"The deuce you did!" said Deverell.
The old man was watching him keenly. In an instant Deverell had flushed up from his collar to his wideawake. He was manifestly uncomfortable. "Where did you know him?" he asked doggedly.
The tramp bared his head; the short grey air stood crisply on end all over it. He tapped his head significantly, and ran the palm of his hand over the strong bristles of his beard.
"So," said Deverell, drawing his breath hard. "Now I see you are a brother convict!"
The tramp nodded.
"And you know all about him—the whole story?"
The tramp nodded again.
"By God!" cried Deverell, "if you've come here to trade on what you know, you've chosen the wrong place and the wrong man."
The tramp smiled. "I have not come to trade upon what I know," said he quietly, repeating the other's expression with simple sarcasm. "Now that I've seen you, I can go back the way I came; no need to go on to Dandong now. I came because my old mate asked me to find you out and wish you well from him: that was all."
"He went in for life," said Deverell, reflecting bitterly. "I have the vaguest memories of him; it happened when I was so very young. Is he well?"
"He was."
"And you have been in gaol together! And you know what brought him there, the whole story!" Curiosity crept into the young man's tone, and made it less bitter. He filled a pipe. "For my part, I never had the rights of that story," he said.
"It was all wrong together."
"There were no rights," said the convict. "It was all wrong together. Your father robbed the bank of which he himself was manager. He had lost money in mining speculations. He took to the bush, and fought desperately for his life."
"I'm glad he did that!" exclaimed Deverell.
The other's eyes kindled, but he only said: "It was what anyone would have done in his place."
"Is it?" answered Deverell scornfully. "Did you, for instance?"
The old man shrugged his shoulders. Deverell laughed aloud. His father might have been a villain, but he had not been a coward. That was one consolation.
A silence fell between the two men. There were no more flames from the fire, but only the glow of red-hot embers. This reddened the face of Deverell, but it did not reach that of the old man. He was thus free to stare at Deverell as hard and as long as he liked, and his eyes never left the young man's face. It was a sufficiently handsome face, with eyes as dark as those of the old man, only lightened and brightened by an expression altogether different. Deverell's pipe had soothed him. He
