"Dead," he said sulkily after a moment. "I'd better have stuck to you after all, you see, mate. But I'd have sent after you the first chance I had. I meant to do that all along."
He had paused before adding the last sentence, and his manner had suddenly altered, had become smooth and conciliating.
Gray did not attempt to answer him. He moved away a few paces and flung himself down on the ground, and sat with his head propped on his hands, staring straight in front of him. Lumley watched him in silence. His face showed none of the dull despair that had settled on Gray's, but was alight with fierce excitement. And the glance he bent on Gray was a strange one. There was hate in it, and longing, and a torturing doubt.
"You're pretty bad, ain't you, partner?" he said at last. "Had a bad time since we parted, I daresay."
"Did you expect me to have a good time?" Gray answered without looking at him.
"Missed the track? Been wanderin' round and round? Just what happened to me, you see, though I thought I was dead sure of my way. But I got my right bearings again—if it hadn't been for that horse of yours—"
He was tearing up fiercely the scanty grass beside him as he spoke, and there broke out a sudden fury in his face. But he thrust back the oath that came to his lips, and spoke, after a pause, in the same conciliating tone.
"We've had bad luck, both on us, haven't we, partner? And my bad luck's been yours; for I'd have sent back for you. I only meant to frighten you a bit."
"What's the good of talking about it?" Gray said wearily. "It'll soon be over for both of us now. Another day must see the last of it."
He just turned his head to speak, and then went back to his old position, his eyes staring hopelessly across the silent waste. His apathy seemed to rouse Lumley to a sort of frenzy again. With an effort that forced a groan from him he dragged himself a pace forwards and plucked Gray by the sleeve.