pon him like an inspiration,
that even if the precious document relating to the mysterious treasure
were lost beyond recovery, his newly made friend was almost sure to know
its contents by heart, and might be brought to share the knowledge with
him, was entirely an afterthought, and this we desire to emphasise. To
slightly tamper with the proverb, "_Want_ of money is the root of all
evil," and Maurice Sellon, in common with many worthier persons, stood
sorely and habitually in need of that essential article.

But scamp or no scamp, his presence there was a very fortunate thing for
his fever-stricken host. By nightfall poor Renshaw had a relapse; and
for three days he lay, alternatively shivering and burning--
intermittently raving withal in all the horrors of acute delirium. Then
the presence of a strong, cheery, resourceful fellow-countryman was
almost as that of a very angel of succour; and even then nothing but a
fine constitution, hardened by a life of activity and abstemiousness,
availed to snatch the patient from the jaws of Death himself.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

"OUR OBJECT IS THE SAME."

"Do you know, Fanning, you gave me the very warmest reception hero I
ever met with in my life?" said Sellon, one day, when his patient was
fairly convalescent and able to talk freely.

Renshaw looked puzzled.

"It's very good of you to say so," he answered. "You know by this time
what the resources of the place are--or, rather, are not. Still, you
were warmly welcome, and--I can never thank you enough, Sellon, for the
unselfish way in which you have stayed here doing the good Samaritan for
a perfect stranger, I owe my life to you."

The other burst into a shout of laughter.

"That's not what I meant, old chap. Stop. I'll explain. But, first of
all, where are your guns?"

Surprised at the question, Renshaw opened the Chest where the firearms
were usually kept. It was empty.

"Now, look behind that big box under the sofa," said the other, with a
laugh.

This was done, and lo! there were the missing weapons, carefully rolled
in sacking. Choking with laughter over the recollection, Sellon
proceeded to narrate the circumstances under which he had been made a
target of, as we have seen.

"And I'll tell you what it is, old man," he concluded; "if you can make
such good shooting at five hundred yards when you're off your chump,
it's sorry I'd be to do target for you at six hundred when you're not."

Renshaw whist