"'I was.'

"'You know Drew's hand-writing?'

"'I should think so.'

"He laid a leaf from a pocketbook on top of the steps. I read the
message written in pencil:

"'To Jack Mitchell.--We were mates on the track. If you know anything of
my affair, don't give it away.--J. D.'

"I tore the leaf and dropped the bits into the paint-pot.

"'That's all right, Doctor,' I said; 'but is there no way?'

"'None.'

"He turned away, wearily. He'd knocked about so much over the world
that he was past bothering about explaining things or being surprised at
anything. But he seemed to get a new idea about me; he came back to the
steps again, and watched my brush for a while, as if he was thinking,
in a broody sort of way, of throwing up his practice and going in for
house-painting. Then he said, slowly and deliberately:

"'If she--the girl--had lived, we might have tried to fix it up quietly.
That's what I was hoping for. I don't see how we can help him now, even
if he'd let us. He would never have spoken, anyway. We must let it
go on, and after the trial I'll go to Sydney and see what I can do at
headquarters. It's too late now. You understand, Mitchell?'

"'Yes. I've thought it out.'

"Then he went away towards the Royal.

"And what could Jack Drew or we do? Study it out whatever way you like.
There was only one possible chance to help him, and that was to go to
the judge; and the judge that happened to be on that circuit was a man
who--even if he did listen to the story and believe it--would have felt
inclined to give Jack all the more for what he was charged with. Browne
was out of the question. The day before the trial I went for a long walk
in the bush, but couldn't hit on anything that the Doctor might have
missed.

"I was in the court--I couldn't keep away. The Doctor was there too.
There wasn't so much of a change in Jack as I expected, only he had the
gaol white in his face already. He stood fingering the rail, as if it
was the edge of a table on a platform and he was a tired and bored and
sleepy chairman waiting to propose a vote of thanks."

The only well-known man in Australia who reminds me of Mitchell is Bland
Holt, the comedian. Mitchell was about as good hearted as Bland Holt,
too, under it all; but he was bigger and roughened by the bush. But he
seemed to be taking a heavy part to-night, for, towards the end of his
yarn, he got up and walked up and down the length of my bed, dropping
the sentences as h