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Here, you take charge of the horses and I'll fossick out something." He was gone for ten minutes, ten long minutes that Bradby occupied in cursing the valley in particular and the rest of the world in general. Then there came a cry from the height above him, and, looking up, he saw Abel Cumshaw waving to him. Next instant the man disappeared and a few seconds later swung down through the rocks.
Friday morning came, and at ten-thirty exactly, not a minute before or after, Mr. Abel Cumshaw knocked at the front door and was admitted. He was shown at once into Mr. Bryce's study, where that gentleman awaited him, watch in hand. "On time to the tick," he said affably as Cumshaw entered the room. "Everything's ready for an immediate start. I suppose you've got all you want."
The other consigned both Bryce and his assistant to a place more noted for its warmth than its comfort. Despite their forebodings Mr. Cumshaw did not put in an appearance, and they gained the shelter of the thick timber in safety. Once he was sure that they had really departed Mr.
I had thrown all but the last shovelful in when Cumshaw drew something from his pocket, looked at it a moment, and then, with a muttered exclamation, threw it into the hole and trod it deep into the earth. I got but the one look at it, and it seemed to me to be an ordinary leather-covered pocket-book.
He compressed himself into the smallest possible space behind the tree and then fired in the direction of the last shot. He allowed a short interval to elapse and then fired again. The other man must have seen the flashes, but he made no attempt to answer them. The moment the first shot was fired Cumshaw realised, in a flash of intuition, that his assailant was none other than Jack Bradby.
"This will explain my business," he said, and handed me a piece of pasteboard. I took it from him; it was one of Bryce's visiting cards, and scribbled across the foot of it were these words: "Introducing Mr. Albert Cumshaw. H. Bryce." "I've been expecting you, Mr. Cumshaw," I said. "I've been expecting you for some days now."
Cumshaw was no ordinary man, and, for a young chap of his age, had his emotions and inclinations under rather remarkable control. I stood up. "If you want that cypher," I said, "I'll type it out now, and you can study it on the way home if you wish." "It's very kind of you," Cumshaw murmured with a well-bred lack of enthusiasm. "I think," said Moira, "that we'd all better adjourn to the study.
"You know what you are doing." The compliment in the last remark was desperately like an insult, but Cumshaw did not seem to notice anything out of the way, for he bent down to his work and whistled cheerfully while he coaxed the fire into a blaze. Presently it was burning brightly, the billy was filled with water from the water-bottle, and tea was in a fair way of being prepared.
"You know nothing about me," Cumshaw said impulsively. "You don't know who I am or what I've been. You haven't an idea...." Bryce cut him short with a sweeping gesture of his chubby hands. "My dear man," he said, "what you've been doesn't matter a tinker's curse to me. It's what you are that counts." "You don't even know that," the other answered, his lips curling in a wry smile.
I've seen miners on the Lakekamu shouting themselves hoarse over even less of a discovery, seasoned men who knew how and when to hold their tongues. Could tyros like ourselves be blamed for what we did? I don't think so. "That's the funnel right enough," Cumshaw said. "There can't possibly be two of the same kind in the same district.