. It came. He
had put his little all into the venture, and now his little all was fast
approaching vanishing point.

He reached home, off-saddled his horse, and turned the animal loose into
an enclosure. By the time he had done so, and entered the house, the
episode of the sheep "slaag-ing" had almost faded from his mind. The
excitement of the discovery and the struggle past now, in the light of
more serious matter the incident seemed of small importance.

You might read something of Wyvern's temperament in the state of his
living room. Take the large table, for instance. It was littered with
books and papers covering quite two thirds of its space, a careless
heap, which gradually encroaching more and more had caused his old
Hottentot cook, and general indoor factotum, to ask grumblingly and
repeatedly how she was to find room to lay the cloth for the Baas'
dinner, with all that rubbish blocking up the whole table. There were
letters lying there too, letters unopened, which might have so remained
for a couple of days or a week. Wyvern knew or guessed what they were
all about: nothing pleasant, that was certain. Why then, should he
bother himself? He would wait till he was more in the vein. But
somehow "the vein" would be long in coming, and even unpleasant letters,
especially those of a business nature, do not improve--like cigars--by
keeping. Still--that was Wyvern.

Even the pictures on the walls, mostly framed photographs, were more or
less hung anyhow, while some were slipping out of their mounts. Of one,
however, none of this held good, and this was hung so that it faced him
where he sat at table.

It was the photograph of a girl--and a very handsome girl at that. The
eyes, large and clear, seemed to follow the inmate's every movement in
all parts of the room, while a generously moulded figure was set forth
in the three parts length of the portrait. In the firm, erect pose
there was strength, decisiveness, even a suggestion of unconventionality
perhaps. At this he gazed, with a murmured expression of ardent love,
as he dropped into his seat, and the look of weariful dejection deepened
upon his face.

"You, too, lost to me," he murmured. "You, too, passing from me. What
an utter, infernal mess I've made of things. I've a good mind to end it
all. It might even come to that some day."

His glance had gone round to an object in the further corner. It was a
shot-gun standing upright against t