lonely ride. Many a time in the course of the day had he fallen into

contemplation of the pregnant events of the last twenty-four hours,

thinking, "This time yesterday I was walking with Annette in the

woods, gathering wildflowers for her mother's grave. She slipped, and

I caught her in my arms." And again: "This time yesterday Anthony

Bidaud, Annette, and I, were sitting in the verandah, watching the

sunset; and a moment afterwards white stars were glittering in the

clouds of faded gold. How peaceful, how happy we were! And now?" he

shuddered as he thought of the dead form of Anthony Bidaud lying in

his room and of the sense of desolation which must have fallen upon

Annette. He strove to direct his thoughts into more cheerful grooves,

but he was not successful.

The gorgeous colours in the heavens melted away; the sun dipped

beneath the horizon; it was night. Fortunately it was light, and he

could see the road he was riding over. The willing animal he bestrode

plodded on, more slowly now, and Basil did not attempt to quicken the

pace. It was ten o'clock when he reached the township of Gum Flat.

He recognised it by the outlines of the tents. He had expected to see

lights in the dwellings, arguing that Gum Flat must have increased in

importance since his last visit, but all was dark on the outskirts. He

was surprised at the darkness, but grateful that his journey was over.

He rode along the High Street, and with still deeper surprise observed

that on some of the stores the canvas lay loose, and that the calico

over the frame was torn and rent. "Can I have mistaken the road?" he

thought. In the middle of the High Street he paused. The door of a

store was thrown suddenly open, and three men, whose movements had

been inspired by the sound of the horse's hoofs, emerged therefrom,

and stood looking up at Basil. Each had cards in his hand, denoting

that when they were disturbed they had been gambling. The picture at

that moment was Rembrandtesque. The street was in darkness; not a

light was visible. One of the men standing at the door held above his

head a lighted candle stuck in a whiskey bottle, and this dim light

enabled the three-gamblers and Basil not exactly to see each other but

to define outlines. Through the open door Basil saw a table upon which

was another candle, and sitting at which was another man, also with

cards in his hand. This man, leaning forward, was striving to pierce

the gloom in which his companions and Basil stood. He rose and joined

them, and going close to Basil, laid his hand upon the horse's neck.

Thus, Basil and he confronted each other. And at that moment was

commenced the weaving of a strand which was to connect the lives of

these two men, for weal or woe.

CHAPTER X.

Each man of this small group represented in his own person the epitome

of a drama more or less stirring and eventful. With three of these we

have little to do, and no good purpose will be served by recounting

their antecedents. The history of the fourth--he who stood with his

hand on the neck of Old Corrie's horse, looking up at Basil--will

presently be unfolded.

He was a full-bearded man, the light brown hair so effectually

concealing his features that only his cheekbones and forehead were

visible. To a physiologist, therefore, the index was imperfect. He was

a young man, of about the same age as Basil, and his name was Newman

Chaytor. This was his true name; it will be as well to say as much,

for there was much that was false about him.

The man who held the candle was known as Jim the Hatter; Jim belonged

properly to him by right, the Hatter was patronymic he had earned by

working on various goldfields alone, without a mate. Why they call men

on the gold-diggings thus inclined, Hatters, is one of the mysteries,

but it is a fact. Of the other two it will be sufficient to refer to

them as Nonentity Number One and Nonentity Number Two. Jim the Hatter

was a large-boned, loose-limbed man, of great strength. Upon his first

arrival in Australia his time, to put it gently, was not his own; it

belonged to his country. He was now free, but his morals had not been

improved by the lesson his country had administered to him.

It will thus be seen that Basil had unfortunately fallen among

thieves.

For a few moments the man on horseback and the men on foot preserved

silence, and opportunity was afforded for a striking picture. Jim the

Hatter was the first to speak.

"Well, mate?" he said.

"Is this the township of Gum Flat?" inquired Basil.

"It is. If you're looking for it, you're dead on the gutter."

"I thought I must have mistaken my way," said Basil. "What has come

over the place?"

Newman Chaytor answered him. "It has gone," he said, "to the dogs."

"Like yourselves," thought Basil, gazing at the men, but deeming it

prudent not to express himself aloud upon a point so personal. He

spoke, however. "It is the place I was making for. I suppose I can put

up here for the night?"

"There's nothing to prevent you. Gum Flat township just now is Liberty

Hall."

"Stop a bit, stop a bit," said Nonentity Number One, considering it

necessary to his dignity that he should take part in the conference.

"Is the gentleman prepared to pay for accommodation?"

"That's a proper question," said Nonentity Number Two, thus asserting

himself.

"Of course he is," said Jim the Hatter, answering for Basil, who, with

an empty purse, was saved from awkwardness.

A diversion occurred here. Newman Chaytor snatched the candle from Jim

the Hatter, in order that he might obtain a clearer view of Basil.

"Manners, mate," said Jim the Hatter.

"Manners be hanged!" retorted Newman Chaytor, holding the candle high.

"They're out of stock."

This was evident. To smooth matters Basil volunteered an explanation.

"I have come hereupon business, but I am afraid I have lost my time."

"Perhaps not," said Jim the Hatter. "We're all business men here;

ready at a moment's notice to turn a honest penny. That's true, ain't

it, mate?"

He addressed Newman Chaytor, but that worthy did not reply. Having

obtained a clearer view of Basil's face, he seemed to be suddenly

struck dumb, and stared at it as though he were fascinated.

"Still," continued Jim the Hatter, "it's as well to be particular in

these times. I'm very choice in the company I keep, and I don't as a

rule do business with strangers, unless," he added, with a grin which

found its reflection on the lips of Nonentities Numbers One and Two,

"they pay their footing first."

"If you wish to know my name," said Basil, "it is Basil Whittingham."

"What!" cried Newman Chaytor, finding his tongue; but the exclamation

of undoubted astonishment appeared to be forced from him instead of

being voluntarily uttered.

"Basil Whittingham," repeated Basil. "Being here, I must stop for the

night. Is there a stable near?"

"There's one at the back," said Newman Chaytor, with sudden alacrity,

"or rather there was one. I'll show you."

"Thank you," said Basil, and followed his guide to the rear of the

shanty.

The three men looked after them with no good will.

"He's a swell," said Nonentity Number One.

"He's got a watch and chain," said Nonentity Number Two.

"And a horse," said Jim the Hatter.

Then they re-entered the store, and settled down to their game of

cards.

"Stop here a moment," said Newman Chaytor to Basil. "I'll get a

light."

Returning with a candle stuck in a bottle, the fashionable form of

candlestick in Gum Flat, he waved it about, sometimes so close to

Basil that it shone upon his features.

"You stare at me," said Basil, "as if you knew me."

"Never saw you before to my knowledge." (A falsehood, but that is a

detail.) "You're not a colonial."

"I am an Englishman, like yourself, I judge."

"Yes, I am English."

"You have the advantage of me--you know my name. May I ask yours?"

"Certainly," said Chaytor, but he spoke, nevertheless, with a certain

hesitation, as if something of importance hung upon it. "My name is

Newman, with Chaytor tacked to it." Then, anxiously, "Have you heard

it before?"

"Never. This is a tumble-down place. It is a courtesy to call it a

stable."

"It will serve, in place of a better."

"Oh, yes, it is better than nothing."

"Everything is tumble-down in Gum Flat. I am an Englishman town-bred.

And you?"

"My people hail from Devonshire."

"I am not dreaming, then," said Chaytor, speaking for the second time

involuntarily.

"Dreaming!" exclaimed Basil.

"I was thinking of another matter," said Chaytor, with readiness.

"Speaking my thoughts aloud is one of my bad tricks."

"One of mine, too," said Basil smiling.

"That is not the only thing in which we're alike."

"No."

"We are about the same age, about the same build, and we are both

gentlemen. Your horse is blown; you have ridden a long distance."

"From Bidaud's plantation."

"I have heard of it. And you come upon business? I may be able to

assist you."

"I shall be glad of assistance," said Basil, recognising in his

companion an obvious superiority to the men they had left. "When I

passed through Gum Flat a few months ago I thought it a township

likely to thrive, and now I find it pretty well deserted."

"It has gone to the dogs, as I told you. There's nothing but grass for

your horse to nibble at. So you're from Devonshire. Do your people

live there still?"

He mixed up the subjects of his remarks in the oddest manner, and cast

furtive glances at Basil with a certain mental preoccupation which

would have forced itself upon Basil's attention had he not been so

occupied with his own special cares.

"There are none left," said Basil. "I am the only one remaining."

"The only one?"

"Well, I have an old uncle, but we are not exactly on amicable terms."

"You are better off than I am. I have no family left." He sighed

pathetically. "I fancy I can lay my hands on a bundle of sweet hay."

"I should feel grateful."

"Don't leave the stable till I come back; I shan't be gone long."

He was absent ten minutes or so and though he went straight about his

errand, he was thinking of something very different. "It is the most

wonderful thing in the world," ran his thoughts--"that I should meet

him here again, in this hole, not changed in the slightest! It can't

be accident; it was predestined, and I should be a self-confessed

idiot if I did not take advantage of it. But how is it to be worked?

