id Anson. "Very well, then, I'll give you till to-morrow
night to think it over, and you'll soon see which side your bread's
buttered."

"Don't stop me, Ingle," said West hotly. "I can't stand this. I must
speak. This--"

A sharp report from behind the wagon checked further words, and every
man made a rush for this place or that in full expectation that a sudden
attack had been made upon the laager within the rocky walls.

At the same moment a Kaffir of the blackest type and with his hair
greased up into the familiar Zulu ring bounded into sight, tripped, fell
upon his hands, sprang up again, ran on, and disappeared, whilst a rush
was made for the man who fired, leaving Anson and the prisoners
together.

The next minute West's blood felt as if it was running cold in his veins
as he saw, only a few yards from him and close to the stone upon which
his jacket had been stretched, the sentry slowly re-loading his pistol.
But the coat was gone.

West had hard work to repress a groan. "My orders were to fire at
anyone I saw stealing," said the man surlily, and West heard every word.

"Well, who was stealing?" asked one of the officers.

"A Kaffir," replied the sentry. "I'd got a jacket stretched out upon
the stones yonder, to get aired in the sunshine, and I only took my eyes
off it for a minute, when I saw a foot rise up from behind a stone, grab
hold of the coat with its toes--"

"Nonsense!" cried the officer; "a foot could not do that!"

"Not do it?" said the man excitedly. "It had to do it; and it was
creeping away, when I fired, and the black sprang up and ran."

"Where's the jacket?"

The officer's question woke an echo in West's breast, and he started,
for it was just as if the question was repeated there, and it seemed to
be echoed so loudly that he fancied those near must have heard it.

"He's got it, I suppose," said the sentry coolly. "Carried it away, and
a bullet too somewhere in his carcass."

A miserably despondent feeling attacked West at these words, for he had
clung to the hope that he might be able to recover the despatch, succeed
in escaping and delivering it in safety, however late; while now the
desire to get away died out, for how could he return to Kimberley and
confess that he had failed?

He turned to glance at Ingleborough, who met his eyes and then shrugged
his shoulders as much as to say: "It's a bad job, and I pity you."

At that moment a hand was clapped heavily upon Wes