A MATCH was struck, and in its glow Done recognised his visitor. It was
Ryder. The latter lit the candle, and then turned towards Jim. He was
quite composed, apparently. Not so Done; the revelation amazed him. The
hand containing the revolver sank to his side. He stood for some moments
awaiting an explanation. None was offered.
'Is Mr. Walter Ryder a tent thief?' he asked bitterly.
Ryder shook his head. 'No,' he said.
'It looks strangely like it.'
'It does.'
'And I purpose raising the camp, and submitting the matter to the men.'
'You won't do that.'
'Why not?'
'Because I can satisfy you that I have a very excellent excuse for being
here and for prying into your affairs.'
'I'll wait two minutes for that.'
'It won't take one, Jim. I am your brother, Richard Done!'
The revolver dropped from Jim's hand. He did not speak; every particle of
him thrilled with intense emotion. For half a minute he stood rooted,
speechless, and then he strode forward and seated himself on the bunk,
staring closely into Ryder's face by the dim light of the candle.
'You will want proof?' said Ryder.
Jim shook his head. Ryder's declaration, abrupt and dramatic as it was,
had struck him with absolute conviction. He was amazed, but he did not
doubt. He understood now the origin of the deep impression this man had
made upon him.
'That is proof enough,' he said, laying a trembling hand upon the
miniature of his mother upon the table.
'Almost,' answered Ryder, 'but not enough. We are both very like poor
mother.'
'We are very like each other.' Jim's faculties were stunned for the time;
there was a dreamlike unreality in their positions.