The loss of the expected comrade and partner was a blow to Dyke; but, as has been indicated, it was temperamentally impossible to him to permit any disappointment either to weigh upon his spirits or to turn him from his purpose. He must go by himself—that was all about it. Nevertheless, during his first surprise at so strange a failure to keep a business appointment, he confessed to Mrs. Fleming that he felt “flummuxed” by dear old Pedro’s conduct.
“I told him I would be back here in two years—at the very latest. And you see, Emmie, he believed in my discovery. He believed we had got a fortune in it. He believed, even before I gave him the map I had made. He trusted my judgment—just as I trusted his fidelity. We were fond of each other. Emmie, I don’t pretend that Pedro is really a gentleman, but he is a clinking good sort all the same. He and I met first at Punta Arenas—when I was messing about after the beach gold—and we became like brothers. Well then, if he was down on his luck, why didn’t he write to me? And since he knew I was coming back, why couldn’t he wait? The very fact of his losses would have made him all the keener for such a chance as this. It beats me, his going without letting me know. I can only explain it by a guess. More than eighteen months ago. Well, I expect it was the gold again down south that tempted him—and he and Pombal lit out for it, thinking they’d make a bit down there and be back here again in time for me.”
Once more Emmie was taking intelligent interest in Dyke’s preparations, and the three happy weeks glided into four and five before everything was completed. A contractor at Mendoza was supplying the mules and their equipment, with an excellent muleteer as chief; seven other men, of whom four were Indians, stout hefty fellows inured to hardship and capable of using picks to good effect, had been engaged by Dyke himself; light mining tools, shelter tents, suitable garments, and a tremendous provision of food in the most conveniently compressed form, made up the outfit of the expedition. It would assemble at Mendoza, and make its real start higher in the hills, at the existing end of the railway. The month of December had now begun, with settled summer weather. As Emmie understood, any further delay would be unwise if not inexcusable.
And so once more their parting drew very near. These were the last days. One lovely night when after driving about the park they had left their carriage in order to saunter among the crowd and listen to the band, she spoke to him quietly but very seriously concerning the risks that he would run on his mountain trip.
“Risks!” he said gaily. “There are no risks of any sort or kind.” There was only one word that could adequately describe this amusing little jaunt, the word that he had used all along. It would be a picnic—a picnic, neither more nor less. And searching for similes, he assured her that he would be as absolutely safe up there as he could be on his native Devon cliffs, or Richmond Hill, or Hampstead Heath.
But apparently not satisfied, she suggested dangers one after another. Hostile Indians? Storms and mists? Ice crevasses? Snow avalanches? Excessive cold?
“No, no—of course not.” He laughed at her suggestions. Hostile Indians no longer existed, it was summer time, the only snow likely to interfere with him would all be melted. She also laughed, but then continued her serious talk, linking her arm in his and pressing it to her side as they strolled away from the music, the lamps, and the crowd.
“Tony dear, you make light of things because you yourself are so wonderful. You don’t feel cold or fatigue. Danger is nothing to you.”
“Oh, isn’t it, by Jove? Emmie, I’m the most cautious old bird alive. It’s been my maxim and watchword never to take an avoidable risk. No, that’s a fool’s game. And—see here—if I’ve been careful in the past, how much more careful shall I be in the future—now that I own the universe? I swear it’s true, Emmie. No chances henceforth for Anthony Dyke.”