ouldn't hear the words that were spoken. Had he
heard he would not have understood for they were only the kind noises
with which one woman will comfort another.

Mrs. Barraclough could almost feel the hot tears soak through the
fabric of her gown.

CHAPTER 16.

A HYPHEN.

When first the question of radium arose in this chronicle it will be
remembered that Barraclough, under considerable pressure, yielded the
secret of the map reference to his fiancee, and by this very act made a
present of it, through the pages of narrative, to whosoever might
chance to read.

It would seem a perfectly reasonable supposition that there must be
many avaricious persons to whom the possession of untold riches would
prove more attractive than a mere interest in the doings of another
man. Let it be said at once that although Barraclough certainly
confided the correct map reference to Isabel, that reference, for the
purposes of caution and public safety, underwent several important
variations before passing into my hands. The reason of this precaution
will be readily appreciated by the thoughtful however great may be the
disappointment it provides to the adventurous. A memory of average
length will recall the high percentage of disaster, of wrecked hopes
and of ruin pursuant upon the gold rush to Klondyke at the close of the
last century. Barely one man in a hundred made a living--barely one in
a thousand saw the yellow specks in his shovel that shone so bright
among the brown. Those who had set forth, buoyed up with boundless
belief, dragged back to where they had started from broken in purse and
spirit, barren of hope and faith.

What then would be the result if the illimitable source of wealth upon
which by chance and a whisper Barraclough had stumbled should be
revealed to the world? A panic--a mad headlong exodus of men and women
too. Unequipped and unqualified they would pour from city and
country-side, leaving desk and furrow, in a wild race to be first upon
the scene--to stake a claim--any claim--to dig--to grovel--to tear up
the kindly earth with fingers like the claws of beasts. Wealth, upon
which our civilisation has been built, is the surest destroyer of
civilisation. What it has given it takes away. Dangle a promise of
gold before the young man at the ribbon counter and behold he is become
a savage. Whisper it never so gently--and it will sound as the roar of
torrents in our ears.

Brewster's Series 19