His uncle is still alive. What did he say? 'We are not exactly on

amicable terms.' That is because he is proud. I am not. I should be a

better nephew to the old fellow than this upstart. He is very old, in

his second childhood most likely. This is the turning-point of my

life, and I will not throw away the chance. Just as I was at the

bottom of the ladder, too. I'll climb to the top--I will, I will!" He

raised his hand to the skies, as though registering an oath.

"There," he said, throwing down a bundle of hay which the horse

immediately began to munch, "with a bucket of water your mare will do

very well. I'll fetch it."

"You are very kind," said Basil, warming to Newman Chaytor.

"Not at all. _Noblesse oblige_." This was said with a grand air.

Basil held out his hand, and Chaytor pressed it effusively. Then, at

Chaytor's request, Basil spoke of the errand upon which he was

engaged, and being plied skilfully with questions, put his companion

in possession of a great deal he wished to know, not only in relation

to the affairs of Bidaud's plantation, but his own personal history as

well.

"It is curious," said Chaytor, "that we two should have met at such a

time and in such a place. Who knows what may come of it? I am, strange

to say, a bit of a doctor and a bit of a lawyer, and if you will

accept my services I shall be glad to accompany you back to Bidaud's

plantation."

"But why?" asked Basil, touched by the apparently unselfish offer. "I

have no claim upon you."

"Except the claim that one gentleman has upon another--which should

count for something. It always has with me."

"Upon my word I don't know how to thank you."

"Don't try. It is myself I am rendering a service to, not you. This

deserted hole, and the association of those men"--jerking his thumb

over his shoulder in the direction of the tent--"sicken me. Does there

not come to some men a crisis in their lives which compels them to

turn over a new leaf, as the saying is, to cut themselves away

entirely from the past and commence life anew?"

"Yes," said Basil, struck by the application of this figure of speech

to his own circumstances, "it has come to me."

"And to me. I intended to leave Gum Flat to-morrow, and I did not know

in which direction. I felt like Robinson Crusoe on the desert island,

without a friend, without a kindred soul to talk to, to associate

with. If you will allow me to look upon you as a friend you will put

me under a deep obligation. Should the brother of the poor gentleman

who died so suddenly this morning--the father of that sweet young lady

of whom you speak so tenderly--succeed in having things all his own

way, you will be cast adrift, as I am. It is best to look things

straight in the face, is it not?--even unpleasant things."

"It is the most sensible course," said Basil.

"Exactly. The most sensible course--and the most manly. Why should not

you and I throw in our fortunes together? I am sure we should suit

each other."

"I can but thank you," said Basil. "It is worth thinking over."

"All right; there is plenty of time before us. Let us go into the

store now. A word of warning first. The men inside are not to be

trusted. I was thrown into their company against my will, and I felt

that the association was degrading to me. We can't pick and choose in

this part of the world."

"Indeed we cannot. I will not forget your warning. To speak honestly,

I am not in the mood or condition for society. I have had a hard day,

and am dead beat."

"You would like to turn in," said Chaytor. "I can give you a

shakedown, and for supper what remains of a tin of biscuits and a tin

of sardines. There, don't say a word. The luck's on my side. Come

along."

The Nonentities and Jim the Hatter were in the midst of a wrangle when

they entered, and scarcely noticed them. This left Chaytor free to

attend to Basil. He placed before him the biscuits and sardines, and

produced a flask of brandy. Basil was grateful for the refreshment; he

was thoroughly exhausted, and it renewed his strength and revived his

drooping spirits. Then he filled his pipe, and conversed in low tones

with his new friend, while the gamblers continued their game.

"If I stop up much longer," said Basil, when he had had his smoke, "I

shall drop off my seat."

Chaytor rose and preceded him to the further end of the store. The

building, if such a designation may be allowed to an erection composed

of only wood and canvas, had been the most pretentious and imposing in

the palmy days of the township, and although now it was all tattered

and torn, like the man in the nursery rhyme, it could still boast of

half a dozen private compartments in which sleepers could find repose

and solitude. The walls of course were of calico, and for complete

privacy darkness was necessary.

Chaytor and the three gamblers who were bending over their cards in

the dim light of the larger space without, each occupied one of these

sleeping compartments. Two remained vacant, and into one of these

Chaytor led Basil.

There was a stretcher in the room, a piece of strong canvas nailed

upon four pieces of batten driven into the ground. The canvas was

bare; there were no bedclothes.

"I have two blankets," said Chaytor, "I can spare you one."

Basil was too tired to protest. Dressed as he was he threw himself

upon the stretcher, drew the blanket over him, and bidding his

hospitable friend good-night, and thanking him again, was fast asleep

almost as the words passed his lips.

Newman Chaytor stood for a moment or two gazing upon the sleeping man.

"I can't be dreaming," he thought; "he is here before me, and I am

wide awake. I drink to the future." He held no glass, but he went

through the pantomime of drinking out of one.

Taking the lighted candle with him he joined his mates, and left Basil

sleeping calmly in darkness. They were no longer playing cards, but

with heads close together were debating in whispers. Upon Chaytor's

entrance they shifted their positions and ceased talking.

"Have you put your gentleman to bed?" asked Jim the Hatter, in a

sneering tone in which a sinister ring might have been detected.

"Much obliged to you for the inquiry," replied Chaytor, prepared to

fence; "he is sound asleep."

"Interesting child! A case of love at first sight, mates."

Nonentities Numbers One and Two nodded, with dark looks at Chaytor,

who smiled genially at them and commenced to smoke.

"Or," said Jim the Hatter, "perhaps an old acquaintance."

"Take your choice," observed Chaytor, who, in finesse and coolness,

was a match for the three.

"Doesn't it strike you, Newman, that it's taking a liberty with us to

feed and bolster him up, and stand drinks as well, without asking

whether we was agreeable?"

"Not at all. The sardines were mine, the biscuits were mine, the grog

was mine. If you want to quarrel, say so."

"I'm for peace and quietness," said Jim the Hatter, threateningly. "I

was only expressing my opinion."

"And I mine. Look here, mates, I don't want to behave shabbily, so

I'll tell you what is in my mind."

"Ah, do," said Jim the Hatter, with a secret sign to the Nonentities

which Chaytor did not see; "then we shall know where we are."

"I'll tell you where we are, literally, mates. We're in a

heaven-forsaken township, running fast to bone, which leads to

skeleton. Now I'm not prepared for that positive eventuality just yet.

This world is good enough for me at present, and I mean to do my best

to enjoy it."

"Can't you enjoy it in our company?" asked Jim the Hatter.

"I think not," said Chaytor, with cool insolence. "The best of friends

must part."

"Oh, that's your little game, is it?"

"That is my little game. I am growing grey. If I don't look out I

shall be white before I am thirty. Really I think it must be the

effect of the company I have kept."

"We're not good enough for you, I suppose?"

"If you ask for my deliberate opinion I answer, most distinctly not.

No, mates, not by a long way good enough."

"Don't be stuck up, mate. Better men than you have had to eat humble

pie."

"Any sort of pie," said Chaytor, philosophically, "is better than no

pie at all. Take my advice. Bid good-bye to Gum Flat, gigantic fraud

that it is, and go in search of big nuggets. That is what I am going

to do."

"With your gentleman friend?"

"With my gentleman friend. We may as well part civilly, but if you

choose the other thing I am agreeable." The three men rose with the

intention of retiring. They did not respond to his invitation to part

friends. "Well, good-night, and good luck to you." They nodded surlily

and entered their sleeping apartments, after exchanging a few words

quietly between themselves.

Newman Chaytor helped himself to brandy from his flask then filled his

pipe, and began to smoke.

That he had something serious to think of was evident, and that he was

puzzled what use to make of it was quite as clear. An enterprise was

before him, and he was disposed to pledge himself to it; but he was in

the dark as to what end it would lead him. In the dark, also, how it

could be so conducted as to result in profit to himself. He was in

desperately low water, and had lost confidence in himself. His ship

was drifting anchorless on a waste of waters; suddenly an anchor had

presented itself, which, while it would afford him peace and safety

for a time, might show him a way to a golden harbour. An ugly smile

wreathed his lips, the sinister aspect of which was hidden by his

abundant hair: but it was there, and remained for many musing moments.

He took from his pocket a common memorandum book, and on a few blank

pages he wrote the names, Newman Chaytor and Basil Whittingham,

several times and in several different styles of handwriting. Then he

wrote upon one, in the form of a check, "Pay to Newman Chaytor, Esq.,

the sum of forty thousand pounds. Basil Whittingham." He contemplated

this valueless draft for a long time before destroying it at the

candle's light, as he destroyed the other sheets of paper upon which

he had written the signatures.

"All the pleasures of existence," he mused, "all the light, everything

in the world worth having, are on the other side of the water. Was I

born to grind out my days in a prison like this? No, and I will not.

