I took the watch, uttering some commonplace words of acceptance in doing so.
“And now, Mr Fellgate, I think our interview is at an end. I am glad you like the watch, and I think you will find that it is as good as it looks. In all probability, you and I will never meet again. But if ever you hear any of those snivelling city counter-jumpers maligning me and my brave fellows here, you at least may kindly think that we’re perhaps not so black as they paint us.—Jim, take care of the editor.—Good-night.”
I was once more blindfolded, and Jim and I returned as we had come. When we reached the confines of the forest, however, we dismounted, and my companion removed my bandage. The first gray glimmer of the dawn was stealing through the bush.
“You’ll have to walk the rest of the way home, Mr Fellgate. I’m like the ghost in the play, you understand—must hook it with the first light. Sorry I can’t take you to your door.”
“Don’t mention it; I know every inch of the road,” I said, bent upon answering him in the same vein.
“You’re a pretty cool hand, Mr Editor. Didn’t think you scribbling chaps were that sort. No offence. Adieu!”
When I reached my rooms, I found my landlady already astir. She had not been much surprised to find my bedroom empty, for it had once or twice happened that I had to spend the night at the office, although that was not a frequent occurrence, the Beacon being only a bi-weekly issue. I lay down on the sofa in my sitting-room and took a couple of hours’ sleep. When I awoke, the events of the night had for a little all the feeling of a dream; but that fancy quickly passed away. Over my morning coffee I examined my newly and so strangely acquired gift at greater leisure. I may say in conclusion that it has been my constant companion ever since that night, and I don’t think there is a better time-keeper out of London. Would you like to look at it closer?’
Fellgate handed me the watch. It was a remarkably handsome hunting-watch, very finely finished, and bearing the name of a famous London maker. Inside, I read this inscription:
Presented to Alison Fellgate, Esquire,
by
Frank Gardiner.
‘You know all about Gardiner’s ultimate fate, of course,’ my companion resumed, ‘though you were not in the colonies at the time—how he and nearly all his gang were at last taken, and how Frank himself got a long term. It could never be proved against him that he had actually killed any one, and so he escaped the gallows. He is serving out his time now in Darlinghurst up there, and behaving himself very decently, they say.’