Gray lost no time in starting forwards. The choice of direction made by him was determined by remembering the cypresses of which they had seen the mirage. He believed that they had been a landmark to Clay, and that his turning in another direction was but a feint.
It was difficult for Gray to decide the exact direction. The sky was heavy with clouds, and no sun could be seen behind them. But he carefully calculated as well as he could whereabouts on the horizon the trees had appeared, and turned towards that point.
He knew enough of Bush stories to know the tendency of wanderers there to travel in a circle; and in this sterile waste, where every mile was like every other mile, Gray felt he might travel round and round and never know it. To prevent this he dug shallow holes with his knife here and there, and stuck boughs of the bramble in them, so that he might recognize the spot if he came to it again.
Towards noon the clouds gradually dispersed and the sun blazed down upon him. This bettered his position in one way, as he could now be sure of walking forward, but it increased the torment of thirst until it became almost unendurable agony. He struggled on till past noonday, but no dark cypresses lifted themselves on the sky-line. The desert stretched round him in its blank, dreadful loneliness. The blazing sun beat down upon him, making sight a torture. He could go no further. He flung himself down on the unsheltered burning sand and hid his eyes from the light.
Towards evening the clouds gathered again, and he rose and struggled on. He walked many miles that night, and towards dawn lay down and slept. The second day passed much as the first had done. The sky cleared again, and the fury of the sun beat down upon him. He struggled on for a time, and again gave up the struggle and lay down and waited for evening.
On the third day his agony of thirst had become unbearable. He knew that in a few more hours death must end his sufferings if he could not reach water. With grim determination he battled on that day through the flaming sunshine and gave himself no rest. Every moment he expected to see the cypresses rise on the horizon; and he was sweeping it with his glance when his eye fell on a white object fluttering on the wind from shrub to shrub. At first he could not discern what it was—his bloodshot weary eyes refused their office—-but on approaching nearer he saw it was a piece of paper. It fluttered across his path. He picked it up with a horrible foreboding. It was Lumley's letter, written on the back of the map he had drawn in the hut.
It was just possible the wind had carried it onwards to cross his path. Gray made an effort to think that this was so. But a few staggering steps further on brought him to the shallow holes in which the brambles stood upright. He had come back to the place from which he had started! All hope died within him as he saw those hollows. He sank down on the sand to wait for death.
He was lying face downwards on the sand, with his arms flung out before him, when a low distant sound suddenly broke the stillness. He started up and looked wildly round. The twilight had fallen, and he could not distinguish objects clearly; but as he strained his gaze from side to side the sound came again to his ears—the sound of a horse galloping at full speed across the desert.
Gray could now distinguish from what direction the sound came, and he hurried forward, hope once more rising up in him. Was it Lumley come back to help him, repentant for his desertion? Or was it some lost traveller like himself, seeking a way out of these dreadful wilds? Or had Lumley sent a party to search for him from the nearest station, while going onwards himself to safety? Gray asked himself these questions as he hurried on through the gathering darkness. He still could hear the galloping hoofs, and for a time they seemed to come nearer and nearer. But suddenly he became aware that they were receding from him—the sound was becoming fainter and fainter, it was dying away in the distance.
Gray stopped. A cry of despair broke from him, and then, summoning all his strength, he raised a loud "Coo-ee!"
The shrill shout died away upon the air and left profound stillness behind it. Gray could no longer hear the faintest sound of the horse's hoofs. Either the rider had stopped to listen to his call or had gone on beyond hearing. Gray moistened his baked and blistered lips, and then again shouted. The shout again died away, leaving intense stillness behind it. But this time the stillness only lasted for a moment. There came a faint answering cry, far-off and indistinct, but unmistakably the cry of a human voice.
Gray once more hurried forward. The ground was growing rougher; it was broken up into hillocks, and his progress was less rapid. After a time he stopped and called again, and again heard the answering call. He was no longer alone in the wilderness; friendly help was near.
The moon rose as Gray hurried on, rose in full splendour, making the plain almost as light as day. Gray looked in vain for what he had hoped to see—the outline of horse and rider against the pale silvery glow of the sky. There was no horse anywhere to be seen; there was nothing to be seen but the low bushes and the bunches of dry grass, and the great circle of the desert against the horizon. But as Gray stared round him, refusing to believe the evidence of his own eyes, the shout came again—came with a mocking ring in it that made Gray's blood run suddenly cold. He knew the voice now: it was Lumley's voice. But it was as cruel and mocking as ever. Gray's dream of help from him vanished like a breath as he heard it.
He stumbled on across the sand hillocks, and presently could discern a huddled figure on the ground, with its back propped up against a hillock. The moonlight was full on the haggard blistered face that looked up at Gray with twitching lips.
"Welcome, partner," were Lumley's first words. "You didn't expect to see me again, did you now?"
Gray made no answer. He was too far gone in despair to have even a flicker of curiosity as to how Lumley came to be lying there. But Lumley proceeded to enlighten him. He thrust forward his foot, from which he had cut away the boot, and Gray could see that it was discoloured and badly swollen.
"I owe that to your cursed horse," he said, in a sulky, vindictive tone. "Just as I'd hit upon the track again, too."
Gray cast a wide glance over the moonlit plains before he spoke. But no horse was visible.
"He flung you, I suppose?" he said, in a quiet, expressionless tone. "I could have warned you not to play any tricks with him. Where is your own horse?"
The absence of vindictiveness from Gray's manner puzzled Lumley. He stared up at him, wondering what it meant.
"Dead," he said sulkily after a moment. "I'd better have stuck to you after all, you see, mate. But I'd have sent after you the first chance I had. I meant to do that all along."
He had paused before adding the last sentence, and his manner had suddenly altered, had become smooth and conciliating.
Gray did not attempt to answer him. He moved away a few paces and flung himself down on the ground, and sat with his head propped on his hands, staring straight in front of him. Lumley watched him in silence. His face showed none of the dull despair that had settled on Gray's, but was alight with fierce excitement. And the glance he bent on Gray was a strange one. There was hate in it, and longing, and a torturing doubt.
"You're pretty bad, ain't you, partner?" he said at last. "Had a bad time since we parted, I daresay."
"Did you expect me to have a good time?" Gray answered without looking at him.
