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WE first heard the rumour at Sydney three months later, from a man in our hotel. And two nights after, he confirmed it: gold had been found at a place called Bull Mine Creek. The wildest stories were flying around: it was going to be a second Klondyke.

There was gold in the river, masses of it. And since easily worked placers are nearly all exhausted, thousands of the old-time miners arrived in force. Deep placer deposits, requiring shaft sinking and therefore capital, are today the source of almost all the gold in the world, and the gold-mining industry is a highly organised affair. The wild rushes of the last century are things of the past, though occasionally they still occur. And Bull Mine Creek was one of them.

Exactly why Jim and I went there I don't know. Novelty, perhaps—a new experience; and new experiences were the wine of life to him. We didn't much mind if we made a fortune or not, though we should neither of us have refused it if we had. Incidentally we didn't, and what we did net after expenses had been paid, we handed over to One-eyed Mike, an old scoundrel of repulsive aspect, who had lost his left eye in circumstances we never fully got to the bottom of. He was a remarkable character, was Mike. His nationality varied according to his company—with us he was English, and he appeared to have been in every mining rush during the last thirty years. I think he robbed us right and left, though like the Chinese servant, he took care that nobody else did. And he knew everything there was to know about the game.

He talked about sluice-boxes and riffles in the intervals of telling the most lurid stories I have ever listened to, and for six weeks we camped out by our claim some fifteen miles from the town of Bull Mine Creek.

The town consisted of a few shanties, a store and the hotel. Before the rush it must have been a fairly pleasant little place; within a week of the boom it became a miniature hell on earth. Gambling saloons were opened, and the place was invaded by a horde of blackguards whose sole aim in life was to see that the miner and his gold were soon parted. And in many cases it wasn't a difficult proposition. Unlimited drink, gold to chuck about, and crooked gambling after the drink had taken effect, generally produced the desired result, after which the miner returned to his claim with an empty "poke" and a bursting head.

* * * * *

It was One-eyed Mike who insisted on going down to the town for Christmas. And since he had been going teetotal—or rather confining himself to only one bottle of whisky a day—for some weeks, we felt he deserved a respite. So Jim gave him his share of all the proceeds up to date, and on Christmas Eve we all drove into Bull Mine Creek.

Outside the door of the hotel was a buggy drawn by two fine Arabs, around which stood a ring of loungers contemplatively spitting. The horses were tied up to the rail of the veranda, and Jim glanced at them as we drove past.

"A nice pair of cattle," he remarked. "I wonder whom they belong to."

The next moment our own horse stopped suddenly, and then gave a sudden plunge forward. She was not used to having her head nearly pulled off unexpectedly, and Jim was certainly not accustomed to treat an animal in such a way. In some surprise I looked at him, and the expression on his face amazed me. It also decided me against making any comment.

Instead, I looked back and made a further inspection of the owner of the two Arabs, whose sudden appearance had so upset my companion. He was a tall, good-looking man whose age I put at about thirty. He had a small, fair moustache, and was rather of the pink-and-white type. So much I saw before we turned the corner and were out of sight. My last glimpse of him was leading his two horses towards the back of the hotel while the ring of loungers still contemplatively spat.

Jim drove on in silence to the shanty where we were putting up. He was frowning thoughtfully, and underneath the beard which he had allowed to grow during the past two months his mouth was set in a straight line. But he said nothing, even after we had put the mare up; and he only nodded curtly at One- eyed Mike's earnest hope that we would raise the roof with him that night. So Mike, fully capable of performing the operation on his own, departed to the hotel to lay the foundation for a forty-eight-hour jag.

"Did you see that fellow, Dick?" said Jim at length. "The fellow at the hotel with those two greys?"

"I did," I answered. "Who is he?"

Jim smiled a little grimly.

"He is John James Hildebrand, fifteenth Marquis of Sussex, the eldest son of the Duke of Plumpton."

"All that, is he?" I said. "One rather wonders what John James Hildebrand is doing at Bull Mine Creek."

"One does," agreed Jim. "Excessively so."

And with that he swung on his heel, and I saw him no more for some hours. I wrote two or three long overdue letters, and then having nothing better to do, I strolled along the dusty road to the hotel to get a drink. The place was filling up with the crowd who had come in for Christmas, and the first man I saw was One-eyed Mike. He beckoned to me joyously and I went over to his table.