Here is the chance of escape"--he turned his head to the room in which

Basil was sleeping--"with possibilities which may give me all I

desire. It would be flying in the face of Providence to neglect it.

The first law of nature is Self. I should be a born fool not to obey

the first law of nature."

In these reflections he passed an hour, when he determined to go to

bed.

All was still. He stepped on tip toe to each of the four compartments

occupied by Basil, Jim the Hatter, and the Nonentities, and listened

at the doors to assure himself that he was the only wakeful person in

the store. Deeming himself safe he entered his own room, and taking a

small round mirror in a zinc frame from the top of a packing case

which served as washstand and dressing-table, gazed at his face with

strange intentness. Putting the hand mirror down he cast wary looks

around. Yes, he was alone; there were no witnesses. Then he did a

curious thing. He took off his beard and whiskers.

In the room on his right lay Basil asleep; in the room on his left was

Jim the Hatter, whom he supposed to be. But in this he reckoned

without his host, as many another sharp rogue has done in his time.

Jim the Hatter, despite his deep breathing, which had deceived Newman

Chaytor, was wide awake. The moment Chaytor entered his room Jim the

Hatter had slipped noiselessly from his stretcher, and his face was

now glued to the wall of calico through which the light of Chaytor's

candle was shining. There was a small slit in the calico, which

enabled Jim the Hatter to see what was passing in Chaytor's room.

Chaytor's back, however, was towards the wall through which he was

peeping. The watcher was puzzled; he could not exactly discover what

it was Chaytor had done.

Upon Chaytor's face, now beardless and whiskerless, there was a

natural growth of hair in the shape of a moustache. This moustache was

the precise colour of that which Basil grew and cherished. It was not

so long, but a few week's growth would make the resemblance perfect,

if such was Chaytor's wish. In other respects the resemblance between

him and Basil was remarkable. Height, figure, complexion--even the

colour of the eyes--all tallied.

In his anxiety to discover exactly what was going on, Jim the Hatter

made a slight movement, which was heard by Chaytor. He turned

suddenly, and the astonished watcher beheld the counterpart of Basil.

"By Jove!" he said inly; "twins!"

Then, warned by Chaytor's attitude that he was in danger of himself

being discovered, he slipped between his blankets as noiselessly as he

had slipped out of them. Waiting only to resume his disguise of beard

and whiskers, Chaytor, candle in hand, went quietly and swiftly into

the adjoining room and looked down upon the recumbent form of Jim the

Hatter. Undoubtedly asleep, and sleeping like a top. Chaytor passed

the candle across the man's face, who never so much as winked. Assured

that there was no cause for alarm, Chaytor stepped back to his own

recess, put out the light, and went to bed.

CHAPTER XI.

Leaving this schemer to his ill-earned repose, we strip the veil from

his past and lay it bare.

Nature plays tricks, but seldom played a stranger than that of casting

Newman Chaytor physically in the same mould as Basil. Born in

different counties, with no tie of kinship between their families,

their likeness to each other was so marvellous that any man seeing

them for the first time side by side, without some such disguise as

Chaytor wore on Gum Flat, and the second time apart, would have been

puzzled to know which was which. But not less strange than this

physical likeness was the contrast between their moral natures. One

was the soul of guilelessness and honour, the other the soul of

cunning and baseness. One walked the straight paths of life, the other

chose the crooked.

Chaytor was born in London, and his parents occupied a respectable

position. They gave him a good education, and did all they could to

furnish him worthily for the battle of life. The affection they

displayed was ill-requited. In his mother's eyes he was perfection,

but his father's mind was often disturbed when he thought of the lad's

future. Perhaps in his own nature there was a moral twist which caused

him to doubt; perhaps his own youth was distinguished by the vices he

detected in his son. However that may be, he took no blame to himself,

preferring rather to skim the surface than to seek discomfort in

psychological depths.

The parents discussed their son's future.

"We will make a doctor of him," said the father.

"He will be a great physician," said the mother.

At this time Chaytor was eighteen years of age. At twenty it was

decided that he was in the wrong groove; at least, that was the

statement of the doctor who had undertaken his professional education.

It was not an entirely ingenuous statement; the master was eager to

get rid of his pupil, whose sharp practices distressed him.

"What would you like to be?" asked his father.

"A lawyer," replied Chaytor.

"He will be Lord Chancellor," said his mother.

Thereupon Newman Chaytor was articled to a firm of lawyers in Bedford

Row, London, W.C., an old and respectable firm, Messrs. Rivington,

Sons, and Rivington, who kept its exceedingly lucrative business in

the hands of its own family. It happened, fatefully, that this firm of

lawyers transacted the affairs of Bartholomew Whittingham, Basil's

uncle, with whom our readers have already made acquaintance.

In the course of two or three years Chaytor's character was fully

developed. He was still the idol of his mother, whose heart was plated

with so thick a shield of unreasoning love that nothing to her son's

disparagement could make an impression upon it. Only there were doors

in this shield which she opened at the least sign from the reprobate,

sheltering him there and cooing over him as none but such hearts can.

Her husband had the sincerest affection for her, and here was another

safeguard for Chaytor.

The surroundings of life in a great and gay city are dangerous and

tempting even to the innocent. How much more dangerous and tempting

are they to those who by teaching or inclination are ripe for vice? It

is not our intention to follow Chaytor through these devious paths; we

shall simply touch lightly upon those circumstances of his career

which are pertinent to our story. If for a brief space we are

compelled to treat of some of the darker shadows of human nature, it

must be set down to the undoubted fact that life is not made up

entirely of sweetness and light.

Chaytor's father, looking through his bank-book, discovered that he

had a balance to his credit less by a hundred pounds than he knew was

correct. He examined his returned cheques and found one with his

signature for the exact amount, a signature written by another hand

than his. He informed his wife, pending his decision as to what steps

to take to bring the guilt home. His wife informed her son.

"Ah," said he, "I have my suspicions." And he mentioned the name of a

clerk in his father's employ.

The ball being set rolling, the elder Chaytor began to watch the

suspected man, setting traps for him, across which the innocent man

stepped in safety. Mr. Chaytor was puzzled; he had, by his wife's

advice, kept the affair entirely secret, who in her turn had been

prompted by her son to this course, and warned not to drag his name

into it. The father, therefore was not aware that the accusation

against the clerk proceeded from his son.

Chaytor had a design in view: he wished to gain time to avoid possible

unpleasant consequences.

Some three weeks afterwards, when Mr. Chaytor had resolved to take the

forged cheque to the bank with the intention of enlisting its services

in the discovery of the criminal, he went to his desk to obtain the

document. It was gone, and other papers with it. He was confounded;

without the cheque he could do nothing.

"Have I a thief in my house," he asked of himself, "as well as a

forger at my elbow."

The man he had suspected was in the habit of coming to his private

house once a week for clerking purposes. Without considering what he

was laying himself open to, he accused his clerk of robbing him, and

the result was that the man left his service and brought an action for

slander against him, which he was compelled to compromise by an

apology and the payment of a sum of money.

"It is father's own fault," said Chaytor to his mother; "had he waited

and watched, he would have brought the guilt home to the fellow. But

don't say anything more to him about it; let the matter rest."

It did rest, but Mr. Chaytor did not forget it.

Being in pursuit of pleasure Chaytor found himself in continual need

of money, and he raised and procured it in many discreditable ways,

but still he managed to keep his secret. Then came another crime. Some

valuable jewels belonging to his mother were stolen. By whom?

"By one of the female servants, of course," said Chaytor.

He was not only without conscience, he was without heart.

Mr. Chaytor proposed to call in a detective. Mrs. Chaytor, acting upon

the secret advice of her son, would not hear of it. The father had,

therefore, two forces working against him, his wife, whom he could

answer, because she was in the light, and his son, with whom he could

not cope, because he was in the dark.

"It would be a dreadful scandal," said young Chaytor to his mother.

"If nothing is discovered--and thieves are very cunning, you know--we

shall be in worse trouble than father got into with the clerk who

forged his name to the cheque. We should be the laughing-stock of

everyone who knows us, and should hardly be able to raise our heads."

His word was law to her; he could twist her round his little finger,

he often laughingly said to himself; and as she, in her turn,

dominated her husband, the deceits he practised were not too difficult

for him to safely compass. Every domestic in the house was discharged,

and a new set engaged. When they sent for characters no answer was

returned. Thus early in life young Chaytor was fruitful in mischief,

but he cared not what occurred to others so long as he rode in safety.

