."

"I don't believe you will," returned Kentish, without losing a shade of
his rich coloring. "But in any case I suppose we may have a chat first?
I give you my word that you are safe from further intrusion to the level
best of my knowledge and belief. May I sit down instead of standing?"

"You may."

"We are a good many yards apart."

"You may reduce them by half. There."

"I thank you," said Kentish, seating himself tailorwise within arm's
length of Stingaree's spurs. "Now, if you will feel in the breast-pocket
of my coat you will find a case of very fair cigars--J. S. Murias--not
too strong. I shall be honored if you will help yourself and throw me
one."

Stingaree took the one, and handed the case with no ungraceful
acknowledgment to its owner; but before Mr. Kentish could return the
courtesy by proffering his cigar-cutter, the bushranger had produced his
razor from a pocket of the white jacket, and sliced off the end with
that.

"So you shave every day in the wilds," remarked the other, handing his
match-box instead. "And I gave it up on my voyage."

"I alter myself from time to time," said Stingaree, as he struck a
light.

"It must be a wonderful life!"

But Stingaree lit up without a word, and Kentish had the wit to do the
same. They smoked in silence for some minutes. A gray ash had grown on
each cigar before Kentish demanded an opinion of the brand.

"To tell you the truth," said Stingaree, "I have smoked strong trash so
many years that I can scarcely taste it."

And he peered rather pathetically through his glass.

"Didn't the same apply to _Punch_?"

"No; I have always read the papers when I could," said Stingaree, and
suddenly he was smiling. "That's one reason why I make a specialty of
sticking up the mail," he explained.

Mr. Kentish was not to be drawn into a second deliverance on the
bushranging career. "Is it a good number?" he asked, nodding toward the
copy of _Punch_. The bushranger picked it up.

"Good enough for me."

"What date?"

"Ninth of December."

"Nearly three months ago. I was in London then," remarked Kentish, in a
reflective tone.

"Really?" cried Stingaree, under his breath. His voice was as soft as
the other's, but there was suppressed interest in his manner. His dark
eyes were only less alight than the red cigar he took from his teeth as
he spoke. And he held it like a connoisseur, between finger and thumb,
for all his ruined palate.

"I was," repeated Ken