"There's going to be some fun here tonight, boy!" he cried as I sat down. "There's a dude that calls himself Hildebrand wandering around, and the boys are just crazy to know him better. They want to know if he's real."

So the fifteenth Marquis of Sussex had decided not to advertise the fact.

"What's he doing here, Mike?" I asked.

"Come out to look at some property he's got, so he told the boss here. Taken a room, and wants his dinner served upstairs." Mike began to chuckle again. "Look out; here he is."

* * * * *

John James Hildebrand had just entered the room from the other end, and I watched him curiously. There was no doubt that Mike's prophecy was going to be fulfilled; the fun had started already. Following close at his heels came half a dozen miners, all gazing at him in rapt awe and admiration. The baiting of John James had begun in earnest.

He halted by the bar, and the miners instantly came to a standstill.

"Boys," shouted the leader, "let us have silence! Mr. Hildebrand is about to consume some liquid refreshment. And the slightest sound might interfere with Mr. Hildebrand's enjoyment."

A dead silence settled on the room, and I wondered how he was going to take it.

"Quite right," he remarked, with a faint, rather pleasant drawl. "Which is why I don't ask you to join me. Six of you—all drinking— would fairly put the lid on."

The leader roared with laughter, and I grinned gently. Quite obviously John James had the right stuff in him.

"I'm dashed if you drink alone, Mr. Hildebrand," cried the leader, coming up to the counter. "You drink with me right here."

He shouted for a round, and they formed up on each side of John James.

"I'm not so certain that you are going to have your fun, Mike," I remarked, when suddenly he leant forward and stared at the door which had just swung open.

"Holy Moses!" he muttered. "Here's Pete Cornish. I didn't know he was up these parts."

A sudden cessation of conversation took place as the man who had just come in moved up to the bar. As if he had noticed it, and attributed it to his sudden entry, a faint smile hovered round his lips. His face was almost bloodless, and a great red scar across his right cheek emphasised the pallor. But the most noticeable feature of the man's face was a pair of very light blue eyes which seemed to stare unwinkingly from under his big forehead at the object of his scrutiny. He stooped a little, but even with the stoop he measured over six feet. And the depth of his chest betokened his immense strength.

"Steer clear of him, boy," muttered Mike to me. "I haven't seen him for six years, but I guess he hasn't changed. And he's the devil incarnate, is Pete Cornish. I once saw him break a man's back with his hands alone— across his knees. He's spent fifteen years of his life in prison as it is."

But I wasn't paying attention to Mike's reminiscences. I was watching Pete Cornish. He came to a standstill just behind John James, and for a moment or two he stood there in silence. It was the miner who had called for drinks who' first saw him, and he turned round with a somewhat sickly smile.

"Hullo, Pete!" he said, "will you join us?"

"I will," answered Cornish quietly. "And who is your friend?"

"Hildebrand," returned the other. "This is Pete Cornish."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hildebrand," said Cornish. "And what might you be doing? Prospecting?"

"I've come out to see a property of mine," answered Hildebrand briefly.

The blue eyes never left his face for an instant, even when their owner raised his glass to his lips. There was something baleful in their unblinking intensity, something almost terrifying which the quiet voice and general immobility seemed only to enhance. The man never moved; he merely stared until after a while the other fidgeted a little and turned away. And the faintest flicker of a smile appeared on Cornish's lips.

"I seem to recognise your face, Mr. Hildebrand," he remarked as he put down his empty glass. "In fact, I am sure I do. And so, you will drink with me."

It was not a question; it was a statement, and Hildebrand flushed slightly.

"Thank you, no," he answered. "I don't want anything more to drink at present."

"I said, Mr. Hildebrand, that you would drink with me," said the other gently, and it was then I noticed that five of the original six miners who had lined up at the bar had slipped unostentatiously away. Only the leader remained, and he was shuffling his feet.

"The guy is all right, Pete," he muttered awkwardly. "Guess he may not have the head for our whisky."

The blue eyes temporarily transferred their gaze to the last speaker.

"I'm not quite clear how you come into this matter," remarked Cornish. "I wasn't aware that you were even in the picture."

The miner turned and stammered out something, but Cornish simply ignored his existence.

"Now, Mr. Hildebrand, you will drink a little toast with me," he continued, pushing a glass towards him.

"I have already said that I will not have another, thank you," returned the other icily. "I drink when I like, and with whom I like."