"Missed the track? Been wanderin' round and round? Just what happened to me, you see, though I thought I was dead sure of my way. But I got my right bearings again—if it hadn't been for that horse of yours—"
He was tearing up fiercely the scanty grass beside him as he spoke, and there broke out a sudden fury in his face. But he thrust back the oath that came to his lips, and spoke, after a pause, in the same conciliating tone.
"We've had bad luck, both on us, haven't we, partner? And my bad luck's been yours; for I'd have sent back for you. I only meant to frighten you a bit."
"What's the good of talking about it?" Gray said wearily. "It'll soon be over for both of us now. Another day must see the last of it."
He just turned his head to speak, and then went back to his old position, his eyes staring hopelessly across the silent waste. His apathy seemed to rouse Lumley to a sort of frenzy again. With an effort that forced a groan from him he dragged himself a pace forwards and plucked Gray by the sleeve.
"You'd not sit there long if you knew what I know, you fool," he burst out. "Didn't I tell you I found my bearings again? Didn't you hear me say it?"
His excitement communicated itself to Gray. He turned round with a wild questioning glance.
"Do you mean—For God's sake tell me the truth! Do you know where we are? Is that it?"
He had not sprung up, but life and energy had come back to him. His hands clenched, his shoulders straightened themselves. He had it in him, he felt, to make a good fight for life yet.
Lumley grew cool as he saw the hope leap into Gray's face. He let go his sleeve and sank back against the hillock.
"Suppose I do know," he said in the old mocking tone; "what then, partner?"
Gray stared at him without speaking, and Lumley repeated the question:
"What then, partner?"
Gray was silent. He had fixed his eyes on Lumley's face, as if his glance could drag out the truth from him. Lumley gave him back glance for glance. Then he suddenly bent down and drew a rough circle on the sand. Gray drew close, bending towards the circle with intent eyes.
"That's where we are, partner, d'ye see?" said Lumley, making a hole with his finger in the middle of the circle; "and here's the moon," making another mark. "You're follerin' me so far, eh?"
"Yes, go on," said Gray breathlessly.
Lumley gave him a quick look from under his bushy eyebrows, and then bent over the plan again.
"Do you remember them trees we saw just afore we parted?" he said, looking on the ground as he spoke. "'Twas the sight of them made me sure we was in the right road. I made tracks for them when we parted company."
He looked up furtively at Gray again.
"You got that bit of a note I wrote you, partner?"
Gray hardly heard the words.
"Never mind that. Go on, go on!" he hurried out with passionate eagerness.
He was sure now that Lumley knew in which direction the trees lay, knew where water was to be obtained.
Lumley looked into his face with a sardonic grin. He had grown cooler and cooler as Gray's excitement rose.
"What's the hurry, partner?" he said; "there's nobody as I knows on who's likely to interrupt us. Well, as I was sayin', I made straight for them trees, but somehow I missed the track. That cloudy weather put me out, you see; and 'twasn't till near sundown last night I got sight of them."
He stopped, gave a rapid glance round the horizon, and then bent over the sand again.
"They can't be far off then?" asked Gray, who had followed his glance with breathless impatience.
"Too far off for me anyways," Lumley answered, with a quick upward look at him. "I'd tried that afore I answered your call, partner. Did you think 'twas me, now, when you got an answer? I knew 'twas you in a minute."
"I don't know; I forget. What's the good of wasting time like this?" cried Gray, getting suddenly on his feet. "Tell me which way to go. I can do it now, but in another hour or two it will be too late. Which way? Be quick!"
"It can't be more than half a dozen miles or so," returned Lumley in a slow reflective tone that almost drove Gray out of his senses with impatience. "You make a bee-line for the trees, and then strike off to the left where the ridge is, and it's just over the ridge that there's water. Yards of it, partner, all shining and sparkling in the moonlight. Why, you could be close to it in an hour almost. And there's no mistake about it; it isn't no salt-pan, but fresh water fit for a king to drink. I've seen it afore me all the time I've been lyin' here. Can't you see it, partner?"
It was a maddening vision which Lumley's words had called up before Gray. A cool stretch of limpid, shining water—there it lay before him, close to him. He was kneeling down by it, plunging his fevered face into it, slaking the thirst that was burning his life away. And it meant life, that cool, delicious draught; it meant more than life—it meant opportunity for atonement, for undoing, as far as in him lay, the wrong he had done, for proving his repentance a real and lasting one.
Lumley was stooping over the sand, but his eyes were on Gray's face, and he saw all the eagerness in it. He saw it, and interpreted it according to his own nature. He broke into a harsh laugh, and with a sweep of one hand on the sand, he destroyed the rough chart he had made.
"You'd like to start this minute, wouldn't you, partner? and the crows might make their meal off me. I saw a flock of them nigh here yesterday; they're waiting for their feast. You wouldn't like to disappoint them, would you?"
Gray did not comprehend him in the least.
"Don't waste time like this," he said imploringly; "let me be off at once. I could be back to you by sunrise if I have good luck. And you have a bottle about you, haven't you? Let me have it. And who knows?—I may fall in with the horse."
Lumley laughed again.
"So you may, partner, so you may. 'Twas the smell of the water that drove him frantic, I believe. He made straight for it. And there's the swag upon him, and the pistols, and the grub. You'll be well set up if you come across the horse."
A sudden terror had come upon Gray as he listened to this speech of Lumley's, and looked down upon his sneering, evil face.
"You are playing with me!" he burst out, and the cold sweat stood out upon his brow as he said it. "You know nothing of the water!"
Lumley paused a moment before answering that last speech of Gray's. Then his tone was mild and smooth.
"What's the good of talking like that, mate? But just look there." He pointed to his foot again as he spoke. "Does it look as if 'twould carry me half a dozen miles? Or a mile? Or a couple of yards? And I've hurt my side as well. Broke a rib or two, maybe. I tried crawlin' a while ago, but I couldn't even manage that. I'm no better than a log—only fit for the crows, partner. What's the good of water to me when I can't get at it?"
His tone was so mild and reasonable that Gray felt no difficulty in answering him.
"But half a dozen miles is nothing to me. Give me that bottle. I'll be back before sunrise." He paused a moment, and then as he saw the expression in the other's face he added impetuously, "I swear it. Good heavens, Lumley, you don't think I would desert you? You don't think that?"
The fury that had once or twice swept away Lumley's coolness had come upon him again, and he no longer cared to restrain it. He lifted himself, shaking one clenched fist towards Gray.
