"He was transported in the Malabar
under the name of Rufus Dawes. You remember him. It is a long story. The
particulars weren't numerous, and if the old lady had been half sharp
she would have bowled me out. But the fact was she wanted to find the
fellow alive, and was willing to take a good deal on trust. I'll tell
you all about it another time. I think I'll go to bed now; I'm tired,
and my head aches as though it would split."

"Then it is decided that you follow my directions?"

"Yes."

She rose and placed her hand on the bell. "What are you going to do?" he
said uneasily.

"I am going to do nothing. You are going to telegraph to your servants
to have the house in London prepared for your wife, who will return with
you the day after to-morrow."

John Rex stayed her hand with a sudden angry gesture. "This is all
devilish fine," he said, "but suppose it fails?"

"That is your affair, John. You need not go on with this business at
all, unless you like. I had rather you didn't."

"What the deuce am I to do, then?"

"I am not as rich as you are, but, with my station and so on, I am worth
seven thousand a year. Come back to Australia with me, and let these
poor people enjoy their own again. Ah, John, it is the best thing to do,
believe me. We can afford to be honest now."

"A fine scheme!" cried he. "Give up half a million of money, and go back
to Australia! You must be mad!"

"Then telegraph."

"But, my dear--"

"Hush, here's the waiter."

As he wrote, John Rex felt gloomily that, though he had succeeded in
recalling her affection, that affection was as imperious as of yore.

CHAPTER XI. EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF THE REV. JAMES NORTH.

December 7th.--I have made up my mind to leave this place, to bury
myself again in the bush, I suppose, and await extinction. I try to
think that the reason for this determination is the frightful condition
of misery existing among the prisoners; that because I am daily
horrified and sickened by scenes of torture and infamy, I decide to go
away; that, feeling myself powerless to save others, I wish to spare
myself. But in this journal, in which I bind myself to write nothing
but truth, I am forced to confess that these are not the reasons. I will
write the reason plainly: "I covet my neighbour's wife." It does not
look well thus written. It looks hideous. In my own breast I find
numberless excuses for my passion. I said to myself, "My neighbour does
not love