He nodded briefly and turned to leave the bar. But before he had taken two steps Cornish had stretched out a hand and caught him by the arm.

"Will you kindly leave go of my arm?" said Hildebrand quietly, though two ugly red spots had appeared on his face.

"When you have drunk my toast, Mr. Hildebrand; not before."

For a moment John James, fifteenth Marquis of Sussex, stood very still. He was no fool, and he knew that if it came to a scrap he might with luck last exactly one second with the man who held his arm. At the same time he came of a stock to whom the meaning of the word fear was unknown.

"And what is your toast?" he asked at length.

"Damnation to the English—especially their aristocracy," answered the other mildly. "Your glass, Mr. Hildebrand."

The Marquis of Sussex smiled faintly, as he took the glass in his right hand. "Do you play cricket, Mr. Cornish?" he asked.

"I do not," returned the other, looking slightly surprised. "Because if you had ever fielded at cover point, you would realise that this is a very good return to the wicket keeper."

It was done in one movement like a flash of light, and the heavy glass broke in pieces on Cornish's face. He staggered back a step with a curse, letting go of the other's arm, and without undue hurry, but also without undue pause, John James Hildebrand left the room. For a moment or two I expected Cornish to rush after him, but he didn't. He stood in the centre of the room wiping the whisky from his face. Then, without a word, he too turned and left the bar by the door which led into the street.

* * * * *

It was the miner by the counter who broke the silence.

"Good for the youngster!" he cried ecstatically. "But, my word, boys! Pete will kill him for that!"

A murmur of assent went round the room, which was stilled by the sudden reappearance of Hildebrand. He stood by the door, and glanced about him; then he smiled.

"Oh! he's gone, has he?" he said cheerfully. "It struck me after I got upstairs that I had left a bit quickly, and that he might think I was afraid of him. But you see, gentlemen—my wife is with me, and one doesn't want to get mixed up in a scrap."

The miner at the counter took a couple of steps forward.

"See here, Mr. Hildebrand," he said earnestly, "you've proved yourself. You've got guts; you've got nerve, and I want to apologise here and now for ragging you. But for God's sake, man, get away out of this! I know Pete Cornish, and I know his reputation, and I tell you straight he'll pretty near kill you for bunging that glass in his face. He ain't a man; he's a blind, mad, roaring devil when he gets going. Get away now—with your wife. Them greys of yours are good for another fifty miles. We'll get you into your trap, won't we, boys?"

A murmur of assent came from the others present, and the man by the door gave a quick smile.

"I thank you, gentlemen," he said, quietly. "But if you imagine that my wife and I are going a fifty-mile drive, or for that matter a fifty-yard one, because some renegade Irishman gets gay, you misunderstand the situation. And while I am at it I must apologise for a small deceit I have practised on you. I'm really Lord Sussex. Hildebrand is a sort of family name."

With another smile he was gone, and a sort of sigh went round the room. And it struck me that the general feeling was voiced by One-eyed Mike as he pessimistically finished the whisky.

"I don't know nothing about Sussex—nor family names," he remarked. "But what I do know is that there's going to be dirty work here to-night, and I guess he's going to be the dirt."

I found Jim at the shanty when I got back. He had shaved, and changed his clothes, and with his feet on the mantelpiece he was reading a month-old newspaper. He glanced up as I came in, and dropped the paper on the floor.

"Anything doing?" he asked.

"Quite a lot," I answered. "Your friend John James Hildebrand has quite distinguished himself."

He listened while I told him what had occurred, and a faint look of surprise crossed his face.

"I didn't know he had it in him," he remarked thoughtfully. "In fact, I have always been under the impression that his principal claim to notoriety lay in the fact that being his father's eldest son, he would in the fullness of time become a duke."

And for, I think, the first time in our friendship I saw Jim Maitland sneer.

"What of it, Jim?" I said. "Why the sarcasm?"

"Nothing, old man," he answered. "At any rate nothing that I care to go into. It's an old story anyway, and I thought it had died in my mind years ago. Only seeing him unexpectedly this evening brought it back—that's all."

"Well, from what I gathered there is every possibility of trouble to- night," I said. "I must say that that man Cornish is quite the ugliest- looking customer I've ever seen. And I didn't like the absolute silence in which he left the bar. If he'd sworn or made a fuss it would have been more natural."

Jim shrugged his shoulders.

"John James must fight his own battles."

"He seems quite capable of it," I answered shortly. "But I wish his wife weren't there."

