nal fortune must first be secured. Without
money one can do nothing. Cecil Rhodes had had the natural wealth of
Rhodesia at his back. McKeith had set himself the task of opening up
the fine country out West, which he knew only needed a system of
irrigation by Artesian Bores to defy drought, the squatters curse. That
object once accomplished--he gave himself with luck and good seasons
five or six years--there would be nothing to stop his becoming a
patriot and a millionaire.

But Colin went slowly and cannily--and that was why the Leichardt's
Land Government believed in him. He had the reputation of never
spending a penny on his private or public ambitions where a halfpenny
would serve his purpose, and he was known to be a man of deep counsels
and sparing of speech. Thus, no one knew exactly what was his business
down south at this time. Only the general remark was that Colin McKeith
had his head screwed on the right way and that some day he would come
out on top.

But that there was deep down a spring of romance beneath that hard
Bushman's exterior, Joan Gildea, herself a romance writer, guessed
easily. And her intuition told her that a little thin bore had been
made in the direction of that vital spring of romance by his
inadvertent reading of Lady Bridget O'Hara's letter.

CHAPTER 7

Joan saw that McKeith was extremely anxious to know more about the
writer of that letter and the progress of that love-affair, though he
had given his word of honour that he would not try to find out her
identity. But he put subtle questions to Joan about her friends in
England and her acquaintance with the higher circles of society in
London. Once, he asked her straight out whether she had heard again
from her typewriting correspondent, and if the Soldier of Fortune had
proved himself a Bounder, as they had suspected?

'Yes,' Joan answered unguardedly. 'I'm thankful to say that he is
married to his heiress.'

The eager light which suddenly shone in McKeith's eyes startled Mrs
Gildea.

'You don't mean to say that you're thinking of her like that?' she
exclaimed. 'It's no use, Colin.'

'Probably not,' he answered composedly. 'Tell me, how does she take it?'

'Deadly seriously. She's practising Deep-breathing and Concentration to
try and drive the man from her thoughts.'

'What! Oh, you mean Theosophy and that kind of thing. I went to hear
Mrs Annie Besant lecture once, and I couldn't make head or tail of it.'

'No. Y