ime to be upon his homeward journey, for he
knew that if by any chance the true facts leaked out there would be no
hope of mercy from the furious diggers. Hence he incited Farintosh to
greater speed, and that worthy divine with his two agents worked so
energetically that in less than a week there was little left of five and
thirty thousand pounds.

Ezra Girdlestone had shown his power of reading character when he chose
the ex-clergyman as his subordinate. It is possible, however, that the
young man's judgment had been inferior to his powers of observation.
A clever man as a trusty ally is a valuable article, but when the said
cleverness may be turned against his employer the advantage becomes a
questionable one.

It was perfectly evident to Farintosh that though a stray capitalist
might risk a thousand pounds or so on a speculation of this sort,
Rothschild himself would hardly care to invest such a sum as had passed
through his hands without having some ground on which to go. Having
formed this conclusion, and having also turned over in his mind the
remarkable coincidence that the news of this discovery in Russia should
follow so very rapidly upon the visit of the junior partner of the House
of Girdlestone, the astute clergyman began to have some dim perception
of the truth. Hence he brooded a good deal as he went about his work,
and cogitated deeply in a manner which was once again distinctly
undesirable in so very intelligent a subordinate.

These broodings and cogitations culminated in a meeting, which was held
by him with his two sub-agents in the private parlour of the Digger's
Retreat. It was a low-roofed, smoke-stained room, with a profusion of
spittoons scattered over it, which, to judge by the condition of the
floor, the patrons of the establishment had taken some pains to avoid.
Round a solid, old-fashioned table in the centre of this apartment sat
Ezra's staff of assistants, the parson thoughtful but self-satisfied,
the others sullen and inquisitive. Farintosh had convened the meeting,
and his comrades had an idea that there was something in the wind.
They applied themselves steadily, therefore, to the bottle of Hollands
upon the table, and waited for him to speak.

"Well," the ex-clergyman said at last, "the game is nearly over, and
we'll not be wanted any more. Girdlestone's off to England in a day or
two."

Burt and Williams groaned sympathetically. Work was scarce in the
diggings during the