"His wife?" said Jim very slowly. "His wife, did you say?"

"Certainly. Stopping at the hotel with him."

He was staring at me almost dazedly.

"Ruth—at that hotel? Good Heavens! man—she can't be!"

I made no comment on his use of her Christian name.

"He told us so," I answered, "at the same time as he announced who he was."

And now Jim was pacing up and down the room with his hands in his pockets. He was frowning deeply, and every now and then he paused and stared out of the window.

Already some of the boys had begun their celebrations, and occasional shouts of half-drunken laughter came from the street outside.

"The fellow must be mad!" exploded Jim suddenly. "Stark, staring mad to bring her to a place like this on Christmas Eve. Confound it! has he left his nurse in England?"

"It's not the boys I'm worried about, Jim," I said gravely. "They won't hurt a woman even if they are a bit tight. And, anyway, presumably she will stop in her room. It's that man Cornish who frightens me. I tell you the men at that bar dried up like so many frightened puppies as he came in. And he means murder."

Jim laughed contemptuously.

"You've got Cornish on the brain, Dick."

And even as he spoke the door was flung open and One-eyed Mike came in. He had been running and he spoke in gasps.

"Cornish!" he cried. "Pete Cornish! He's raving mad up in the hotel. He's got that Lord fellow who threw the liquor in his face, and he's got his wife, and he's doing trick-firing with a couple of revolvers."

And as he finished I realised we were alone: Jim was, racing up the darkening street towards the hotel.

I heard six shots ring out like bullets from a machine-gun; as I followed him, and just ten seconds behind Jim I turned, into the bar I had so recently left. It was an amazing' scene, and that first impression of it is photographed indelibly on my brain. Huddled in small groups sat some twenty miners, and even the drunkest of them seemed to have sobered up. In the centre of the room and hanging from a beam swung a smoking naphtha lamp. Underneath it stood Pete Cornish, holding in one arm a girl, whose look of frozen horror failed to hide her loveliness.

Seated on a chair against the wall was the fifteenth Marquis of Sussex, and like a halo round his head there was a row of holes in the wall. As Mike said, Pete Cornish was trick-firing.

The man on the chair was sitting bolt upright, while his knuckles gleamed like ivory where his hands gripped the seat. His face was white, but with rage—not fear: and his blazing eyes met those staring blue ones without a quiver.

"Don't move, my darling," said Cornish with an ugly snarl. "You might spoil my aim. And that would be a dreadful thing for your dear husband, wouldn't it?"

Again the six shots rang out, and the wood round the seated man's head splintered anew. The girl moaned piteously, and her husband cursed and stirred in his chair.

"My other gun," said Cornish thoughtfully, and a horrible-looking brute came forward with a freshly loaded six-shooter. And at that John James Hildebrand sprang. It was his only chance, but it was pitiful to watch. As well might a Pekinese spring at a bull-terrier, if one may so insult a grand breed of dog by comparison with Pete Cornish.

He tried to get home with his fist, did John James—and Cornish hit him once. He hit him straight in the face with a grunt of passion, and the poor devil pitched forward and lay still.

"I still want my gun," said Cornish thoughtfully, and as he spoke one solitary shot rang out. The man who was holding the revolver cursed hideously as his hand was shattered, and Jim laughed gently. Slowly the blue eyes came round and fastened on him, staring unwinking; and for a moment or two there was silence—broken at length by a little gasping cry of "Jim!" from the girl.

"Did you fire that shot?" asked Cornish softly, dropping the girl and taking a step forward.

"I did," answered Jim, equally softly. "And I would suggest your standing very still, because I'm now going to fire five more. Stand away, Ruth,"—but the girl was on her knees beside her husband.

The five shots cut away a strip from Cornish's shirt, and they sounded almost continuous so incredibly quickly were they fired.

"I have also another gun," drawled Jim, "so that any attempt to pick up your own would be a little unwise. Dick, would you retrieve it?"

But Cornish never moved a muscle. The scar on his face showed red and angry, but the eyes, unwinking as ever, stared, and went on staring at Jim.

"Quite passable shooting," he said at length. "And what do you propose should be the next move? Or do we stand like this all night?"

"We do not," answered Jim. "I have been informed of the toast which you suggested Lord Sussex should drink, just before he wasted good liquor on your face, and it fails to appeal to me. So having given you a little of your own medicine in the shooting line, we will now try the second form of exercise. We will fight here and now to a finish with our fists."