One day an old gentleman paid a visit to Messrs. Rivington, Sons, and

Rivington. This was Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham, Basil's uncle. He had

come upon the business of his will, the particulars of which he had

written down upon paper. He was not in the office longer than ten

minutes, and he left at half-past one o'clock, the time at which

Chaytor was in the habit of going to lunch. Following the old

gentleman Chaytor saw him step into a cab, in which a young gentleman

had been waiting. The young gentleman was Basil, and Chaytor was

startled at the resemblance of this man to himself. Relinquishing his

lunch, Chaytor jumped into a cab, and bade the driver follow Basil and

his uncle. They stopped at Morley's Hotel, Charing Cross, and Chaytor

had another opportunity of verifying the likeness between himself and

Basil. It interested him and excited him. He had not the least idea

what he could gain by it, but the fact took possession of his mind and

he could not dislodge it. He ascertained the names of Basil and his

uncle by looking over the hotel book, and when he returned to the

office in Bedford Row the task was allotted to him of preparing the

rough draft of the will. Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham was very rich,

and every shilling he possessed was devised to Basil, without

restrictions of any kind.

"The old fellow must be worth forty thousand pounds," mused Chaytor,

and he rolled out the sum again and again. "For-ty thou-sand pounds!

For-ty thou-sand pounds! For-ty thousand pounds! And every shilling is

left to Mr. Basil Whittingham, my double. Yes, my Double! My own

mother would mistake him for me, and his doddering old uncle would

mistake me for him. What wouldn't I give to change places with him!

For-ty thou-sand pounds! For-ty thou-sand pounds! It's maddening to

think of. He has a moustache; I haven't. But I can grow one exactly

like. His hair is the colour of mine. I'll keep my eye on him."

It was an egregiously wicked idea, for by the wildest stretch of his

imagination he could not see how this startling likeness could be

worked to his advantage. Nevertheless he was fascinated by it, and he

set himself the task of seeing as much of Basil as possible. During

the week that Basil was living at Morley's Hotel, Chaytor in his spare

hours shadowed him, without being detected. Basil never once set eyes

on him, and as the young gentleman never entered the office of Messrs.

Rivington, Sons, and Rivington, no one there had opportunity to note

the resemblance between the men.

Chaytor for a week was in his element; he ascertained from the hall

porter in the hotel the places of amusement which Basil visited of an

evening, and he followed him to them; he waited outside the hotel to

catch glimpses of him; he studied every feature, every expression,

every movement attentively, until he declared to himself that he knew

him by heart. He began to let his moustache grow, and he practised

little tricks of manners which he had observed. He was like a man

possessed.

"He is a gentleman," he said. "So am I. I am as good looking as he is

any day of the week. Why shouldn't I be, being his Double?

"He pondered over it, he dreamt of it, he worked himself almost into a

fever concerning it. Distorted possibilities presented themselves, and

monstrous views. The phantom image of Basil entered into his life,

directed his thoughts, coloured his future. He walked along the

streets with this spectral Double by his side; he leant over the

river's bridges and saw it reflected in the water; he felt its

presence when he woke up in the dark night. One night during this

feverish week, after being in the theatre which Basil visited, after

sitting in the shadow of the pit and watching him for hours in a

private box, after following him to Morley's Hotel and lingering so

long in Trafalgar Square that he drew the attention of a policeman to

his movements, he walked slowly homeward, twisting this and that

possibility with an infatuation dangerous to his reason, until he came

quite suddenly upon a house on fire. So engrossed was he that he had

not noticed the hurrying people or their cries, and it was only when

the blazing flames were before him that he was conscious of what was

actually taking place. And there on the burning roof as he looked up

he beheld the phantom Basil on fire. With glaring eyes he saw it with

the flames devouring it, dwindling in proportions until its luminous

outlines faded into nothingness, until it was gone out of the living

world for ever. A deep sigh of satisfaction escaped him.

"Now he is gone," he thought, "I will take his place. His uncle is an

old man; I can easily deceive him; and perhaps even _he_ will die

before morning."

In the midst of this ecstatic delirium a phantom hand was laid upon

his shoulder, a phantom face, with a mocking smile upon it, confronted

him. He struck at it with a muttered curse. It came to rob him of

forty thousand pounds.

Had this mental condition lasted long he must have gone mad. The

reason for this would have been that he had nothing to grapple with,

nothing to fight, nothing but a shadow, which he had magnified into a

mortal enemy who had done him a wrong which could only be atoned for

by death. It was fortunate for him, although he deserved no good

fortune, that Basil's residence at Morley's lasted but a week, and

that he and his double did not meet again in the Old World; for

although Basil passed much of his time in his father's house in London

he lived at a long distance from Chaytor's usual haunts, and the young

men's lives did not cross. Gradually Chaytor's reason reasserted

itself, and he became sane. Grimly, desperately sane, with still the

leading idea haunting him, it is true, but no longer attended by

monstrous conceptions of what might occur in a day, in an hour, in a

moment, and he on the spot ready to take advantage of it.

Shortly after Basil's departure he asked his mother if she ever had

twins.

"What on earth do you mean, my dear?" she asked, laughing at him.

"It is plain enough," he answered incautiously. "I dream sometimes of

a brother the exact counterpart of myself."

"You work too hard," said his mother, pityingly. "You must take a

holiday, my darling."

"Who's to pay for it?" he asked gloomily.

"I am," she said fondly. "I have saved fifty pounds for you."

"Give it to me," he said eagerly, and with the money he went to Paris

for a fortnight and squandered it on himself and his pleasures.

The foolish mother was continually doing this kind of thing, saving up

money, wheedling her husband out of it upon false pretexts, stinting

herself and making sacrifices for the worthless, ungrateful idol of

her loving heart. So time passed, and Chaytor was still in the office

of Rivington, Sons, and Rivington, picking up no sound knowledge of

the law, but extracting from it for future use all the sharp and

cunning subtleties of which some vile men make bad use. To the firm

came a letter from Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham, with the tenor of

which Chaytor made himself familiar. He was a spy in the office, and

never scrupled at opening letters and reading them on the sly to

master their contents. In the letter which Basil's uncle wrote

occurred these words:

"Send me in a registered packet, by first post, my will, the will I

made in favour of my nephew, Mr. Basil Whittingham. He has acted like

a fool, and I am going to destroy it and disinherit him. At some

future time I will give you instructions to draw up another, making

different dispositions of my property. I am not a young man, but I

shall live a good many years yet, and there is plenty of time before

me. Meanwhile bear witness by this letter that I have disinherited my

nephew Basil Whittingham."

Of course they followed his instructions, and the will was forwarded

to him.

"He has stolen forty thousand pounds from me," thought Chaytor.

Within a week thereafter he overheard a conversation between two of

the principals. He was never above listening at doors and creeping up

back staircases. The lawyers were speaking of Bartholomew Whittingham

and the will.

"Will he destroy it?" asked one.

"I think not," replied the other. "It is my opinion he will keep it by

him, half intending to destroy it, half to preserve it, and that it

will be found intact and unaltered when he dies."

"I do not agree with you. He will destroy it one day in a rage, and

make another the next."

"In favour of whom?"

"Of his nephew. He has in his heart an absorbing love for the young

gentleman, and he is a good fellow at bottom. Mr. Basil Whittingham

will come into the whole of the property."

The conversation was continued on these lines, and the partners

ultimately agreed that after all Basil would be the heir. "There is a

chance yet," thought Chaytor, for although the dangerous period of

ecstasy was passed there still lingered in his mind a hope of

fortunate possibilities.

He continued his evil courses, gambled, drank, and led a free life,

getting deeper and deeper into debt. His mother assisted him out of

many a scrape, and never for one single moment wavered in her faith in

him, in her love for him. It was a sweet trait in her character, but

love without wisdom is frequently productive of more harm than good.

Chaytor's position grew so desperate that detection and its attendant

disgraceful penalty became imminent. He had made himself a proficient

and skilful imitator of handwriting, and more than once had he forged

his father's name to cheques and bills. The father was aware of this,

but out of tenderness for his wife had done nothing more than upbraid

his son for the infamy. Many a stormy scene had passed between them,

which both carefully concealed from the knowledge of the fond woman

whose heart would have been broken had she known the truth. On every

one of these occasions Chaytor had humbled himself and promised

atonement, with tears and sighs and mock repentance which saddened but

did not convince the father.

"For your mother's sake," invariably he said.

"Yes, yes," murmured the hypocrite, "for my dear mother's sake--my

mother, so good, so loving, so tender-hearted!"

"Let this be the last time," said the father sternly.

"It shall be, it shall be!" murmured the son.

It was a formula. The father may sometimes have deceived himself into

belief; the son, never. Even while he was humbling himself he would be

casting about for the next throw.

This continued for some considerable time, but at length came the

crash. Chaytor and his parents were seated at breakfast at nine

o'clock. The father had the morning letters in his pocket; he had read

them and put them by. He cast but one glance at his son, and Chaytor

turned pale and winced. He saw that the storm was about to burst. As

usual, nothing was said before Mrs. Chaytor. The meal was over, she

kissed her son, and left the room to attend to her domestic affairs.

"I must be off," said Chaytor. "Mustn't be late this morning. A lot to

attend to at the office."

"You need not hurry," said the father. "I have something to say to

you."

"Won't it keep till the evening?"

"No. It must be said here and now." He stepped to the door and locked

it. "We will spare her as long as possible; she will know soon

enough."

"Oh, all right," said Chaytor sullenly. "Fire away."

