Towards midnight he rose, drawn by a horrible sort of fascination, and took the paper from Harding's desk. He spread it out on the table, and sat down to study it. The more he looked at it the more easy it all seemed to be. It was such an absolutely safe thing. No one could possibly know the contents of that paper but himself and Harding. If Harding never came back he would be the sole owner of the secret.
Gray made his plans as he sat there with his eyes fixed on the faded, dirty sheet.
He would destroy the paper—he did not need to keep it now; he knew its contents too well. Then he would give up his work at the first opportunity, and after waiting a certain time would make his way to Deadman's Gully, get the money, and be off to England. Then he would begin to live his life in earnest.
Dazzling visions of that new life began to rise before Gray. Not a life of vulgar dissipation—Gray was not that sort of man; he loathed coarseness and riot—but a life of cultured ease, of refined luxury, rich in all the beautiful things that wealth could bring him.
A sudden noise without brought him back with a shock to present surroundings. He rose hurriedly and pushed the paper back in the desk. He thought Harding had returned. But it was only his own horse moving uneasily in the stable. It was missing its companion, and was restless and unhappy.
Gray soothed it as well as he could, and then went out once more to look across the plain. But dark and silent the land lay beneath the stars. No sound, no movement.
Gray went back into the hut and sat down again; but he did not touch the paper any more. The certainty that Harding would never return began to grow upon him, and he was frightened at himself. It was as if his half-formed wishes had brought about Harding's fate.
The hours passed, and at last the dawn came—a clear, beautiful dawn, with a fresh wind blowing over the grass and a rosy radiance flooding the sky.
Gray went out once more to look along the horizon. This time his search was not in vain. Almost at once he discerned a small moving object against the sky. It was moving slowly towards the hut. Gray knew at once what it was. It was the dog, and Harding must be close behind.
The dog came slowly on, moving with heavy, dragging steps, very unlike its usual joyous bounds; and it was quite alone. Gray could see no other moving thing along the plains. The dog had come back, but not its master.