Bill, nevertheless, instinctively put his finger on the dead man's pulse, and placed his hand over the heart. They were both still as a rundown clock, and stopped for ever.
A letter had fallen from the man's pocket when he was being turned over. Bill took it up in the hope that it would disclose something. The writing was in a woman's hand, full of affection, repetition, and platitude. It wound up with, "Your loving daughter, Mary." There was a date on the top, but no address. There was an envelope, and the postmark was Melbourne.
"Not much clue," said Bill; "nameless, so far." The man, evidently, by the clay smears on his trousers, and by the general appearance of his clothes, was a digger.
"I saw a tent in my dream, so I'll look for it," said Bill.
He went along the little track for a hundred yards, and there, behind some stunted bushes, stood a weather-stained, ragged tent. Everything about it was squalid, unkempt, unwashed, and unlovely. The only bit of sentiment, or romance if you will, was a photograph of a girl, pinned to the tent, at the head of the bed. There was a pathetic look about the eyes which seemed to follow him wherever he turned. They haunted him, and illumined the tent. After a short time he went up to the portrait, and stared at it for five minutes, studying every feature.
"I suppose you are Mary," he said; "I feel we are to meet some day, and you are to come into my life."
Below the photograph, and also pinned to the canvas, was a rude diagram. At one end of a line was a triangle; at the other end a curious tree with two branches touching the ground. Between the triangle and the tree was a big dot, and at the dot were two figures, but whether 45 or 65 he could not tell. An arrow pointed to them.
He kissed the photograph, unpinned it carefully, and put it in his pocket.
Then he took down the diagram and examined it more carefully. There was an almost undecipherable scrawl at the bottom, which he made out to be, "For Mary." He put the diagram in his purse.