The father took out his letters, and, selecting one, handed it to his

son who read it, shivered, and returned it.

"What have you to say to it?" asked the father.

"Nothing. It is only for three hundred pounds."

"A bill, due to-day, which I did not sign."

"It was done for all our sakes, to save the honour of the family name.

I was in a hole and there was no other way of getting out of it."

"The bill must be taken up before twelve o'clock."

"Will it be?"

"It will, for your mother's sake."

"Then there is nothing more to be said. I am very sorry, but it could

not be helped. I promise that it shall never occur again. I'll take my

oath of it if you like."

"I take neither your word nor your oath. You are a scoundrel."

"Here, draw it mild. I am your son."

"Unhappily. If your mother were not living you should be shown into

the dock for the forgery."

"But she is alive. I shall not appear in the dock, and you may as well

let me go. Look here, father, what's the use of crying over spilt

milk?"

"Not much; and as I look upon you as hopeless, I would go on paying

for it while your mother lived. If she were taken from me I should

leave you to the punishment you deserve, and risk my name being

dragged through the mire."

"I hope," said Chaytor, with vile sanctimoniousness, "that my dear

mother will live till she is a hundred."

"There is, I must remind you, another side to the shield. I said 'as

long as I can afford it.'"

"Well, you can afford it."

"I cannot," said Mr. Chaytor, with a sour smile. "My career snaps

to-day, after paying this forged bill with money that properly belongs

to my creditors. Newman Chaytor, you have come to the end of your

tether."

"You are saying this to frighten me," said Chaytor, affecting an

indifference he did not feel. "Why, you are rolling in money."

"You are mistaken. Speculations into which I have entered have failed

disastrously. If you had not robbed me to the tune of thousands of

pounds--the sum total of your villainies amounts to that--I might have

weathered the storm, but as I am situated it is impossible. It is

almost a triumph to me to stand here before you a ruined man, knowing

you can no longer rob me."

"Still I do not believe you," said Chaytor.

"Wait and see; you will not have to wait long."

The tone in which he uttered this carried conviction with it.

"Do you know what you have done?" cried Chaytor furiously. "You have

ruined _me!_"

"What!" responded Mr. Chaytor, with savage sarcasm. "Is there any more

of this kind of paper floating about?" Chaytor bit his lips, and his

fingers twitched nervously, but he did not reply. "If there is be

advised, and prepare for it. In the list of my liabilities, which is

now being prepared, there will be no place for them. How should there

be, when I am in ignorance of your prospective villainies. Do you see

now to what you have brought me?"

"Do _you_ see to what you have brought _me?_" exclaimed Chaytor in

despair. "Why did you not tell me of it months ago?"

"Because I hoped by other speculations to set myself straight. But

everything has gone wrong--everything. Understand, I cannot trouble

myself about your affairs; I have enough to do with my own. I have one

satisfaction; your mother will not suffer."

"How is that?"

"The settlement I made upon her in the days of my prosperity is hers

absolutely, and only she can deal with it. In the settlement of my

business there shall be no sentimental folly; I will see to that. Her

money shall not go to pay my debts.

"But it shall go," thought Chaytor, with secret joy, "to get me out of

the scrape I am in. It belongs to me by right. _I_ will see that

neither you nor your creditors tamper with it." He breathed more

freely; he could still defy the world.

"I have not told you quite all," continued Mr. Chaytor. "Here is a

letter from Messrs. Rivington, Sons, and Rivington, advising me that

it will be better for all parties that you do not make your appearance

in their office. Indeed, the place you occupied there is already

filled up."

"Do they give any reason for it?" asked Chaytor, inwardly not greatly

astonished at his dismissal.

"None; nor shall I ask any questions of them or you. You know how the

land lies. Good morning."

He unlocked the door, and left the house. This was just what Chaytor

desired. His vicious mind was quick in expedients; his mother was his

shield and his anchor. Her settlement would serve for many a long day

yet. To her he went, and related his troubles in his own way. She gave

him, as usual, her fullest sympathy, and promised all he asked.

"Between ourselves, mother," he said.

"Yes, my darling, between ourselves."

"Father must not know. He was always hard on me. He thinks he can

manage everybody's affairs, but he cannot manage his own." Then he

disclosed to her his father's difficulties. "If he had allowed me to

manage for him it would not have happened. Trust everything to me,

mother, and this day year I will treble your little fortune for you.

Let me have a chance for once. When I have made all our fortunes you

shall go to him and say, 'See what Newman has done for us.'"

"It shall be exactly as you say, darling. You are the best, the

handsomest, the cleverest son a foolish mother ever had."

Kisses and caresses sealed the bargain. Within twenty-four hours he

knew that everything his father had told him was true. The family were

ruined, and but for Mrs. Chaytor's private fortune would have been

utterly beggared. They moved into a smaller house and practised

economy. Little by little Chaytor received and squandered every

shilling his mother possessed, and before the year was out the sun

rose upon a ship beating on the rocks.

"Are you satisfied?" asked his father, from whom Chaytor's doings

could no longer be concealed.

"Satisfied!" cried Chaytor, trembling in every limb. "When your insane

speculations have ruined us!"

Then he fell into a chair and began to sob. He had the best of reasons

for tribulation. With his mind's eye he saw the prison doors open to

receive him. It was not shame that made him suffer; it was fear.

Again, and for the last time, he went to his mother for help.

"What can I do, my boy?" quavered the poor woman. "What can I do? I

haven't a shilling in the world."

He implored her to go to his father. "He can save me," cried the

terror-stricken wretch. "He can, he can!"

She obeyed him and the father sent for his son.

"Tell me all," he said. "Conceal nothing, or, as there is a heaven

above us, I leave you to your fate."

The shameful story told, the father said, "Things were looking up with

me, but here is another knock-down blow, and from my own flesh and

blood. I accept it, and will submit once more to be ruined by you."

"Bless you, father, bless you," whined Chaytor, taking his father's

hand and attempting to fondle it. Mr. Chaytor plucked his hand away.

"There is, however, a condition attached to the promise."

"What condition?" faltered Chaytor.

"That you leave England and never return. Do you hear me? Never. You

will go to the other end of the world, where you will end your days.

"To Australia?"

"To Australia. When you quit this country I wish never to hear from

you; I shall regard you as dead. You shall no longer trade upon your

mother's weak love for you. I will not argue with you. Accept or

refuse."

"I accept."

"Very well. Go from this house and never let me look upon your face

again."

"Can I not see my mother?" whined Chaytor, "to wish her good-bye?"

"No. You want to hatch further troubles. You shall not do so. Quit my

house."

With head bent low in mock humility, Chaytor left the house. He had no

sincere wish to see his mother; he had got out of her all he could,

and she was of no use to him in the future. The promise his father

made was fulfilled; the fresh forgeries he had perpetrated were bought

up, but one still remained of which he had made no mention. This was a

bill for a large amount which he had accepted in the name of

Rivington, Sons and Rivington. It had still two months to run, and

Chaytor determined to remain in England till within a week or two of

its becoming due; something might turn up which would enable him to

meet it. He loved the excitement of English life; Australia was

banishment; but perhaps after all, if he were forced to go it might be

the making of him. He had read of rough men making fortunes in a week

on the goldfields. Why should not he?

The last blow proved too much for Mr. Chaytor; it broke him up

utterly. He was seized with a serious illness which reduced him to

imbecility. The home had to be sold, and he and his wife removed to

lodgings, one small room at the top of a house in a poor

neighbourhood. There poverty fell upon them like a wolf. Five weeks

afterwards Chaytor, slouching through the streets on a rainy night,

saw his mother begging in the roadway. The poor soul stood mute, with

a box of matches in her hand. Chaytor turned and fled.

"I am the unluckiest dog that ever was born," he muttered. "Just as I

was going to see if I could get anything out of her!"

It was now imperative that he should leave England, and he managed to

get a passage in a sailing vessel as assistant steward at a shilling a

month. He obtained it by means of forged letters of recommendation,

and he went out in a false name. This he would have retained had it

not been that shortly after his arrival in Australia he met a man who

had known him in London, and who addressed him by his proper name. It

was not the only inconvenience to which an alias subjected him. There

was only one address in the colonies through which he could obtain his

letters, and that was the Post Office. Obviously, if he called himself

John Smith he could not expect letters to be delivered to him in the

name of Newman Chaytor. Now, he was eager for letters from the old

country; before he left it he had written to his mother to the effect

that he was driven out of it by a hard-hearted father, and that if she

had any good news to communicate to him he would be glad to hear from

her. At the same time he imposed upon her the obligation of not

letting anyone know where he was. Therefore, when his London

acquaintance addressed him by his proper name, saying, "Hallo,

Chaytor, old boy!" he said to himself, "Oh hang it! I'll stick to

Newman Chaytor, and chance it. If mother writes to me I shall have to

proclaim myself Chaytor; an alias might get me into all sorts of

trouble."