"Do you think I'd trust you for a single minute, you smooth-tongued hypocrite!" he screamed. "You'd be glad enough to leave me lyin' here, wouldn't you? But you're not going to get the chance, Mr. Gentleman Gray. We'll stick together, like partners should. The crows sha'n't feast on me alone, I'll tell you that."
Gray made no attempt to answer him just then. When Lumley stopped speaking and sank back with a groan of pain on the sand, Gray turned and walked away a few paces, and stood trying to get some mastery over the trembling sick misery that seemed ready to overpower him. There was no anger in his heart against the man whose deep, laboured breaths he could still hear behind him. It was only natural, Gray said to himself, that he should believe him capable of deserting him. He had deserved to be thought willing to commit even such a baseness as that.
Yet if he could not convince Lumley that he was to be trusted, there was nothing but death for both of them. Gray had felt incapable of reasoning with his companion for the moment, incapable even of speech. He had felt ready to give up the struggle—to let it all end there. But as he stood fighting manfully with his weakness, strength came to him—power to will and act as a brave man should. The far-off moon-clear skyline, the stars faintly shining in the upper blue, the solemn moonlight, the rustle of the wind in the dry grasses, all seemed to have a message for him—to whisper hope, to lift him out of himself, to give him courage to make another fight for life.
He went back to Lumley, and sat down again where he had sat before.
"Listen to me a moment, Lumley," he said. "You say you know where water is?"
"SayI know? Idoknow, partner; you may lay your life to that," responded Lumley harshly.
He had been lying watching Gray, wondering what his next move would be. Gray's quiet manner was a surprise to him.
"Very well, you do know. Now, I will tell you what I am going to do. I shall wait a few moments for you to tell me where it lies—"
"You may wait a hundred years if you like," broke in Lumley with a savage look.
"And then I mean to set off to try and find it for myself," went on Gray, as if Lumley had not spoken. "You have told me too much if you did not mean to tell me more. I shall walk six miles in one direction, and if I do not get in sight of the trees, I shall walk back and try again. I must hit upon them at last, you know."
"You'd never do it," said Lumley scoffingly. "You're nigh beat already. You'd die in your tracks."
"You're wrong there," returned Gray, with a quiet confidence that had its due effect on his companion. "I shall not be walking aimlessly, you see, and in this moonlight there's no fear of going over the same ground again. I am convinced I shall reach the water in time enough for myself. It is you who will probably suffer for keeping back the information you possess."
"What d'ye mean by that?" broke from Lumley fiercely.
"Just this," said Gray, keeping his glance steadily fixed upon him: "if I could reach this water without delay I should be able to get back to you with a supply; but if I wear out my strength in getting there, I may not be able to get back to you in time. Surely you can see that?"
Lumley glared at him like a trapped beast.
"You're just the one to come back, ain't you?" he exclaimed. "A cove what murdered his own mate for a bit of flimsy. You're one to be trusted, ain't you?"
"You must believe that if you will," said Gray calmly. His voice faltered as he went on after a momentary pause. "I betrayed my mate—the truest, best mate man ever had; but I'll be true to you, Lumley, if you'll give me the chance. I am not the man I was."
The only answer Lumley vouchsafed to that was a harsh mocking laugh. Gray did not speak again, and they sat in silence for some moments, while Lumley dragged up his injured foot and rubbed it, keeping a furtive scrutiny on Gray's determined face. When he had first heard Gray's call and answered it, he had not made up his mind as to whether he should trust him or no, and through their first talk he had wavered to and fro—now feeling ready to risk the chance that Gray would come back to him, now savagely vowing within himself that they should both die, almost within sight of the water that would be life to them, rather than Gray should alone escape. At the last this savage mood had conquered, and he had felt it impossible to trust Gray with his precious secret.
But now he began to see clearly enough that he had outwitted himself. The trees were so near, and such a striking landmark, that Gray was certain to find them if he had strength enough to persevere for some hours in the search; and that he had strength enough, Lumley could not but believe as he looked at his quiet resolute face.
The silence continued for some moments. It was broken by Gray.
"I think I have given you time enough," he said, getting deliberately on his feet. "Now, which is it to be, Lumley? I shall start in another moment."
A fierce oath escaped Lumley's lips.
"I'll not be left to rot here," he snarled out. "I'll walk it somehow. Give me your arm, partner."
He made a clutch at it, and dragged himself slowly and painfully to his feet. The agony of movement turned Lumley's face to the clammy hue of death, but he would not give way to the pain. He essayed to walk forward, but after the first step Gray stood still.
"You can't do it, Lumley. It is madness to attempt it."
Lumley glared at him for a moment, and then suddenly yielded.
"You're right, partner; I'm beat. You've got the best of it this time. Now help me back again, and I'll tell you all I know."
Gray helped him back to the hillock, and put his foot in as comfortable a position as possible.
"I'll be back to you before many hours are over, Lumley. I'll make all the haste I can," he said, his tone softened by a sudden pity for the disabled man.
Lumley looked up at him with implacable eyes.
"Ill believe you when I see you, mate. But you've bested me all round, and I've got to trust you, you see."
He dragged out the flat bottle from his pocket, and held it up to Gray.
"Turn your back on the moon and walk straight on; and if I ever see you again you're a bigger fool than I take you for."
"I shall come back," Gray said briefly.
He pocketed the bottle, and turned sharply away in the direction Lumley had pointed out.
He was hardly conscious of fatigue as he pressed across the sandy waste. Even the torture of thirst had grown less since hope had come to him. He hurried on with strong, eager footsteps, expecting every moment to see the trees lift themselves against the sky. Once the terrible thought came to him that Lumley had been deceiving him all the time, and his story of the water was a lie; but as he remembered Lumley's looks and words, and recalled the intensity of excitement in his face when he had left him, he knew that there was indeed water close at hand. Then, again, when he seemed to have been walking for a long time, and the horizon still lay before him bare and unbroken, he began to suspect that Lumley had wilfully misled him, and the water lay in another direction.
But it was almost immediately after this that his foot struck against a shrub, and looking down he saw he had come upon a banksia, a sign, as he was bushman enough to know, that better country was close ahead. The green leaves of the pretty little shrub were a welcome sight, and it was shortly after passing this that he saw the tops of the cypresses begin to show themselves against the sky-line, as the mast of a ship lifts first above the sea-line.
Gray pushed on with renewed energy, and it was not long before he was close to the gloomy trees. A cloud of birds, the crows Lumley had spoken of, rose from the trees as Gray approached, and flew screaming over his head. He listened to their harsh voices with a shudder, and hastily struck away to the left, where a low ridge crossed the plain and hid what lay beyond.
