“All right, I won’t.” And after a little more talk the old comrades bade each other good-bye.
“You know, Wagram, it’s a deuced rum world,” said Haldane as the two were driving home again. “Fancy this poor chap Develin Hunt, over whose absurd name we were roaring when that first yarn about the derelict came to hand, turning out to be my old pal Jack Faro of the early, rousing, Kimberley days! Poor chap! How he wilted over the recollection of that old crock of his. You know, it was an echo of the old camp chaff I was firing off on him—the point of which was that the said old ruin was fond of bragging that she was Jack’s real and lawful wife, whatever others might be, and brandishing what she called her ‘lines’ in the faces of all comers. Poor old Jack! He was fairly straight as men go—and yet—and yet—I don’t know—there were things whispered about him even then. Well, he’s gone now.”
Haldane never learned of the said Develin Hunt’s—otherwise Jack Faro’s—last coup, for on that Wagram was for ever silent.
That night Develin Hunt died.
Chapter Forty.
Conclusion.
“Oh, how good you have been to us! No; really, when I want to find words—well, I simply can’t.”
“Then don’t try. That’s the simplest way out of the difficulty, isn’t it?” answered Wagram, with a smile.