Why did he write to his poor mother, for whom he had not the least

affection, and what did he mean by expecting her to have any good news

to communicate to him? The last time he saw her, was she not begging

in the streets? Well, there was a clear reason; he seldom did anything

without one; and be sure that the kernel of that reason was Self. His

father, from the wreck of his fortune, had managed to preserve a

number of shares in some companies which had failed, among them two

mining companies which had come to grief. Now, it had happened before

and might happen again, that companies which were valueless one day

had leaped into favour the next, that shares which yesterday could

have been purchased for a song, to-morrow would be worth thousands of

pounds. Suppose that this happened to the companies, or to one of

them, in which his pauper father held shares. He was his father's only

child, and his mother would see that he was not disinherited. Chaytor

was a man who never threw away a chance, and he would not throw away

this, remote as it was. Hence his determination to adhere at all

hazards to his proper name. The perilous excitements of the last two

or three years had driven Basil Whittingham out of his mind, but

having more leisure and less to occupy his thoughts in the colonies,

he thought of him now and then, and wondered whether the old uncle had

relented and had taken his nephew again into his favour. "Lucky young

beggar," he thought. "I wish I stood in his shoes, and he in mine. I

would soon work the old codger into a proper mood." His colonial

career was neither profitable nor creditable, and he had degenerated

into what he was when he and Basil came face to face in Gum Flat, an

unadulterated gambler and loafer. The strange encounter awoke within

him forces which had long lain dormant. He recognised a possible

chance which might be worked to his benefit, and he fastened to it

like a limpet. When he said to Basil that he was in luck be really

meant it.

A word as to his false beard and whiskers. In London he had had a

behind-the-scenes acquaintance, and in a private theatrical

performance in which he played a part he had worn these identical

appendages as an adjunct to the character he represented. He had

brought them out with him, thinking they might be serviceable one day.

Before he came to Gum Flat he had got into a scrape on another

township, and when he left it, had assumed the false hair as a kind of

disguise. Making his appearance on Gum Flat thus disguised, he deemed

it prudent to retain it, and when he came into association with Basil

he thanked his stars that he had done so; otherwise he might have

drawn upon himself from the man he called his double a closer

attention than he desired.

CHAPTER XII.

In the middle of the night Basil awoke. He had had a tiring day, but

when he had slept off the first effects of the fatigue he had

undergone, the exciting events of the last two days became again the

dominant power. He dreamt of all that had occurred from the interview

between himself and Anthony Bidaud, in which he had accepted the

guardianship of Annette, to the moment of his arrival on Gum Flat. Of

Newman Chaytor he dreamt not at all; this new acquaintance had

produced no abiding impression upon him.

He lay awake for some five minutes or so in that condition of

quiescent wonder which often falls upon men when they are sleeping for

the first time in a strange bed and in a place with which they are not

familiar. Where was he? What was the position of the bed? Where was

the door situated: at the foot, or the head, or the side of the bed?

Was there a window in the apartment, and if so, where was it? Then

came the mental question what had aroused him?

It was so unusual for him to wake in the middle of the night that he

dwelt upon this question. Something must have disturbed him. What?

Was it fancy that just at the moment of his awakening he had heard a

movement in the room, that he had felt a hand upon him, that he had

heard a man's breathing? It must have been, all was so quiet and

still. Suddenly he sat straight up on the stretcher. He remembered

that he was in the township of Gum Flat, sleeping in a strange

apartment, and that men with whom he had not been favourably impressed

must be lying near him. This did not apply to Newman Chaytor, who had

been kind and attentive, and whom he now thought of with gratitude.

There was nothing to fear from him, but the other three had gazed at

him furtively and with no friendly feelings. He had exchanged but a

few words with these men, and those had been words of suspicion. When

he entered the store, after attending to his horse, they had not

addressed a word to him. It was Chaytor, and Chaytor alone, who had

shown kindness and evinced a kindly feeling. And now he was certain

that someone had been in the room while he slept, and had laid hands

on him. For what purpose?

He slid from the stretcher, and standing upright stretched out his

hands in the darkness. Where was the door?

Outside the canvas building stood Chaytor's three mates, wide awake,

with their heads close together, as they had been inside on the return

of Basil and Chaytor from the stable. They were conversing in

whispers.

"Did he hear you?"

"No. If he had moved I would have knocked him on the head."

"Have you got it?"

"Yes, it is all right."

"Pass it round."

"No; I will keep it till it's sold; then we'll divide equally."

"What do you think it's worth?"

"Twenty pounds, I should say."

"Little enough."

"Hush!"

The sound of Basil moving about his room, groping for the door, had

reached them.

"If he comes out, Jim, you tackle him."

"Leave him to me. Don't waste any more time. Get the horse from the

stable."

Basil, unable to find the door, stumbled against the calico portion

which divided his room from that in which Chaytor slept.

"Who's there?" cried Chaytor, jumping up.

"Oh, it's you," said Basil, recognising the voice. "Have you got a

light?"

"Wait a moment."

But half dressed he represented himself to Basil, with a lighted

candle in his hand.

"What's up?" he asked.

"I don't know," replied Basil, "but I am not easy in my mind. Perhaps

it is only my fancy, but I have an idea that someone has been in my

room."

"Let us see." They proceeded to the three compartments which should

have been occupied by the three men. They were empty.

"It was not fancy," said Basil. "What mischief are they up to? Come

along; we will go and see."

Chaytor hesitated. He was not gifted with heroic qualities, and he

knew that his three mates were desperate characters.

"Did you have any money about you?" he asked.

"None. Why, where's my watch?" It was gone. There was a hurried

movement without; he heard the sound of a horse's feet. "They are

stealing Corrie's horse," he cried, "after robbing me of my watch!

Stand by me, will you?"

He rushed out, followed, but not too quickly, by Chaytor. The moment

he reached the open a pair of arms was thrown around him, and he was

grappling with an enemy. In unfamiliar ground, enveloped in darkness,

and attacked by an unseen enemy, he was at a disadvantage, and it

would have fared ill with him had he not been strong and

stout-hearted. Jim the Hatter, who had undertaken to tackle him soon

discovered that the man they were robbing was not easily disposed of.

Down they fell the pair of them, twisting and turning, each striving

to obtain the advantage, Basil silent and resolved, Jim the Hatter

giving tongue to many an execration. In the midst of the struggle the

ruffian heard his mates, the Nonentities, moving off with Basil's

horse. His experience had taught him that "honour among thieves" was a

fallacious proverb; anyway, he had never practised it himself, and he

trusted no men. With a powerful effort he threw Basil from him and ran

after his comrades. During the encounter Chaytor had kept at a safe

distance, but now that there was a lull he came close to Basil.

"They have half throttled me," he gasped, tearing open his shirt and

blowing like a grampus. "Are you hurt?"

"No," said Basil. "We may catch them yet."

And he began to run, but the ruffians had got the start of him, and

knew the lay of the ground. Guided by his ear he stumbled on, across

the plains, through a gully riddled with holes, and finally up a steep

range, followed by Chaytor, panting and blowing. He had many a fall,

and so had Chaytor (who thought it well to follow suit, and cried out

from time to time, "O, O, O!"), and thus the flight and the pursuit

continued, the sounds from the flying men and Old Corrie's horse

growing fainter and fainter, until matters came to a sudden

termination.

Half-way up the range, which was veined with quartz, a shaft had been

sunk and abandoned. The miners who had done the work had followed a

gold-bearing spur some fifty feet down, in the hope of coming upon a

golden reef. But the spur grew thinner and thinner, the traces of gold

disappeared, and they lost heart. Disappointed in their expectations,

and out of patience with their profitless labour, they shouldered

their windlass and started off to fresh pastures. Thus the mouth of

the shaft was left open and unprotected, and into it Basil dropped,

and felt himself slipping down with perilous celerity.

It was fortunate that the shaft was not exactly perpendicular, After

following the spur down for twenty feet the miners had found that it

took an eccentric turn which necessitated the running in of an adit.

This passage was about two yards long, when the spur dipped again, and

the shaft was continued sheer into the bowels of the earth. It was

this adit which saved Basil's life. When he had slipped down the

twenty feet he felt bottom, and there he lay, bruised, but not

dangerously hurt.

He cried out for help at the top of his voice, and his cries were

presently answered.

"Below there!" cried Chaytor, lying flat on the ground above, with his

ear at the mouth of the shaft.

"Is that you, Mr. Chaytor?" cried Basil.

Chaytor (aside): "He remembers my name." (Aloud): "Yes, what's left of

me. Where are you?" (Which, to say the least of it, was an unnecessary

question.)

Basil: "Down here."

Chaytor (blind to logical fact): "Alive?"

Basil (perceiving nothing strange in the question, and therefore

almost as blind): "Yes, thank God!"

Chaytor: "Any bones broke?"

Basil: "I think not, but I am bruised a bit."

Chaytor: "So am I."

Basil: "I am sorry to hear it. Have the scoundrels got away?"

Chaytor: "Yes, they're a mile off by this time."

Basil (groaning): "Old Corrie's mare! What will he think of me?"

Chaytor: "It can't be helped."

