hen Verna went out with Stride for a quarter of an hour
or so to look at the night, he remained chatting with Ben Halse.

"You won't be shooting each other in the night, will you, Denham?" said
the latter drily. The point of the joke was that, accommodation being
somewhat limited, the two men would have to share the same room.

"I'll try not to return the fire; but, on the whole, perhaps I'd better
stick a dummy in the bed, and slip outside. Poor chap! Nobody could be
more sorry for him than myself."

"I'm sure of that. Well, every man must take his chance, and Harry's
young yet. He's a good sort of boy, but I don't believe he'll ever do
much for himself."

"Perhaps he's never had a show."

"That's the worst of it. A lot of these young fellows come drifting up
to this country knowing nothing about it, and think they're going to
pick up gold under every stone. That prospecting business is just
foolery. They'd much better settle down to some steady job. And yet,
and yet--where'd I have been myself if I hadn't let out and chanced it?
Well, it's a world of pitch and toss, after all."

Stride was the first to turn in, and when his companion followed he had
rolled himself in his blanket as though asleep. But he was wide awake
enough in reality. He hated that other so intensely that he could not
trust himself to speak now that they were alone together. Some people
had all the advantages of life and others none; and here this stranger,
solely because he was a rich man, or was reputed to be, must have a free
walk over; must come here and rob him of all that made life worth
living--hope, to wit. Well, to-morrow he would fire the first shell.
And he did.

Just after breakfast, but before they got up from table, Stride produced
a square envelope.

"I took a few snapshots down in the Makanya the other day," he said,
drawing out some prints. "What d'you think of that, Mr Denham?"
handing one across the table to him.

Denham took it, and it was all he could do not to let it drop. The
ghastly face staring at him from the glazed paper, hideous and bloated
through immersion and decomposition, was that of the head which Sergeant
Dickinson had been at such pains, and trouble, and risk to photograph.
There was a frightful fascination about it, and he continued to gaze,
aware the while that Stride was fixing his face with a pitiless glance.

"Well, what d'you think of it?" said the latter, growing impatient.

"Thi