A sudden gleam came into Cornish's eyes—merciless and triumphant; and an audible gasp ran round the room. Was this fellow with an eyeglass completely insane? But only One-eyed Mike said anything, and he was nearly frantic.

"For God's sake, sir," he whispered to Jim, "don't do it! He's been a professional, has Cornish—and he's a slaughterer even with gloves."

But Jim paid no attention. He was peeling off his shirt and giving me instructions.

"If he fights fair, Dick, do nothing. But if any of his pals get gay, I rely on you. I'm not under any delusions as to what I've taken on."

For a moment he glanced across the room to where the girl sat crouched on the floor with her unconscious husband's head pillowed on her lap, and he smiled whimsically.

"I'm over it now," he said, "but seven years ago I thought my world had finished when she turned me down for him. But he's a good boy, Dick—and if Cornish knocks me out—well, again I rely on you."

And just then the girl raised her head and looked full at Jim. In her eyes was a wonderful message, for the Marchioness of Sussex was merely a very primitive woman at that moment. Certainly it was the message Jim wanted, and he smiled at her reassuringly as he stepped into the circle of light thrown by the naphtha lamp.

* * * * *

Men still talk about that fight on Christmas Eve in the hotel at Bull Mine Creek. And now as I write about it, it comes back to me as if it had taken place only yesterday. Word had flashed round the camp like lightning that a man was taking on Pete Cornish, bare fists, to a finish, and men came pouring in till the room was crammed almost to suffocation. They stood on the bar, they lined the windows, and very soon it was obvious which way their sympathies lay. Not one out of ten knew Jim, but there wasn't a soul in the room who did not know—and hate Pete Cornish. The betting it is true started at five to one on Cornish, for his form was known, and money is money; then the odds shortened and held steady at threes, when Jim, stripped to the waist, was sized up. But even before the first blow was struck there wasn't a soul who wouldn't willingly have lost his money to see Cornish down and out.

There was no time wasted on preliminaries, no introductions, no retinues of seconds. But one could feel the nerve-gripping tension as the two men faced one another, swaying slightly on their feet under the flaring lamp. Cornish, his blue staring eyes fixed unwinkingly on Jim, was a shade the bigger man of the two. As he stood, crouching a little forward, his huge depth of chest was more apparent than when he had had his clothes on, and a little feeling of sick anxiety got hold of me and made it difficult to swallow. Without doubt he was an amazingly powerful brute, and there was a look of implacable rage on his face that boded ill for Jim if the worst happened. And then I glanced at Jim; took in the glistening health of his skin, the clear, unconcerned eyes, and felt better. And in my own mind I sized up the position to find later that it was exactly how Jim had sized it up himself. Cornish was the stronger man of the two; Cornish was probably the better boxer; but Cornish was not in such good condition.

And then they closed, and a kind of sigh went round the packed spectators. Smack, smack and they were away again, with a jaw-jolting punch on Jim's jaw as Cornish's contribution, and a heavy body blow on the other side of the ledger which made Cornish draw in his breath with a hiss. Not quite such a spectacular punch perhaps, but as Jim said to me afterwards, it was that first blow that probably won him the fight. For it rather more than touched up Cornish's wind, and there lay his weakness. It was a case of bellows to mend, and inside a minute a sullen-looking purple patch was showing on his ribs.

But there was a long way to go yet, and a punishing way. Cornish was no fool; he knew his weakness, none better. And he started to force the fighting. A quick decision was his best hope, and for the next three minutes my heart was in my mouth. Savagely, but never wildly, he went for Jim, taking his own punishment without a sound. And at least two of his upper cuts, if they had got home, would have ended the fight there and then.

But they didn't. Coolly and warily Jim gave ground, letting the other man follow him round and round the room, and concentrating always on his one objective, Cornish's body. Twice, three times he landed—heavy punishing blows, and was away before the other had time to counter. He was bleeding from the mouth, and one eye was horribly swollen.

The room was deadly silent. The patter of their feet was the only sound; that, and the thing that was music to me, Cornish's laboured breathing. And then suddenly an angry roar burst out.

"Too low, Cornish—foul!"