It took him some time to reach and breast the ridge, and his strength was nearly at an end when he at last gained the top and looked down on the shallow valley below. He could not see the shining stretch of water Lumley had spoken of, the valley was too thickly covered with shrubby undergrowth for that. But even in the moonlight Gray could see that this undergrowth was densely green, and that the trees that sprang above it were full of life and vigour.
And as he descended the ridge he came upon a faint track through the underwood—a native track, Gray felt sure, and one that led to the water. He hurried along it, piercing deeper and deeper into the dark recesses of the wood. But the darkness had no terrors for Gray. He felt the track under his feet, and pressed boldly onward, pushing away the interlacing boughs with his hands as he went. And presently there came a faint light through the trees ahead, and in a few more steps he came out into a little open space, and saw the reflection of the moonlight in a round, deeply-fringed pool close before him.
For the moment he saw nothing but the glimmering sheen of that water. He flung himself down with a cry, and plunged his face in it. It was stagnant, it was thick with mud and floating weeds, but it was fresh, and to Gray it was purest nectar. He had self-control enough left not to drink too much at once, but he lay by the side of the pool with hands and arms buried deep in it, utterly oblivious for the moment of everything but the mere physical delight the water brought to him.
How long he lay there he never knew. He could never recall that time except as a vague memory. He could remember breaking out of the wood and seeing the little moonlit pool before him, but after that it was all confused. What brought him back to clear consciousness was a movement somewhere on the other side of the pool, where the branches of a tree cast a flickering shadow on the grass. Gray started up, dizzy and trembling; but his first glance showed him what it was. His horse had found its way to the water before him, drawn by some sure and marvellous instinct, and now had drawn close again to the pool, gazing across at its master with mild recognizing eyes.
Gray cautiously approached it, fearing it might start away; but it showed no desire to escape. It arched its neck and whinnied joyfully when Gray came close. It was evidently delighted to feel its master's hand again. Gray stood by its side, patting it and speaking to it, finding strange delight in its joyful welcome. The wallet containing the money still hung at the saddle, with the rough bag in which Lumley had carried the food.
Gray, standing by the horse, took out some food and hurriedly ate it. He would not trust himself to sit down again; he felt that sleep might suddenly overcome him unawares. When he had eaten a few morsels—he found it too difficult to swallow to be able to eat much—he carefully filled the bottle he carried, and the larger bottle that was in the bag with the food, drank a deep draught himself and allowed his horse to drink, and then, holding the horse by the bridle, he began to pick his way along the path by which he had come.
The horse followed him quietly; it was only when they emerged from the wood and began to ascend the slope of the ridge that it showed the first signs of unwillingness. Gray had to encourage it by voice and hand before he could prevail upon it to take the upward path.
Gray was able to discern more clearly now how worn out the poor creature was by all it had gone through. He felt an impulse once to let it have its way, and let it remain in the valley, but he dismissed the impulse at once. The horse was too useful, too necessary to be dispensed with.
They reached the brow of the ridge, and there Gray rested for a while. He had not mounted the horse, he had determined to go on leading it for some time longer at least. He doubted if it had strength left to carry him. He stood beside the horse with the bridle in his hand, and looked down upon the vast plain stretching away from the foot of the ridge.
Up to that point Gray, since finding the horse, had acted instinctively, almost as an automaton might act. He was so worn out, so numb with privation and fatigue, that he had not gone in thought beyond the present moment. But now it was as if a cloud had lifted from his brain; he saw the whole position in a glance. What had been his heart's dearest wish was fulfilled for him. All he had coveted, all he had betrayed his mate Harding to get, was at last within his grasp. He had but to turn his horse's head away from that silent, secret-keeping bush, and the gold was safely his.
Gray did not thrust the thought from him; he let his mind dwell upon it, he regarded it steadily; for his eyes had been opened to see in what the real happiness and worth of life consisted. Through suffering and humiliation he had learnt to measure things at their right value. In contact with a man who had deliberately chosen evil to be his good he had been taught what evil meant. The temptation that had once been too strong for him was no longer a temptation. He could see the full baseness of it now. Better death, better open confession and a dishonoured name, than life and honour bought by treachery and guile.
The trees stood up dark and funereal against the cloudless sky. His path lay beneath them, and on towards the moonlit east.
"Come, we must start, old fellow," Gray said to the reluctant horse, and he began to descend the slope of the ridge.
The dawn was breaking when Gray approached the spot where Lumley lay. He had walked the whole distance, for his horse was evidently too dead-beat to carry him. He had had no difficulty in keeping to the right track. Indeed he had calculated so well, that when he first stopped and "coo-eed" to make sure he was going right, Lumley's answer had come from a point straight ahead, and no considerable distance off.
Lumley had seen him before that call. Though he had told himself again and again that Gray would never come back, that it was too much in his interest to leave him there to die, his eyes had anxiously watched the western horizon.
There had been something in Gray's look when he had spoken his last words that had impressed Lumley powerfully, and so it was not altogether a surprise to him when he at last could distinguish a dark, moving object against the sky. The surprise came later when he was able to discern that Gray was leading his horse with him.
A strange change came over Lumley's face when he realized that; his thin lips set themselves together, his brows contracted with a frown of anxious thought, his eyes grew like the stealthy, waiting eyes of a beast of prey which has not the strength to attack its victim in the open, but lurks in ambush and springs upon it unawares.
With that look on his face he watched Gray approaching him through the clear rosy light of the sunrise, but it was gone before Gray came near enough to see his face clearly. He made an effort at a smile of grateful welcome.
"So you haven't left me to the crows, partner?" he said, raising himself on his elbow as he spoke to grasp the bottle Gray held out to him. "I'm glad enough to see you, I can tell you that."
Gray nodded silently, and then went back to the horse and took the bags from the saddle. He brought them to the spot where Lumley was lying, and flung them down at his side. He saw that Lumley had done little more than wet his lips from the bottle, but that he had torn some strips from the lining of his coat, and was proceeding to pour water on them with a careful hand.
"You'd better let me do that for you," Gray said quietly. "And there is more water, Lumley; take another pull. I can fill the bottles again if they are empty before you can move."
He had knelt down as he spoke, and taken the wet rags from Lumley's hand to bind round his injured foot.
