hrough teeth and mustache; and he leaned
over, revolver in hand. "You'll be the only man ever, because, instead
of tying you up, I'm going to shoot you."

Kentish threw up his head in sharp contempt.

"What!" said he. "Sitting?"

Stingaree sprang to his feet in a fury. "No; I have a brace!" he cried,
catching the pack-horse. "You shall have the other, if it makes you
happy; but you'll be a dead man all the same. I can handle these things,
and I shall shoot to kill!"

"Then it's all up with you," said Kentish, rising slowly in his turn.

"All up with me? What the devil do you mean?"

"Unless I am at a certain place by a certain time, with or without these
letters that are not yours, another letter will be opened."

Stingaree's stare gradually changed into a smile.

"A little vague," said he, "don't you think?"

"It shall be as plain as you please. The letter I mean was scribbled on
the coach before I got down. It will only be opened if I don't return.
It contains the name you can't bear to hear!"

There was a pause. The afternoon sun was sinking with southern
precipitancy, and Kentish had got his back to it by cool intent. He
studied the play of suppressed mortification and strenuous philosophy in
the swarthy face warmed by the reddening light; and admired the arduous
triumph of judgment over instinct, even as a certain admiration dawned
through the monocle which insensibly focussed his attention.

"And suppose," said Stingaree--"suppose you return empty as you came?"
A contemptuous kick sent a pack of letters spinning.

"I should feel under no obligation to keep your secret."

"And you think I would trust you to keep it otherwise?"

"If I gave you my word," said Kentish, "I know you would."

Stingaree made no immediate answer; but he gazed in the sun-flayed face
without suspicion.

"You wouldn't give me your word," he said at last.

"Oh, yes, I would."

"That you would die without letting that name pass your lips?"

"Unless I die delirious--with all my heart. I have as much respect for
it as you."

"As much!" echoed the bushranger, in a strange blend of bitterness and
obligation. "But how could you explain the bags? How could you have
taken them from me?"

Kentish shrugged once more.

"You left them--I found them. Or you were sleeping, but I was unarmed."

"You would lie like that--to save my name?"

"And a man whom I remember perfectly . . ."

Stingaree heard no more; he was down on his k