Basil: "In which direction have they gone?"

Chaytor: "Haven't the slightest idea. I warned you against them."

Basil: "You did. You're a good fellow, but what could I do?"

Chaytor: "Neither of us could have prevented it."

Basil: "I am not so sure. I ought to have stopped up all night, and

looked after what wasn't my own."

Chaytor (attempting consolation): "Why, you couldn't keep your eyes

open."

Basil (groaning again): "I ought to have kept my eyes open. I had no

right to sleep after your warning."

Chaytor: "I did what I could."

Basil: "You did; you're a true friend." (Chaytor smiled.) "How am I to

get up from here?"

Chaytor: "That's the question. How far are you down?"

Basil: "Heaven knows. It seems a mile or so."

Chaytor: "There's no windlass."

Basil: "Isn't there?"

Chaytor: "And it's pitch dark."

Basil: "It's as black as night down here. Can't you go for help?"

Chaytor: "I'll tell you something. There isn't a soul on the township

but ourselves."

Basil: "Not one?"

Chaytor: "Not one. We must wait till daylight; then I'll see what I

can do."

Basil: "There's no help for it; it must be as you say. You'll not

desert me?"

Chaytor (in an injured tone): "Can you think me capable of so

dastardly an act?"

Basil: "Forgive me; I hardly know what I'm saying. I deserve that you

should, for giving utterance to a thought so base."

Chaytor: "It was natural, perhaps. Why should you trust me, a

stranger, whom you have known for only a few hours?"

Basil: "I do trust you: it was an unnatural thought. You are a noble

fellow--and a gentleman."

Chaytor: "I hope so. Can I do anything for you while you are waiting?"

Basil: "I am devoured by thirst. Can you manage to get a drink of

water to me?"

Chaytor: "I can do that; but you must have patience. I shall have to

go back to the township to get a bottle and some string. Shall I go?"

Basil: "Yes, yes. Be as quick as you can."

Chaytor: "I won't be a moment longer than I can help."

Then there was silence. Chaytor departed on his errand, and Basil was

left to himself. His right arm was bruised and sore, but he contrived

to feel in his pockets for matches. A box was there, but it was empty,

and he remembered that he had struck the last one at the end of his

long ride from Bidaud's plantation, just before he arrived in Gum

Flat. He knew, from feeling the opening of the adit, that it was

likely he was not at the bottom of the shaft, and he was fearful of

moving, lest he should fall into a pit. He thought of Newman Chaytor.

"What a good fellow he is! I should be dead but for him. It is truly

noble of him to stick to me as he is doing. He has nothing to gain by

it, and he is saving my life. Yes, I will accept his proposal to go

mates with him, for I have no place now on Bidaud's plantation. Poor

Annette--poor child! I hope she will be happy. I hope her uncle and

Aunt will be kind to her. I must see her again before I go for good,

and then we shall never meet again, never, never! I would give the

best twenty years of my life--if I am fated to live--to be her

brother, with authority to protect her and shield her from Gilbert

Bidaud. He is a villain, a smooth-tongued villain, a thousand times

worse than these scoundrels who have robbed me and brought me to this.

What will Old Corrie say when he hears I have lost his mare? Will he

think I am lying--will he think I have sold his horse and pocketed the

money? If so, and it gets to Annette's ears, how she will despise me!

I must see her, I must, to clear myself. Gilbert Bidaud will do all he

can to prevent it, and he may succeed; but I will try, I will try. If

I had a hundred pounds I would buy another horse for Old Corrie, a

better one than that I have lost, but I haven't a shilling. A sorry

plight. There is only one human being in the world I can call a

friend, and that is Mr. Chaytor, who has taken such a strange fancy

for me. Yesterday there was Old Corrie, there was Anthony Bidaud,

there was Annette. One is dead, the others may cast me off, It is a

cruel world. How long Mr. Chaytor is! It seems an age. Shame on you,

Basil, for reviling! There is goodness, there is sweetness, there is

faithfulness in the world. Don't whine, old man. All may yet be well,

though for the life of me I can't see how it is to be brought about."

Then he fainted, but only for a few seconds; when he opened his eyes

again he thought hours must have elapsed.

In truth Chaytor was absent no longer than was necessary, but he was

also mentally busy with the adventures of the last few hours. The man

whose phantom shadow had haunted him in London was now at his mercy.

Basil's life was absolutely at his disposal. To leave him where he was

in that desolate spot at the bottom of a deserted shaft would be to

ensure for him a sure and certain death, and if he wished to make

assurance doubly sure, all he had to do would be to roll a great stone

upon him. But that would be a crime, and, hardened as he was, he

shrank from committing it. Not from any impulse of mercy, but because

he had nothing at present to gain from it. There was much to learn,

much to do before he nerved himself to a desperate deed which, after

all, might by some stroke of good fortune be unnecessary. And indeed

it was only the accident which had befallen Basil that darkened his

soul with cruel suggestion. The sleeping forces which lurk in the

souls of such men as Newman Chaytor often leap into active life by

some unfortuitous circumstance in which they have no direct hand.

He was back at the shaft, leaning over it, with a bottle of water not

too tightly corked, to the neck of which was attached a long piece of

cord.

"Are you there?" he called out.

"Heaven be thanked!" said Basil. "What a time you have been."

"I have not been away an hour."

"Is that really so?"

"It is, but it must have seemed long to you."

"Weeks seem to have passed."

"I have a bottle of water which I will send down to you."

"God bless you!"

"When you get it, loosen the string from the neck of the bottle, and I

will send down what remains of the flask of brandy. It will do you no

harm."

"I can never repay you for your goodness to me."

"Yes, you can. Look out."

The bottle of water was lowered, and afterwards the flask of brandy:

Basil took a long draught of water, half emptying the bottle, and

sipped sparingly of the brandy.

"You have given me life, Mr. Chaytor."

"Psha! I have done nothing worth making a fuss about. Oblige me by

dropping the Mr."

"I will. With all my heart and soul I thank you, Chaytor."

"You are heartily welcome, Basil. There is a light coming into the

sky."

"Sunrise! How beautiful the world is!"

"Listen," said Chaytor; "I will tell you what I am going to do."

CHAPTER XIII.

"I am listening," said Basil.

"There is no windlass, as I have told you," said Chaytor, "so I must

devise something in its place to pull you up. The mischief is that I

am alone, and have no one to help me. However, I must do the best I

can. I am going to roll the trunk of a tree to the top of the shaft,

then tie a rope firmly round it so that you can climb into the world

again. It must be dreadful down there."

"It is," groaned Basil.

"I can imagine it," said Chaytor, complacently; "but you mustn't mind

biding a bit. No man could do more than I am doing."

"Indeed he could not."

"The tree is six or seven hundred yards off, and I daresay I shall be

an hour over the job. I can't help that, you know."

"Of course you can't. I can't find words to express my gratitude for

all the trouble you are taking. And for a stranger, too!"

"I don't look upon you as a stranger; I feel as if I had known you all

my life. I suppose, though, it is really but the commencement of a

friendship which will last I hope till we are both old men."

"I hope so too."

"A little while ago I was saying to myself, I will never trust another

man as long as I live; I will never believe in another; I will never

again confide in man or woman. I have been deceived, Basil."

"I am truly sorry to hear it."

"Yes, I have been deceived. Friend after friend have I trusted, have I

helped, have I ruined myself for, to find them in the end false,

selfish and unreliable. I was filled with disgust and with shame for

my species. 'I renounce you all,' I cried in the bitterness of my

soul. But now everything seems changed. Since you came my faith in

human goodness and sincerity and truth is restored. I don't know why,

but it is so. I can rely upon your friendship, Basil?"

"You can. I will never forget your goodness; never."

"I am going, now, to roll the tree to the shaft. Be as patient as you

can."

He did not go far. The slim trunk that he spoke of lay not six or

seven hundred yards off, but quite close to the shaft, and he knew

that Basil in his pursuit of the robbers could not have observed it.

He was master of the situation; Basil was at his mercy, and every word

he had uttered was intended to bind the unsuspicious man more firmly

to him. "He is a soft-hearted fool," thought Chaytor, "and I shall be

able to bend him any way I please through the gratitude he feels for

me. I think I spoke rather well. What is this?" He stooped and picked

up a pocket-book which had slipped from Basil's pocket as he ran after

the thieves.

Retreating still farther from the shaft, to make assurance doubly

sure, Chaytor, with eager fingers and a greedy expectancy in his eyes

opened the book and examined the contents. Intrinsically they were of

no value, but in their relation to the unformed design which was

prompting Chaytor's actions their value was inestimable. There were

memoranda of dates, events, names and addresses, and also some old

letters. Any possible use of the latter did not occur to Chaytor, but

his examination of the former was almost instantly suggestive. They

were in Basil's handwriting, some being dated and signed "B. W.", and

would serve admirably as copies for anyone who desired to imitate the

writing. Clear up and down strokes, without twists or eccentric

curves, straightforward as Basil himself. "This is a find," thought

Chaytor; "Providence is certainly on my side. In a week I shall be

able to write so exactly like Basil that he will be ready to swear my

writing is his. There is information, too, in the book which may prove

serviceable. I'll stick to him while there's a chance, and contrive so

that he shall stick to me. I haven't done badly up to now."

