"Poor devil! And yet he was only sent into the world for this. Look, Ellison, bring him here for a minute—I must speak to him."
"I'll send for him."
Ellison went to the door, and sent one of the hands for Merton. The night was almost spent; the stars were paling in the eastern heavens. A cold, cheerless wind blew up from the sea.
In less time than it takes to tell Merton entered the hut, carefully guarded. He looked at the man lying on the floor, and a half-contemptuous smile passed across his face.
"What do you bring me here for?" he asked.
"Murkard wishes to speak to you," said Ellison, and went outside leaving the pair together.
Three minutes later Merton emerged again, his face white as the death that was swiftly coming to the other. He was saying to himself over and over again, as the men led him away:
"God help me! If I had only known in time!"
Ellison went in again. One glance told him the end was very near at hand.
"Ellison, it's a rum world, isn't it? Do you know, I touched that fellow on his only tender spot, and I know now why he has always been so bitter against me. Poor devil, he never knew that——" He let the sentence die unfinished. Then he said, as if addressing someone present: "You need not have had any fear. I should not have betrayed you, dear. But five years is a long time to wait." A pause, during which his wits seemed to come back to him. "Would you mind holding my hand, Ellison. I've got rather a rocky place to pull through, and, after all, I'm a bit of a coward. Somehow I think I'm going to have a little sleep now. Remember—we've got—to—get—those—accounts away—by—the mail—to-morrow——"