I opened the door as Fred ceased speaking, and, with a thoughtful brow, Steel Spring passed out of the room, and was soon lost to view as he skulked homeward.

CHAPTER LV.

ADVENTURES AT DAN BRIAN’S DRINKING-HOUSE.

The next day, anxious to test the truth of Steel Spring’s statements, I made an inquiry at the government reception office, and referring to the books a clerk informed me that on the very day before the attack was made upon Mr. Critchet he had deposited one thousand ounces of gold, and had received a stationary certificate, or note, acknowledging that the money had been received, but was to lay in the office, and not be forwarded to Melbourne—­a method that was often adopted to prevent loss by miners.

This was good news to me, and I felt warranted in calling upon the commissioner to let him understand the fact, as it would in a measure relieve us of suspicion of being implicated in the robbery.

Mr. Sherwin received me with more kindness, or pretended friendship, than I thought him capable of, and invited me into his private room, an apartment about the size of a sugar box, and about as rough.  It contained two chairs, a desk, and a pair of old boots, much the worse for wear.

Upon the rough wall of the office was a portrait of Queen Victoria in her coronation robes, done in yellow, and dear at any price.  On the desk was a print of Hobart Town, and beneath it was a black profile of the commissioner; at least, he informed me that it was intended as a surprising likeness of him, but I thought it would astonish no one but his mother, in case the old lady ever saw it.  It was cut from a piece of black paper by a man who was before him for being drunk, and had no funds to pay his fine, and so thought to conciliate his judge, which he succeeded in doing, if report was true.

After I had sufficiently admired the contour of the head, and the other striking features of the paper counterfeit, Mr. Sherwin invited me to be seated, and asked what I would “take,” and appeared to be somewhat surprised when I told him that I didn’t care about drinking.

Notwithstanding my refusal, the commissioner unlocked his desk and took out two very dirty wine glasses, and then displayed, with a solemn flourish, a black bottle partly filled with a dark liquid which he called wine; but I would have sworn, without tasting that it was bilge water.

“Now,” said Mr. Sherwin, waving me to a seat opposite to the desk, “we can be comfortable and chatty.  We have wine and good fellowship, and what more can we desire?

“And how is our friend Frederick?” the commissioner inquired, after filling the glasses and re-corking the bottle, as though he feared the strength of the black stuff would evaporate if left exposed to the air.

I replied that my friend and companion was as “well as could be expected” with such an accusation hanging over his head, and that he would have accompanied me had his presence not have been needed at the store to wait on customers, and to attend to the wants of the wounded man, Mr. Critchet.