With a snarl Cornish sprang back, but Jim was smiling now. An attempted foul right enough, but countered just in time, and Jim changed his tactics. Rightly he guessed that it was the other man's last throw—his breathing was becoming more and more painful. From the defensive he changed to the attack. He gave Cornish not one second's respite; he was here, there and everywhere waiting for the opportunity of a knock-out. Twice Cornish hit him, heavy stopping rib binders, but he was weakening perceptibly. His blue eyes, fixed and implacable, still stared at Jim from his swollen face, but he was getting slower and slower, while he sucked in air in great wheezing gasps. And then quite suddenly came the end. Jim feinted at his body, and as his guard dropped Jim hit him under the jaw. Feet, body, weight were exactly right, and the blow sounded like the dropping of a billiard ball on a wooden floor.

So came the finish. Cornish spun round, his knees sagging under him, and crumpled up on the floor. He lay there motionless and inert—knocked out, insensible, and Jim stood watching him and rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. For the blow that had knocked out Cornish, had also broken three of Jim's fingers.

There was one dazed moment while nobody spoke; then pandemonium broke loose. A seething, shouting crowd of miners thronged across the floor to where Jim stood, led by One-eyed Mike. For Mike was nearly speechless; he could only babble strange oaths in an almost inarticulate voice.

"Knocked out—Cornish knocked out," he kept on saying over and over again. "And he's my pard, you sons of a gun—don't you forget it!"

But Jim with a faint smile on his battered face pushed through the crowd to where his clothes lay.

"Tell 'em, Dick," he muttered to me, "to come to our shanty. They can't stop here."

With that he was gone, and I crossed the room to Lord Sussex and his wife. He was conscious again, but it was the girl I was looking at. And I had to deliver my message three times before she took it in. She was rubbing her hands gently together, and the expression on her face would have caused a positive sensation in a drawing-room. But then in a drawing-room, I am told, one rarely sees two heavy-weights light to a finish without gloves.

* * * * *

We found Jim, clothed and comparatively presentable, trying to cut the wire of a champagne bottle. And the Marchioness of Sussex walked straight up to him and kissed him.

"I hardly know you, Jim," she said, a little tremulously, "without your eyeglass."

Jim grinned. "I'm afraid we shall have to dispense with that for a day or two."

"Good Heavens!" shouted John James Hildebrand, "it's Jim Maitland!"

"Bright boy," said his wife, and it struck me she wasn't quite at her ease.

"I only came to when you were fighting," he went on, "and I never recognised you."

And then he too dried up a little awkwardly.

"By Gad, old man," he said steadily, after a moment, "I feel it horribly, that I couldn't fight my own battles for myself. It was fine of you to take that swine on—fine!"

Jim poured out the champagne.

"I don't profess that I'd have done it five years ago or even tonight if Ruth hadn't been there," he remarked quietly.

And then he smiled suddenly.

"Yes—I would. Your going for him as you did was a darned sight better than my show. We can't all be made big, old chap."

He held out his sound hand.

"John," he said, "shake. I haven't loved you much for the past seven years. In fact I haven't loved you at all. I thought—well, I thought lots of things at the time. But the years have healed, and—" He turned to the girl. "Is it well, Ruth, with you?"

"Yes, Jim, very well," she answered gently. "My dear, I'm sorry. But it was because you thought, and let me see you thought, that it was owing to John being a duke one day, that I was annoyed."

Jim nodded thoughtfully.

"I was a fool," he said quietly. "Still," he added whimsically, "perhaps it was as well. I've had seven good years in the edge of beyond."

"You're very rude," laughed the girl. "We'll have to find you a wife now, Jim."

"You preferred your blessed old John James," Jim said, "and she thinks I'm a cur. She told me so."

"Then she must be mad," said Ruth indignantly. "Where is she, Jim?"

"In England somewhere."

"Then come home and stop with us and look for her."

Jim laughed. "I don't know about that, but if I come back I'll spend a few days at the ancestral seat if you'll have me."

"If you don't," cried John James, "you'll have to fight me, my boy. And in the meantime, Ruth, kiss him again."

"I was just going to," said his wife.

And she did.

"You'll come, Jim," she repeated. "And Mr. Leyton too."

"Shall we go back to England, Dick?" he said with a little laugh.

"The one sure thing," I remarked, "is that if we decide to, we shan't."

"You see our habits, Ruth," he said. "We're dreadful people to have about the house. Anyway I don't know what you think, Dick, but we might take the first step on the journey in the near future. My unalterable conviction is that gold mining at a hundred and ten in the shade is an overrated amusement."

And at that we left it.