"The horse will have to carry me," said Lumley after watching Gray's bandaging for a moment. "You found him by the water, didn't you, partner?"
"Yes, close by it."
Lumley eyed the horse with a quick furtive glance, and then looked at Gray again.
"Did you tramp it all the way, partner? I'd have let the horse save my legs if I'd been you."
"He's dead beat," Gray said briefly. "He had enough to carry."
Lumley's eyes turned involuntarily to the bags at his side. He had avoided looking at them since Gray had placed them by him.
"'Tis a mercy we've got the grub all right, ain't it, partner?" he said. "Though I'm blessed if I feel a bit peckish. 'Twas water I wanted."
He drank a little from the bottle and corked it again. Gray marvelled at the self-control he showed in taking so little.
"I'd finish that bottle right away if I were you, Lumley," he said. "It's only a few mouthfuls after all. I sha'n't want any more for a good time yet."
Lumley took another sip and then put the bottle away from him.
"'Tain't good to take too much at once, partner. And so you found it pretty easy, eh? Now, how far should you reckon it?"
"Perhaps eight or nine miles."
Gray had finished his bandaging, and had opened the bag containing the food. As he sat down on the ground near Lumley he pushed the wallet of money from him with his elbow, but Lumley did not give it a glance. Neither he nor Gray had yet referred to it.
"Here's the other bottle of water," Gray said, taking it out and sticking it in the sand. "And here's the damper." He took out some of the dry uninviting scraps and laid them close to Lumley. "There's nothing else," he added, looking into the bag.
Lumley gave a quick glance at the bag.
"Didn't I put the pistols there, mate? I haven't got 'em about me." He spoke carelessly.
"Oh, they're here," Gray returned. "But that's all the food left. Still, there's enough to last us for a day or two."
"A kind of grim sort of picnic, isn't it?" said Lumley with a grin, as he took up a bit of damper. He ate a few mouthfuls and then drew out the bottle for another sip. "Here's to you, partner," he said with an awkward nod at Gray, "and good luck to both on us."
Gray returned his nod, but made no answer in words. Lumley put back the bottle again, and watched him for a moment from beneath his heavy brows.
"You don't bear no malice, I hope, mate?" he said suddenly.
Gray raised his heavy eyes and looked at him inquiringly.
"I was pretty rough on you last night," went on Lumley in a persuasive, apologetic tone; "but I was drove up in a corner, you see. I'd served you so bad that I reckoned you'd be glad enough to pay me out. Though I'd have sent back for you from the nearest station, partner. I meant that all along."
Gray did not believe him, but he did not think it worth while to tell him so.
"We'll let bygones be bygones, Lumley," he said in a friendly tone. "We've both had a hard time of it, but it's nearly over now, I hope. And you'll be able to trust me for the future."
"So I shall, so I shall, partner," returned Lumley rapidly. "'Tisn't many as would have come back—not after they'd got the horse and everything. What a bit of luck 'twould have been for you if you'd come back and found me dead. Didn't you hope you would, now?"
"No," said Gray. He got slowly up and looked round for a hillock that would give him a little shelter from the sun. "I must get a sleep," he said. "I shall be fit for nothing till I've had that. I'm dizzy for want of it."
Lumley was staring up at him with sudden fierce suspicion in his glance. A new thought had struck him. Ever since he had seen Gray with the horse he had been wondering what had made him come back. Such refusal of good fortune seemed inexplicable to him.
"You didn't come across the police, did you?" he said. "You've not set a trap for me?"
But even as he said it he saw how unfounded his suspicion was, and the sudden fierceness left his face, giving way to the anxious, apologetic look it had worn all through his late talk with Gray.
"I haven't seen anyone," Gray said indifferently.
He moved away as he spoke, and Lumley watched him settle himself for a sleep a little distance off. Gray lay down with his back to him, under the scanty shade of a hillock, and drew his hat over his eyes.
Lumley watched him intently till he had satisfied himself that he had fallen into a deep sleep. Then he made a quick clutch at the wallet of money, and drew it close to him. He hurriedly counted it over, giving furtive looks at Gray the while. Once Gray moved, and he crushed the notes he held back into the bag, and pushed the bag from him. But Gray did not move again, and after a pause he resumed his counting. When he had satisfied himself that the money was all there he replaced it in the wallet, which he put back into its original position.
He then, in the same cautious, hurried way, examined the pistols, and replaced them in the bag. He left them there for a moment, then took one out again, and thrust it into his pocket. But he changed his mind after a short consideration, took out the pistol from his pocket and replaced it in the bag. Then he poured some water on the rags Gray had bound round his foot, took a sparing sip from the bottle, and having corked it and pushed it back into the sand, turned himself round to get a sleep; and almost at once sleep, heavy and dreamless, came to him.
Many hours elapsed before either of the men awoke. It was Gray who came back to consciousness first. He was roused by the glare of the sun on his face, and sitting drowsily up he saw that it had travelled right across the sky while he slept, and was now declining towards the west. His next glance showed him the horse languidly cropping the dry grass some few paces off, and Lumley asleep with one arm flung up above his head.
But almost at once, before his eyes had travelled away from him, Lumley awoke. He raised himself quickly, looking round him with a wild suspicious stare and thrusting out a hand to clutch the bag of money at his side.
Gray got up and slowly approached him.
"How is your foot?" he asked.
"Bad," returned Lumley with a groan.
He said no more, and Gray sat down by him in silence. Lumley drew up his foot and began to wet the bandages again.
"The pain's worse than ever," he muttered, without looking at Gray.
"The water will do it good," replied Gray.
He drew the bag of food towards him as he spoke. "I believe I can eat something now," he said. "That sleep has done me any amount of good."
"How long have you been awake?" asked Lumley, with one of his quick glances.
"Not more than two minutes. I must have slept pretty nearly all day by the look of the sun."
"That's just what you've done, partner," returned Lumley, without saying he had done the same. He looked across at the horse. "What do you think of him?" he asked, with a nod towards it. "Doesn't look up to much in my opinion."
"I think the sooner we can start the better," answered Gray. "The poor old fellow can get nothing here. What do you think? Could you manage to mount him?"
Lumley shook his head in decided negative.
"Let's see what my foot's like to-morrow, partner. I couldn't stand on it to-day to save my life."
"The sooner we get off the better," Gray returned.
Lumley made no reply to this.
"You found the water just as I said, didn't you?" he asked presently. "'Tis years agone since I was in this part, but I was sure of it."
