He told himself it was none of his business and that once he had handed over the case to the police, the matter would be ended so far as he was concerned. So far, also, as every one was concerned, if the authorities had any sense; since Lesley would hold her tongue, Jerry's ghost could be laid and laughed at, Budlu bribed, and Jân-Ali-shân----
He looked round, wondering if the latter had gone or not, but could see nothing. An elaborately conscientious hawking and spitting, however, from the shadow of a distant bush, told him not only that John Ellison was there, but that he had grasped the situation.
''Ave a quid o' bitter yerbs, sir,' came the loafer's voice resignedly. 'It's a camphor bush, sir, an' there ain't no good in givin' in to plague an' pestilence without a
"Good Lord deliver us."
Is there, sir?'
The question had an almost pathetic apprehension in it.
'Not a bit,' assented Jack Raymond. 'Have a cigar instead, Ellison. I'll light one for you and chuck it over.' He knew his man; knew that without being a coward he was for the moment desperately afraid. Two very different things; since time cures one, and the other is persistent.
So for a minute or two there was silence. Then from the shadow of the camphor bush came a more confident cough.
'If you did 'appen to 'ave a drop o' brandy,' began the voice tentatively, 'though if you 'aven't, sir, it's "Thy will be done!" An' that bein' so, there's nothin' left but w'ot the nation you an' me's got to do next? 'Ow many corpses is there, sir?'
Jack Raymond smiled, feeling he had judged his man rightly.