erard and Jane, left behind in comfortable and
prosaic England, were spared the torment of flies and mosquitoes and
other minor ills; they escaped most of the hard things of life, and
enjoyed many of its pleasures and luxuries; and these mitigations
seemed to them things of very little worth, and the life of action,
when viewed from the safe security of their environment, appeared to be
the only possible condition which might assuage pain or lessen the
bitterness of separation.

Peter Ogilvie, meanwhile, and his friend, Nigel Christopherson, were in
the midst of weather as hot as can be very well endured even by English
people, who seem capable of resisting almost every sort of bad climate.
The sun rose on the edge of the level plains every morning with
horrible punctuality, and stared and blazed relentlessly until it had
burned itself out in a beautiful rage and glory in the blood-red
western sky.

'Dawn,' Ross said, 'is one of the things you are disposed to admire
when you first come to Argentine, but when the hot weather begins you
feel inclined to throw your boots at the sun when it rises.'

Now it was afternoon, and a heavy day's work in the corral was over.
Peter was writing letters, while Ross and Toffy dozed in long cane
chairs in the corridor. Purvis sat on the little cretonne-covered box
beside the empty fireplace, and looked with lack-lustre eyes into
space. He had been helping with some work on the estancia; but he had
brought none of his own men with him, as some neighbours had done, and
the ominous whisper grew that there was trouble down at his place.
Ross treated the matter lightly, and explained it by saying that Purvis
was making a fortune with his steamers, and was feeding his men on
_carne flacca_. 'Purvis does his best, poor beast, and I believe he is
worth a dozen detectives in this affair of yours, Peter.'

Peter himself, however, was inclined to draw back a little. 'He has
put me on the wrong scent once or twice,' he said.

'After all, you haven't told him much,' said Ross.

And Peter agreed that this was so.

There was an undefined feeling in his mind that if he had to learn that
his brother was alive he would like to hear of it through such
legalized channels as Sir John Falconer was arranging. The detective
spirit was not strong in Peter Ogilvie. He would have preferred to
take the whole world into his confidence, and to ask them to speak out
if they had anything to say. But Mr.