"I expect the place is a good deal overgrown since then," replied Gray. "You can't see any water from the ridge, but there's a track leading to it. I had no difficulty."
Lumley listened intently, but did not pursue the subject of the water.
"There's a station not so far off. We'll have to get on there and rest a bit," was his next remark.
"You know the way I suppose?" asked Gray.
"I know it well enough. You won't get lost again, I promise you."
He was slowly rubbing his leg as he spoke, with his face turned from Gray.
"Couldn't I find it by myself?" said Gray after a moment. "They'd send a wagon back for you."
Lumley gave a curious sort of chuckle.
"We'll see, partner, we'll see. We won't part company again unless we're forced to. And while I think about it, there's a little point we've got to settle." He stopped rubbing his leg, and turned his pale blue eyes full on Gray. "What about this?" He touched the wallet of money with his elbow. "Share and share alike, eh?"
Gray had been expecting a question of this sort. He returned Lumley's glance as steadily as he could.
"I shall tell the whole story to the first responsible person we meet, and hand the money over to him for safe keeping."
"Which story are you goin' to tell, if I may make so bold as to ask?" said Lumley with an ugly smile. "You've forgot, maybe, about the reward you meant to claim. You told me that was all you wanted when first we met, you know, mate."
"I told you a lie. I meant to steal the money just as much as you did," returned Gray quietly. He waited a moment, and then went nervously on. "I need not mention your name to the authorities, Lumley, but I wish you could come to see as I do. When a man's been face to face with death, as you and I have, he begins to learn the truth about himself."
Gray's voice faltered before he stopped speaking, and he did not say all he had wished to say. Lumley's cold mocking glance was too hard to bear.
"You're as good as a parson, ain't you, partner? But you've always took the virtuous line, ever since we've been together. Why, the first time I set eyes on you you preached to me; and now you're at it again! I never did see such a chap for sermons."
Gray's face grew scarlet.
"You can't think worse of me than I do of myself," he returned; "but I mean what I say about the money, Lumley,—I mean every word of that."
"Well, you're master, I s'pose," the other returned with an odd look that Gray remembered afterwards. "But no tricks, mind; no going in for the reward when my back's turned, mate; though, p'r'aps, you'll not get the chance."
"I think I've proved to you whether or not you can trust me now," said Gray, with just a touch of the old superiority in his tone.
Lumley gave a short laugh.
"Yes, you'd best stick to the virtuous line, partner. You're not cut out for any other; you're too soft-hearted and afraid. P'r'aps you thought my ghost would haunt you unless you came back—but I don't believe in ghosts, mate."
Gray made some answer, he hardly knew what, and presently he got up and moved away.
A shiver went over him once or twice as he stood talking to his horse, who had come up to him as he left Lumley. He had involuntarily recalled Lumley's mocking, incredulous look when he had tried to speak of the change his sufferings had wrought in him.
Next morning Lumley complained that his foot was worse than ever, and that it would be impossible for him to mount the horse that day. Gray did his best to persuade him at least to try, but with no effect. And Lumley positively declined to let Gray ride on to the station.
"I shall be able to start to-morrow," he declared; "and we can do all right till then."
There followed a day that Gray found very hard to bear. The moments seemed to lengthen themselves out into hours, the hours into weeks—the day seemed as if it would never end. It passed at last, and the night came—a lovely moonlight night like the last.
Gray had not slept during the day, and he hardly expected to sleep during the night; he felt too feverishly eager for the morning. But sometime after midnight he fell into a troubled, restless slumber. It was still bright moonlight when he awoke; the east showed no sign of dawn.
He woke suddenly with a strange sense of terror upon him. He started up, and looked suspiciously round. The horse was there, not far from the spot where he had last seen it, but Lumley was no longer lying against the hillock, and in his first hasty glance Gray failed to find him. But a rough laugh broke on his ear.
"Don't go off your head with fright, partner," called out Lumley, who was crouching on the ground close beside the horse. "I've just been tryin' my strength a bit. We can start at sunrise, if you like."
Gray walked slowly across to him.
"How did you manage to get here?" he said wonderingly.
Lumley had got hold of the bridle of the horse, but he let it go as Gray approached.
"Crawled on my hands and feet," he said. "And a pretty hard bit of work it's been."
Gray could see he was much exhausted. His face was deathly pale, and there were great drops of sweat upon it, brought there by the pain he had gone through. He had been trying to mount the horse by his unaided efforts, and had given up the attempt in despair just before Gray woke. But he did not tell Gray this, and Gray did not guess it.
"You should have waited till I could help you," Gray said after a moment. "I hardly understand how you can have got so far. Your foot must be much better."
He was still looking down on Lumley with a wondering look He saw that he had fastened the wallet of money round his shoulders, and was half lying upon it with one arm tightly grasping it.
"P'r'aps you think I was tryin' to clear off?" said Lumley sulkily; "what would be the good of tryin' that. You know the way now, don't you? You'd be pretty soon on my tracks. And, besides, I'm not much better than a log; I can't do without you yet, partner."
Suspicion after suspicion flashed through Gray's mind, only to be dismissed at once.
It was impossible, he said to himself, that Lumley could be meditating foul play against the man who had saved his life. And, besides, it was as he said, he could not do without him.
Lumley read his thoughts correctly enough.
"You needn't stare at a cove like that," he said in the same sulky tone. "You were so mighty anxious to get off I thought I'd try what I could do. And we can start at sunrise, mate. You'll not have much longer to spend in company with me; you'll be glad of that, won't you? I'm not good enough for the likes of you."
"Couldn't we start before sunrise?" Gray said quietly; "it's almost as light as day now."
"It'll be dark as pitch in another hour when the moon goes down. And I want a rest," returned Lumley; "I'm not goin' to stir from here till sunrise for anybody, Mr. Gentleman Gray."
His sulky rage reassured Gray more than smooth language would have done, as Lumley perhaps had guessed.
"Very well, at sunrise, then," he said, and turned away to lie down again in his old place.
The moon went down, and, as Lumley had said, there followed an hour of darkness in which the stars shone forth with undimmed splendour.
Gray lay on the ground staring up at them. A little way off Lumley was stealthily watching him, wondering what his thoughts were. But Gray had forgotten Lumley—he was thinking of Harding.
