’Bias was undemonstrative, Cai had always prided himself on recognising a worth in him which did not leap to the eyes of other men—­which hid itself rather, and shunned the light.  It had added to his sense of possession that he constantly detected what others overlooked.  In this matter of his behaviour to Rogers, ’Bias had eclipsed all previous records.  It was (view it how you would) magnificent in ’Bias—­a high Christian action—­to tend, as he had tended, upon a man who presumably had robbed him of his all.

And at the same moment ’Bias could behave so callously to a once-dear friend—­to a friend bringing glad tidings—­to a friend, moreover, rejoicing to bring them, though they meant his own undoing!  It was almost inconceivable.  It was quite unintelligible unless you supposed the man’s nature to be perverted, and by this woman.

Cai’s heart was bruised.  It ached with a dull insistent pain that must be deadened at all costs, even though his own wrecked prospects called out to be faced promptly, resolutely, and with a practical mind.  He would face them to-morrow.  To-day he would tire himself out:  to-night he would sleep.

And he slept, almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.  His sleep was dreamless too.

“Dame, get out and bake your pies—­bake your pies—­bake your pies—­”

“Whoo-oo-sh!”

He sat up in bed with a jerk. . . .  What on earth was it?  A squall of hail on the window?  Or a rocket?—­a ship in distress, perhaps, outside the harbour? . . .

“Dame, get out and bake your pies—­” piped a high childish voice.  Some one was unbarring a door below.  A voice—­’Bias’s voice—­spoke out gruffly, demanding what was the matter?

Was the house on fire? . . .  No:  outside the half-open window lay spread the moonlight, pale and tranquil.  The night wind entering, scarcely stirred the thin dimity curtains.  This was no weather for sudden hail-storms or for shipwreck.  Cai flung back the bedclothes, jumped out—­and uttered a sharp cry of pain.  His naked foot had trodden on a gritty pebble, small but sharp.

Someone had flung a handful of gravel at the window.

He picked his way cautiously across the floor, and looked out. . . .  In the moonlit roadway, right beneath, a girl—­Fancy Tabb—­was dancing a fandango, the while in her lifted hand she waved a white parcel.

“Ah, there you be!” she hailed, catching sight of him.  “I’ve found ’em!”

“Found what?”

“Your papers! . . .  I couldn’ sleep till I told you:  and I had to fetch Mr Benny along—­here he is!”

“Good evening, Captain,” spoke up Mr Peter Benny, stepping out into the roadway from the doorway where he had been explaining to ’Bias.  “It’s all right, sir.  Your papers are found.”

“Good evening, Benny!  Tis kind of you, surely,”—­Cai’s voice trembled a little.  “What’s the hour?” he asked.