More than an hour did Chaytor employ in cunning cogitation, smoking

the while in a state of comfortable haziness as to the future.

Imagination gilded the prospect and clothed it with alluring fancies;

and that the roads which led to it were dark and devious did not deter

him from revelling in the contemplation. Time was up. Panting and

blowing, he rolled the tree-trunk to the shaft.

"Below there!" he called out.

"Ah!" replied Basil; "you are back again."

"I have had a terrible job," said the hypocrite, "and almost despaired

of accomplishing it, but stout heart and willing hands put strength

into a fellow, and the tree is here. Look out for yourself while I

roll it across the shaft. The earth may be rotten, and some bits will

roll down, perhaps, though I'll do all I can to prevent it."

"Thank you, a thousand, thousand times. There's a little tunnel here;

I'll get into it while you're at work above."

With loud evidences of arduous toil Chaytor placed the trunk in

position, and then made the rope secure around it.

"Now," said Chaytor, "all is ready, Basil, and I'm going to lower the

rope. Have you got it?"

"Yes," replied Basil, in a faint tone.

"You will have to pull yourself up by it. I will keep the rope as

tight and steady as I can, and that is as much as I can do. Do you

think you will be able to manage it?"

"I must try, but I feel very weak. My strength is giving way."

"Don't let it, old fellow. Pluck up courage; it's only for a few

minutes, and then you will be safe at the top. Now then, with a will."

It required a will on Basil's part, he was so weak, and more than once

he feared that it was all over with him; but at length the difficult

feat was accomplished, and, with daylight shining once more on him, he

reached the top, and was pulled from the mouth of the shaft by

Chaytor's strong arms. Then, his strength quite gone, he sank lifeless

to the ground.

Chaytor, gazing upon the helpless form, reflected. He had Basil's

pocket-book packed safely away in an inner pocket of his waistcoat,

one of those pockets which men who have anything to conceal, or who

move in lawless places, have made in their garments. This book

contained much that might be useful; for instance, the correct name

and address of Basil's uncle in England, a statement of the debts

which Basil had paid to keep his dead father's name clear from

reproach, the address of the lawyers who had managed that transaction,

the amount of the fortune that Basil's mother had bequeathed to him,

and other such matters. Now, had Basil anything more upon his person

which might be turned to account in the future? If so, this was a

favourable opportunity for Chaytor to possess himself of it. There

would be no difficulty in satisfactorily explaining the loss of any

property which Basil had about him. In the confusion and excitement of

the last few hours anything might have happened.

Having decided the point, Chaytor's unscrupulous fingers became busy,

and every article in Basil's pockets passed through his hands. With

the exception of a purse, he replaced everything he had taken out.

This purse contained a locket with a lock of hair in it: at the back

of the locket was an inscription in Basil's writing--"My dear Mother's

hair," her Christian name, the date of her death, and her age. There

was no money in the purse. Undoubtedly Basil, when he recovered his

senses, would miss his purse, but if his pocket-book slipped out of

his pocket while running, why not that? Chaytor was perfectly easy in

his mind as he deposited the purse by the side of the pocket-book

inside his waistcoat.

Meanwhile Basil lay motionless. "I'll carry him a little way," thought

Chaytor. "Anything might drop from his clothes while he is hanging

over my shoulder. I'll have as many arrows to my bow as I can

manufacture. When he gets to his senses we will have a hunt for the

purse and the pocket-book, and of course shall not find them." With a

grim smile he raised Basil to a sitting posture, and gradually lifted

him on to his shoulder. Clasping him firmly round the body, Chaytor

staggered on.

Basil was no light weight, and Chaytor, while he was pursuing his

dissipated life in London, had not been renowned for strength; but his

colonial career had hardened his muscles, and enabled him now to

perform a task which in years gone by would have been impossible. A

dozen times he stopped to rest and wipe his brows. The form he carried

was helpless and inert, but Basil's mind was stirred by the motion of

being carried through the fresh air, and he began to babble. He

thought he was upon old Corrie's mare, and he urged the animal on,

muttering in disjointed and unconnected words that he must reach the

township of Gum Flat that night, and be back again next day. Then he

went on to babble about Annette and her father, and to a less

intelligent man than Chaytor--give him credit for that--his wandering

talk might have been incoherent and meaningless. But Chaytor's

intellect was refined and sharpened by the possibilities of a gilded

future. He listened attentively to every word that fell from Basil's

fevered lips, and put meaning to them, sometimes false sometimes true.

"My friend Basil is in a delirium," said he during the intervals of

Basil's muttering, "and I shall have to nurse him through a fever most

likely. What with that probability, and the weight of him, I am

earning my wage. No man can dispute that. He raves like a man in love

about this Annette. How old is she? Is she pretty? Does she love him?

Will she be rich? Is that a vein I could work to profit? I don't

intend to throw away the shadow of a chance. An age seems to have

passed since last night. But what," he cried suddenly, "if

all my labour is being thrown away--what if I am following a

will-o'-the-wisp?"

He let Basil slip purposely from his arms, and heedless of the sick

man's groans, for the fall was violent, he looked down upon him as

though a mortal enemy was in his path. But one of the strongest

elements in greed and avarice is the hope that leads their votaries

on, and this and the superstitious feeling that the meeting had been

brought about by fate, and was but the beginning of a fruitful end,

dispelled the doubt that had arisen. "I will work for it," he

muttered; "It is my only chance. Even if nothing comes of it I shall

be no worse off. But something _shall_ come of it--I swear it."

Reassured, he took up his burden, and in the course of an hour reached

the dwelling they had occupied the previous night. By that time Basil

was in a high fever, and Chaytor began to be disturbed by the fear

that his double would die. Then, indeed, his labour would be lost and

his hopes destroyed, for he had much to learn and much to do before

the vague design which spurred him on could be developed and ripened.

Chaytor had a secret store of provisions which he had hoarded up

unknown to Jim the Hatter and the Nonentities; some tins of preserved

meat and soup, the remains of a sack of flour, two or three pounds of

tea, a few bottles of spirits, and a supply of tobacco. These would

have served for a longer time than Basil's sickness lasted, and

Chaytor comforted himself with the reflection that he could not have

carried them away with him had he been compelled to leave the deserted

township. It was really Basil's stout and healthy constitution that

pulled him through a fever which would have proved fatal to many men.

He did not recover his senses for sixteen days, and as he had nothing

to conceal he, during that time, revealed to Chaytor in his wild

wandering much of his early life. When at length he opened his eyes,

and they fell with dawning consciousness upon the man standing beside

his bed, Chaytor was in possession of particulars innocent enough in

themselves, but dangerous if intended to be used to a wily and

dangerous end. During those sixteen days Chaytor had not been idle,

having employed himself industriously in studying and imitating the

few peculiarities in Basil's writing. To a past-master like himself

this was not difficult, and he succeeded in producing an imitation so

perfect as to deceive anyone familiar with Basil's style. He was

careful in destroying every evidence of this vile study.

Basil's eyes fell upon Chaytor's face, and he was silent awhile.

Chaytor also. Basil closed his eyes, opened them again, and fell to

once more pondering upon matters. Then Chaytor spoke.

"Do you know me at last?" he asked.

"Know you! At last!" echoed Basil. "I have seen you before--but

where?"

"Here, in Gum Flat township."

"I am in Gum Flat township. Yes, I remember, I was riding that way on

old Corrie's mare." He jumped up, or rather tried to do so, his weak

state frustrating his intention.

"Where are the robbers?"

"That's the question," said Chaytor, "and echo answers. Not very

satisfactory."

"It is coming back to me little by little," said Basil presently. "I

arrived here late at night and found the township deserted by all but

four men, three of them scoundrels, the fourth a noble fellow whose

name was--was--what has happened to me that my memory plays me tricks?

I have it now--whose name was Newman Chaytor."

"A true bill. He stands before you."

"You are the man. What occurred next? He found a stable for Old

Corrie's mare, gave me food and a bed, while the three scoundrels

looked on frowning. I slept like an unfaithful steward; the mare being

Corrie's and not mine, and I doubtful of the character and intentions

of the scoundrels, I should have kept watch over property that did not

belong to me. Instead of doing that I consulted my own ease and

pleasure."

"You could not help it; you were tired out."

"No excuse. I made no attempt to guard Old Corrie's mare. If I had

watched and fallen asleep from weariness at my post it might have been

another matter. When I present myself to Old Corrie, that is if I am

ever able to stand upon my legs again I shall put no gloss upon my

conduct. He shall hear the plain unvarnished truth from the unfaithful

steward's own lips. I am unworthy of confidence or friendship; I warn

you, Newman Chaytor, put no trust in me."

"I would trust you," said Chaytor, with well-simulated candour, "with

my life."