It was just before sunrise that they started on their way; Lumley riding the horse, and Gray walking by the horse's side. It was with great difficulty that Gray had managed to get his companion on the horse. Lumley had made it more difficult than it need have been. He was anxious that Gray should believe his foot was much worse than it really was. The night before he had found himself quite capable of getting rapidly along on hands and feet, and even of standing for a moment, holding on by the horse.
"Goes like a lamb, don't he?" he said to Gray as they went across the plain. "No fear of his kicking up his heels again, is there?"
"Not much," said Gray with a pitiful look at the poor worn-out creature.
"Well, he won't run off with anything this time," said Lumley with a laugh; "I've taken care of that. But he'll go straight for the water again, that's what he'll do, and carry me with him."
Lumley spoke again after a moment
"You might go after that wagon when we get to water, partner. What do you think of that plan, eh?"
"I think it's the best plan."
"And you could take the money with you, couldn't you? I suppose you wouldn't leave it with me?"
"I had better take it," Gray answered heavily.
Lumley darted a suspicious glance at him.
"You're down in the mouth, ain't you, partner? You'd better be advised by me." He stopped the horse. "Come, mate, let's strike a bargain. Share and share alike. Half of it's a pretty pile for any cove. And who'd be the wiser or the worse for it? You go off to England and live like the gentleman you are. I'll not blow on you, and nobody else knows a word about it. Come, there's a fair offer; and I mean it, mind you."
Gray looked steadily up at him.
"It's no good, Lumley; nothing you could say would tempt me. You're wasting your words."
A sulky frown settled on Lumley's face. He jerked on the horse.
"Wastin' my words, am I? I won't waste any more of 'em. You can do as you like."
They went on in silence for some time. Gray broke it.
"There are the trees," he said.
Lumley gave a sudden start, and Gray saw his face change colour.
"I didn't expect 'em so soon," he said huskily. He stared at them with a gloomy troubled look, and then glanced at Gray, who was walking on a pace or two ahead with his head sunk on his breast. Lumley's hand stole to his pocket. There was a pistol there. He gripped it, then let it go and dragged his hand away.
"Look here, partner," he cried out hoarsely.
Gray turned round.
"You'll leave us the reward? The bank will pay it in a jiffy, and glad enough. You ain't goin' to be fool enough to lose us that?"
Gray's face set in stern determination.
"You are wasting your words, as I told you just now. What claim have we to the reward? They don't reward thieves for returning what they stole. I have told you what I mean to do. I shall do it."
Lumley's hand had gone back to his pocket, and lay hidden there. He did not speak again for some moments. They were full in sight of the trees now, and to the left the low ridge had become visible.
"We'd better strike off here, I think," said Gray. "It will be easier for the horse a little lower down."
They turned as he suggested.
"It's pretty close now, ain't it?" asked Lumley huskily.
"Just over the ridge. The track was plain enough, even by moonlight, We can't miss it."
Lumley made no answer, but the moment after he came to a stand-still.
"What's the matter with the horse?" he exclaimed. "It's dead lame."
Gray turned round and looked at it
"A stone in the hoof, perhaps," he said, bending down to take a look.
The moment he stooped Lumley drew out his pistol and took aim at him. Gray's life was saved by the horse. As he bent down and lifted up the hoof it made a sudden, violent swerve away from him. It was at that moment Lumley pulled the trigger. The bullet whistled past Gray's head, and he sprang up, dazed and horrified, but quite unhurt, and made a clutch at Lumley's arm. But the arm was already lifted with the smoking pistol in it, and it descended with crushing force on Gray's upturned brow. Lumley had no need to repeat the blow. Gray fell back without a groan, and lay upon the earth as senseless and motionless as one already dead. For the moment Lumley thought he was dead.
A TREACHEROUS BLOWA TREACHEROUS BLOW
"He brought it on himself," he muttered, as he stared down at the still figure. And then added, "I'll make sure; it's safest."
He levelled his pistol again, but he did not fire. His arm fell by his side. He could not fire. An oath at his own weakness broke from his lips. He thrust from him the pity that had taken the strength from his arm, and raised the pistol again. He meant to fire this time. But his opportunity was gone. The horse had been straining at the reins ever since he had fired, and now with a sudden jerk it got its head free and bolted off at a wild gallop along the bottom of the ridge. Lumley clutched at the reins again, but the horse was beyond control, and he had the utmost difficulty in keeping his seat. He tried to turn the horse up the ridge, but the frantic animal rushed blindly on. It was mad with terror.
The blow had badly stunned Gray, and it was some time before he recovered consciousness. Even then he could not recall clearly what had happened or where he was, but lay looking up at the sky, trying vainly to get his confused thoughts clear.
After a few moments he raised himself slowly and languidly on his arm, and looked round him. The trees were close at hand. There were crows sitting on them watching him, and on the sand not far off him two or three more had stationed themselves. Quite near them there lay something that Gray recognized with a thrill. It was the pistol Lumley had dropped as the horse dashed away.
Gray could remember it all now. He lived over again that terrible moment when the bullet had sung past his ear, and he had leapt up to clutch Lumley's murderous arm. But where was Lumley?
Gray raised himself into a sitting posture as he asked himself that question, and looked up the ridge, half expecting to see Lumley just crossing it to the water below; but the ridge showed no signs of him or of the horse. Yet as Gray looked and listened he could plainly hear the sound of galloping hoofs, just as he had heard them two nights before.
He turned his head away from the ridge, and looked in the opposite direction. And then with a cry he staggered to his feet. The horse was coming rapidly towards him with Lumley clinging to it, his body thrown forwards, his arms clutching the horse's neck.
"Help me! Save me! Stop the horse!" broke in shrill cries from the lips of the terrified man as he was whirled past Gray.
Gray staggered forward and made a clutch at the hanging rein; but he might as well have tried to stop a whirlwind. The horse dashed past him along the ridge, in the path it had traversed before, and then, as before, swerved aside and rushed away into the Bush.
Gray sank back upon the ground, and covered his face with his hands. He could do nothing.
It was not long before he heard the sound of the returning hoofs. He struggled to his feet once more and looked.
The horse was coming back on its path, swaying wildly from side to side, with foaming mouth and staring eyeballs; and this time no terrified, white-faced suppliant was clinging to its back shrieking out to Gray for help. The horse was riderless!
Riderless! But what was that dark lifeless weight hanging by the stirrup, dragged across sand and bramble as the horse staggered on? A sickening, paralysing fear took possession of Gray as he saw and knew. He stood with his eyes fixed upon it unable to move.
