ng his friend entirely of any such idea,
Renshaw's mind was there and then made up that by no possibility, under
the circumstances, could he entertain it, and he said as much.

Selwood was deeply disappointed.

A silence fell between the two men.

"By Jove!" said Christopher, suddenly, as they came in sight of the
homestead, "your chum there is making the most of his last day."

Two figures came in sight, strolling by the dam in the sunset glow--
Violet Avory and Sellon. Renshaw, recognising them, made no reply. But
the dagger within his heart gave one more turn.

"I suppose they'll make a match of it directly," went on Selwood. "It
won't be the first that's been made up at old Sunningdale by any means--
ha! ha!"

It was the last day at Sunningdale. Early on the morrow Renshaw and
Sellon would start upon their expedition. And what strange, wild
experiences would be theirs before they should again rejoin this
pleasant home circle. Would they return, rewarded with success, or only
to bear record of another failure? Or would they, perchance, not return
at all?

This was the reflection that would recur with more or less haunting
reiteration to every member of the household that evening. There were
serious and saddened faces in that circle; eyes, too, that would turn
away to conceal a sudden brimming that it was not wholly possible to
suppress.

For what if, perchance, they should never return at all?

CHAPTER TWENTY.

OLD DIRK IN DEFAULT.

"Well, Sellon, here we are--or, rather, here am I--at home again."

The buggy, running lightly over the hard level ground, looked as dusty
and travel-worn as the three horses that drew it, or as its two inmates.
The red ball of the sun was already half behind the treeless sky line,
and away over the plain the brown and weather-beaten walls of Renshaw's
uninviting homestead had just come into view.

Very different now, however, was the aspect of affairs to when we first
saw this out-of-the-world desert farm. With the marvellous
recuperativeness of the Karroo plains the veldt was now carpeted with
the richest grass, spangled with a hundred varying species of delicate
wild flowers. Yet, as the two men alighted at the door, there was
something in the desolate roughness of the empty house that struck them
both, after the comforts and cheery associations of Sunningdale.

"Home, sweet home; eh, Sellon?" continued Renshaw, grimly. "Well, it
won't be for long. One