thirty yards the fire would
not be visible. And, as for the odour -- well, he'd be gone before
dawn. ... Meanwhile, he must have that fire. He could wait no longer.

He cut a pole first. Then he left the trail where a little spring
flowed west, and turned to the right, shining the forest floor as he
moved and sounding with his pole every wet stretch of moss, every strip
of mud, every tiniest glimmer of water.

At last he came to a place of pines, first growth giants towering into
night, and, looking up, saw stars, infinitely distant. ... where perhaps
those things called souls drifted like wisps of vapour.

When the fire took, Quintana's thin dark hands had become nearly useless
from cold. He could not have crooked finger to trigger.

For a long time he sat close to the blaze, slowly massaging his torpid
limbs, but did not dare strip off his foot-gear.

Steam rose from puttee and heavy shoe and from sodden woollen breeches.
Warmth slowly penetrated. There was little smoke: the big dry branches
were dead and bleached and he let the fire eat into them without using
his axe.

Once or twice he signed, "Oh, my God," in a weary demi-voice, as though
the contentment of well-being were permeating him.

Later he ate and drank languidly, looking up at the stars, speculating
as to the possible presence of Mike Clinch up there.

"Ah, the dirty thief," he murmured: "-- nevertheless a man. Quel homme!
Mais bete a faire pleurer! Je l'ai bien triche, moi! Ha!"

Quintana smiled palely as he thought of the coat and the gently-swaying
bush -- of the red glare of Clinch's shot, of the death-echo of his own
shot.

Then, uneasy, he drew out the morocco case and gazed at the two trays
full of gems.

The jewels blazed in the firelight. He touched them, moved them about,
picked up several and examined them, testing the unset edges against his
upper lip as an expert tests jade.

But he couldn't tell; there was no knowing. He replaced them, closed
the case, pocketed it. When he had a chance he could try boiling water
for one sort of trick. He could scratch one or two. ... Sard would
know. He wondered whether Sard got away, not concerned except
selfishly. However, there were others in Paris whom he could trust --
at a price. ...

Quintana rested both elbows on his knees and framed his dark face
between both bony hands.

What a chase Clinch had led him after the Flaming Jewel. And now Clinch
lay dead in the forest