Before the blinding flash had left his eyes, or the report ceased echoing along the cliff, Allen was kneeling beside his partner, whose head—as much as was left of it—was pillowed on the box for which he had died. But only for a moment. The awful shock, while it numbed his senses, brought him realisation of his own danger. The report must have aroused the men by the fire, and if they found him there they might suspect foul play. What mattered the treasure beside such a danger? Leaving the body as it was, he tore through the undergrowth straight inland to the base of the cliff, and groped his way along the rocks so as to pass to the rear of the camp. His naked feet were torn and bleeding from his headlong rush through the bush, but his mind was too intent upon the sounds from the beach to heed the pain. He heard the voices of men in motion, and a loud shout from the direction of the ivi-tree. Then they had found the body! They would bring it back to the camp, and he would be missed; perhaps they had even seen his footsteps! If he would escape suspicion he must mix with the men before they had time to notice his absence. He began to run again and burst out of the bush, heated and breathless, at a spot beyond the camp. He slackened his pace when he saw the fire, but a glance told him that it was deserted. There was a confused murmur from the direction of the dilo-tree, and he pressed on in the hope of joining the others unnoticed in the darkness. A few of the men were waving smouldering brands snatched from the fire to fan them into flame, the rest were stooping and craning over each other’s shoulders to look at something in the middle of the circle. Allen, striving to suppress his panting breath, pressed forward like the others, but his labouring lungs would not obey him.
“Why, mate, who the —— been chasing you? You’re blowing like a black-fish.”
“What is it?” asked Allen between his gasps.
“Your mate, Benion, with a hole in his head that you can put your foot into. Why, where have you been?”
Some of the men turned round to look at him, and in the faint light he was not a prepossessing object. His face and hair were dripping with sweat, though the skin was ghastly white, and his distended nostril and heaving chest showed how fear and physical effort had told upon him.
“Looks as if he could tell us something about it,” muttered one of them.
But Allen roughly forced his way through them, and fell on his knees beside the captain, who was giving directions for lifting the body.
“Benion!” he cried. “Good God! Why could he have done it?”
His distress was so evident that his words turned their thoughts in a new direction.
“After all, the pore devil had the jimmies,” said the boatswain, “and like as not he kicked the trigger off with his foot: must have got a clip on the head as we went ashore.”