"What made him hide the money, do you know?" he asked.
"He didn't say. The police were after him, I expect, and he hoped to be able to get back sometime and dig it up."
"I wonder if he had told any of his friends and acquaintances?" said Gray, looking up at the desk where Harding had put the map. "If so, I wouldn't give much for the bank's chance of getting the money."
"He hadn't told a soul," was Harding's answer. "He wanted me to send the map to some mate of his, but he thought better of that afterwards."
"Better?" Gray lifted his dark eyebrows. "What does the bank want with the money? It's rich enough to stand the loss. It isn't as if he had robbed a poor man, you know. It's the best thing I've heard of him, his wanting to send that map to his mate."
"Stolen money does no good to anybody," said Harding rather shortly.
"It didn't do any good to him at any rate," said Gray. He moved from the door to let Harding pass. "I suppose we must start," he went on with a yawn. "Another day of this hateful stock-riding! and another day of it to-morrow, and the next day, and the next day! How am I going to stand it, I wonder?"
Harding had disappeared into the stable, and Gray said the last words to himself. There was a heavy frown on his handsome young face, bitter discontent in his dark eyes. When Harding brought his horse to him he scarcely thanked him, and he rode away by his side in sullen silence.
When they returned that night, Harding was too fagged out to talk of anything. He went off into a heavy sleep directly after supper, and Gray found it impossible to wake him sufficiently for rational conversation.
The desk in which he had placed the paper was not locked, and Gray took out the paper and sat down by the lamp to study it. It was very easy to understand. Anyone who knew Deadman's Gully could not fail to find the treasure, Gray thought to himself.