“No, no,” said the flash digger, calm, cool, and collected, while the girl tried to assume a posture of aloofness. “You must get out, mister. I’m boss of this show. No one’s allowed here without an invite from me. So, out you go.”
But, to his astonishment, the intruder, without saying a word, quietly took a seat, and began to cut himself a pipeful of tobacco from a black plug which he drew nonchalantly from his pocket.
“Make no mistake,” said the flash digger, striking a dramatic attitude. “I’m not the man to give an order a second time. Out you get, or I’ll drill a hole clean through you.”
“One minute.” The stranger shut the blade of his knife, which he placed deliberately in his pocket. “One minute. Do me the kindness to lower that pistol, and stand where I can see your face more plainly. I’ve no intention of resisting—unfortunately I left my shooting-iron behind.”
As the digger did not move, the stranger jerked his head now forward, now back, now to this side, now to that, peering at the man who held his life in his hand.
“Yes, it’s as I thought,” he said. “I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you before, on two or three occasions. There’s no need for you an’ me to quarrel. If we’re not exactly pals, we’re something even closer.”
“You’re wasting valuable time, and risking your life for no reason whatever,” said the digger. “You’d better be quick.”
“Oh, I’m going,” said the intruder. “Set your mind at rest about that. I was only trying to think where I had met you—it was in a cave. You and your mates knew enough to come in out of the rain. You had made a nice little haul, a very nice little haul.”
A look of the utmost perplexity came over the face of the flash digger, and this was followed by a look of consternation. His arm had fallen to his side, and he was saying slowly, “Who the deuce are you? How the deuce d’you know where I’ve been?” when the man who sat before him suddenly pulled his hand from under the table and covered his aggressor with a revolver.
“One move,” said Tresco—the reader will have recognised that the goldsmith had come to town—“one move, Mr. Carnac, and you’re as dead as the murdered men on the hill.”