“I—I thank you.... But—so help me God—I wish you hadn’t,” whispered Adam, poignantly.
Dismukes spent a strange gaze upon Adam.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Adam halted over the conviction that he could never reveal his identity; and there leaped to his lips the name the loquacious Regan had given him.
“Wansfell,” he replied.
Dismukes averted his gaze. Manifestly he divined that Adam had lied. “Well, it’s no matter what a man calls himself in this country,” he said. “Only everybody an’ everythin’ has to have a name.”
“You’re a prospector?”
“Yes. But I’m more a miner. I hunt for gold. I don’t waste time tryin’ to sell claims. Years ago I set out to find a fortune in gold. My limit was five hundred thousand dollars. I’ve already got a third of it—in banks an’ hid away safe.”
“When you get it—your fortune—what then?” inquired Adam, with thrilling curiosity.
“I’ll enjoy life. I have no ties—no people. Then I’ll see the world,” replied the prospector, in deep and sonorous voice.