"But was his beard dyed?"
"No—gray."
"It should be gray," said Denis, grimly. "Did he tell you which diggings he came from?"
"Sailor's Gully."
Denis breathed again. He knew that Devenish and Jewson were at the Gravel Pits. He had really no reason to connect the man who had taken the letters with the man whom he had in mind; and further questioning finally relieved him of the idea, partly because Moseley was unconsciously anxious to make the best of his emissary. But the altercation had stirred the emotions of both young men; neither spoke in his natural voice; each resembled an unpleasing portrait of himself. So much had been said, however, that it was an opportunity for saying more.
"You know, Dent," Moseley went on, "I've had enough of the whole thing. I made a mistake when I turned back with you, instead of taking the first ship home as I had intended."
Denis said nothing. The sentiment expressed was too identical with his own. Doherty reduced the considerate distance to which he had withdrawn, and there was no doubt he was beginning to listen.
"But I hadn't written to say I was going home," continued Moseley, "so I'm expecting my money at Christmas. It won't be much—thirty pounds—but it's sure. You see, my father wasn't so sanguine as I was when I came out, and he's allowing me sixty pounds a year."
Moseley smiled a little sadly. Doherty drew a few steps nearer. Denis had become a picturesque study in sympathy, framed in the opening of the tent.
"I wish I could persuade you to come home with me after Christmas!" said Moseley, wistfully enough.