The horse staggered on, but not far. It suddenly gave a dreadful cry and fell. There was a struggle, a moan, and then it lay still, as still as the dead body by its side.
Gray drew near, drew close. He looked down upon the face of the man who had deserted him, and attempted to murder him. Then with difficulty he dragged the body from under the horse and straightened it out. The wallet containing the money fell from the shoulders of the dead man as he did so, and opened, showing the gold and notes. Gray did not even look at them. He laid the body out in decent fashion, and covered the dreadful face.
Then he stumbled away across the sands, caring not whither he went, caring only to get away from the spot where the dead man lay. His eyes were burning and throbbing, there was a great singing in his ears. He sank down again. His limbs refused to carry him further. Then came a sudden silence, a great darkness, and he knew no more.
When Gray came to himself again he was lying on a bank of green herbage under the shadow of a mighty tree. The boughs kept up a pleasant murmuring. Bright-hued birds were flitting to and fro, now in the shadow, now in the sunshine. Through the waving boughs Gray could see a blue sky shining.
It was all so beautiful, so unlike the scene on which his eyes had closed, that he could not believe it to be real. It was a fevered dream, he said to himself; and presently he would awake and see the vast sun-baked plains stretching round him in their awful loneliness, andthat thinglying not far off beside the horse.
But the dream lasted! He slept and woke again, and still the trees waved above him and the birds fluttered to and fro. He could even hear now the tinkling of bells not far off, such as oxen wear upon their heads. He lifted himself on his elbow, for he was too weak to rise, and looked round him. As he raised himself he saw a dog lying a few feet off, with its head between its paws, gazing at him with brown intelligent eyes. Gray fell back on the bank. The dog might have been Harding's dog. The sight of him brought back the past again. He remembered all he had done, and the wish rose in him that he had died like Lumley, that—
But the thought was never finished, for at that moment a hand was laid upon his shoulder, a cheery voice sounded in his ears. Gray dropped his hands and looked up with a wild glad cry. It was Harding's self who stood at his side!—thinner, paler, with white streaks in his brown hair that were new to Gray, but Harding's very self.
"Don't speak, don't try to speak, my lad," he said, sitting down by Gray and taking his hand. Gray held that rough brown hand tight, putting his other hand over it, and looking into Harding's face with eyes that could scarce believe the reality of the joy that had come to him. But memory came to cloud the rapture of that first moment.
"I am not fit to touch your hands, Harding," he said in a low voice. But he did not attempt to let go his grasp, and Harding stretched out his other hand and laid it on his shoulder.
"You mustn't talk, old fellow; you've been ill, you know. No, I won't hear anything just now," he added, as Gray attempted to speak; "I'm spokesman just now. Don't you want to know—" He made a sudden, awkward stop, and then continued lamely:
"I'm all right, you see. Got picked up by some friendly black fellows. I'd hurt my leg, you see, and couldn't walk. They carried me with them till I could tell them who I was. I had a touch of fever, and was out of my head for a time; but they nursed me well. I was off my head a while, you see, and they carried me along with 'em. We were crossing a bit of the bush when I got myself again. And I found—" Harding stopped and cast a hasty, commiserating glance at Gray. "Well, I found that map you'd drawn, and the letter on t'other side. It didn't take me long to put two and two together, you know."
Gray had turned from him and hidden his face. Harding stretched out his hand again and put it on his shoulder.
"Well, I got two of the trackers, clever fellows, and we hit upon your trail; and found you, you see."
"Did you—did you—" Gray could not finish.
"We buried him," Harding said shortly. "And I've got the money in the wagon. We sent over to Ford's for a wagon. You were close to water, lad, if you'd only known it."
"I knew it," said Gray; "we had water."
Harding looked inquiringly at him.
"It's a long story," said Gray. A shudder went over him, and he hurried on. "He got out of the track when he left me, and I found him. The horse had thrown him, and he had hurt his foot, but he knew where the water was and I got it. And I found the horse by the water."
Harding put his hand on his shoulder.
"Did he give you that blow, lad?"
Gray nodded, and Harding asked no more questions just then.
Gray remained silent for a moment, then he turned his face to Harding.
"I have got to tell you—"
"I won't hear, lad. You've said a lot in your fever, and I won't hear any more just now. I can see how it's all happened."
Watch was lying at his master's feet, and here he looked up with a short bark and a delighted wag of his tail. Harding pulled his ears. "I don't know how Watch managed to live through it all; but he did—old faithful fellow!" And then Harding's face turned scarlet.
He would have got up to move away, but Gray held his hand fast.
"The dog was faithful," he said in a low tone, "while I— No; you must let me speak, Harding."
"Not now, my lad; you are not fit for it."
"I got your letter."
Gray said the words firmly, almost roughly; then his voice faltered, and he went brokenly on:
"God has been merciful to me, a sinner. He sought me wandering, set me right; He showed me what I'd done when—when I thought it was too late." He stopped a moment, then his voice strengthened itself. "I had made up my mind to confess everything if ever I got back. I little thought I should be able to confess it to you. Do you understand me, Harding? I got that letter."
"My poor lad!"
It was all Harding could say.
"I did not deliberately say I would not go," went on Gray; "but it was just the same. I put it off, and put it off; and then Watch disappeared, and I wasglad. You know why?"
Harding nodded sadly.
"It all seemed easy then. If I had been successful—I don't know—I hope even then I might have found myself out; but I was sent into the wilderness—I was brought face to face with the fruits of sin." Gray shuddered as he spoke. "I saw myself as I was, Harding."
"My poor lad!" said Harding again.
There was silence between them for a while; then Gray spoke again.
"I mean to live a different life, Harding. You will have to help me. The first thing is to tell Mr. Morton everything."
"Yes, lad, except one thing. I won't have that told. No, I insist on that, old fellow. Let's forget it. Promise me never to speak of it. I never shall. You didn't mean to do it, you know."
Gray shook his head.
"About the money," went on Harding quickly. "Well, you'd best tell Mr. Morton; and the bank can have it all right. And we'll go back to the run, Gray, until Polly and the lads come. Thank God, she had started before a letter could reach her. She will have been spared this time of suspense."
"Morton won't have me back," said Gray under his breath.
"Yes, he will. It's the best thing you can do, lad. If you go off by yourself—"
"If you will have me—if Morton will let me, it is what I most desire," said Gray brokenly.
"Then, that's all right," Harding said.