Hayhurst was not easily disconcerted, but he reddened slightly and gave an awkward laugh.
“It’s damned cold,” he said. “I’m chilled to the bone. If anyone presses me, I’ll take a glass of dop... Don’t overdo it with water.”
Stephens, the man from the diggings, handed him a glass. Young Hayhurst drank the contents, and remained a while staring into the empty tumbler with a thoughtful smile on his face. Then he put the tumbler down, and returned to his occupation of warming his hands. He glanced again at Lawless.
“I’ve heard of you,” he said,—“from a chap who won’t tell any more tales of anyone, good or bad... That mark on your face gives you away.”
“Don’t be personal, Tom,” hiccoughed his friend.
Lawless got up.
“I’ve heard of you, too,” he returned curtly. “The repetition of the information wouldn’t be likely to make you vain, so we won’t go into that.”
There was a perceptible hang in the conversation. The men broke off in their talk to listen, and the man who was cooking the supper looked up from his task to stare. The sense of something in the air penetrated even to the dulled wit of the most intoxicated of the party, a man of rough appearance and no education, who spent all his spare time in getting drunk, and crowded as much work into his sober hours as three ordinary men would have accomplished. He shook his head gravely, and then with solemn deliberation refilled his ever-empty glass from the bottle of dop at his elbow.
“Don’t mix your drinks,” he counselled... “bad for the constitootion—very.”
He maundered on, but nobody heeded him. Hayhurst was looking steadily into the keen eyes of the man whom he recognised from the description he had once listened to of the peculiar scar on his face. He had no shadow of a doubt as to the man’s identity.