ct a brief statement on your own lines afterwards, which I will
sign."

Kilbride bowed his head in assent to the other's request.

"The name I bear now," began the prisoner,--"'Ruthven Gully'--is my real
name, though knocking around the world like I've been since I was a kid
of sixteen, and the many queer propositions I've been up against in my
time, why--I've found it expedient to use various aliases.

"For instance"--he eyed the inspector keenly--"I wasn't known as 'Gully'
that time Cronje nailed us all at Doornkop, Kilbride, in
'ninety-six. . . ."

Kilbride uttered a startled oath. Shaken out of his habitual stern
composure he stared at the man before him in sheer amazement. "Good
God!" he cried, "The 'Jameson Raid!' . . . Now I know you,
man!--you're--you're--wait a bit! I've got it on the tip of my
tongue--Mor--Mor--Mordaunt, by gad! . . . that's what you called yourself
then. Ever since I sat with you on that case I've been turning it over
in my head where in ever I'd fore-gathered with you before. It was your
moustache which fooled me--you were clean-shaven then. . . Well,
Well! . . ."

He was silent awhile, overcome by the discovery. "Aye!" he resumed in an
altered voice, "I've got good cause to remember you, Mor--Gully, I mean.
You certainly saved my life that day . . . when we were lying in that
_donga_ together. I was hit pretty bad, and you stood 'em off. You were
a wonderful shot, I recollect. I saw you flop out six Doppers--one after
the other."

He turned to Slavin. "Sergeant!" he said quietly, "You'd better leave
the leg-irons on, but remove his handcuffs--for the time-being,
anyway. . . ." He addressed himself to the prisoner with a sort of sad
sternness. "It's little I can do for you now, Gully . . . but I can do
that, at least. . . ."

Slavin complied with his officer's request. Gully's huge chest heaved
once, and he bowed his head in silent acknowledgment of Kilbride's act of
leniency.

"All right! go ahead, Gully!" said the latter.

The prisoner took up his tale anew. "As I was saying--I left the Old
Country when I was sixteen. No need to drag in family troubles,
but . . . that's why. . . . Well! I hit for the States. Montana for a
start off, and it sure was a tough state in 'seventy-four, I can tell
you. That's where I first learned to handle a gun. I knocked around
between there and Wyoming and Arizona for about nine years, and during
that time I guess I tackled n