e tried to break him down in vain. He did not complain, he
did not laugh, he did not weep. His "mate" Rex tried to converse with
him, but did not succeed. In the midst of one of Rex's excellent
tales of London dissipation, Rufus Dawes would sigh wearily. "There's
something on that fellow's mind," thought Rex, prone to watch the signs
by which the soul is read. "He has some secret which weighs upon him."

It was in vain that Rex attempted to discover what this secret might be.
To all questions concerning his past life--however artfully put--Rufus
Dawes was dumb. In vain Rex practised all his arts, called up all his
graces of manner and speech--and these were not few--to fascinate the
silent man and win his confidence. Rufus Dawes met his advances with
a cynical carelessness that revealed nothing; and, when not addressed,
held a gloomy silence. Galled by this indifference, John Rex had
attempted to practise those ingenious arts of torment by which Gabbett,
Vetch, or other leading spirits of the gang asserted their superiority
over their quieter comrades. But he soon ceased. "I have been longer in
this hell than you," said Rufus Dawes, "and I know more of the devil's
tricks than you can show me. You had best be quiet." Rex neglected the
warning, and Rufus Dawes took him by the throat one day, and would have
strangled him, but that Troke beat off the angered man with a favourite
bludgeon. Rex had a wholesome respect for personal prowess, and had
the grace to admit the provocation to Troke. Even this instance of
self-denial did not move the stubborn Dawes. He only laughed. Then
Rex came to a conclusion. His mate was plotting an escape. He himself
cherished a notion of the kind, as did Gabbett and Vetch, but by common
distrust no one ever gave utterance to thoughts of this nature. It would
be too dangerous. "He would be a good comrade for a rush," thought Rex,
and resolved more firmly than ever to ally himself to this dangerous and
silent companion.

One question Dawes had asked which Rex had been able to answer: "Who is
that North?"

"A chaplain. He is only here for a week or so. There is a new one
coming. North goes to Sydney. He is not in favour with the Bishop."

"How do you know?"

"By deduction," says Rex, with a smile peculiar to him. "He wears
coloured clothes, and smokes, and doesn't patter Scripture. The
Bishop dresses in black, detests tobacco, and quotes the Bible like a
concordance. North is sent here for a