“His story to me,” interrupted Mr. Newton, “was that he got assistance and buried your remains as decently as he could.”

“What induced him to apply to you at all?”

“I do not know.  I fancy it was to hand over a few small nuggets, which he said was your share of the findings, and which he took from your waistband before committing you to the grave.  As he seemed frank and straightforward and quite poor, I confess I believed him, and even requested Mr. Liddell to give him some small present.  He said he was going afloat again, and would sail in a few days.  He had an old clasp-knife which I myself had given you, and with it a small pocket-book in which your name and my address were written in your own hand.  These were tolerably convincing proofs that he at least knew you.  Moreover, there seemed no need whatever that he should have made any attempt to communicate with your people.  He might have held his tongue, and no question would have been raised respecting you.”

“You are right,” returned Liddell, bitterly.

“And how did you escape?” asked Katherine, with eager interest.

“He—­this Tom Dunford—­did go to the next inn and told of the attack; he even guided some men to the spot, and left them to bury me, because he was obliged to hurry on to Sydney; but I believe he returned, before going to the inn, and robbed me.  Anyhow I was not killed by the bullet, but stunned by the fall.  Some of the fellows who came with Tom fancied I did not seem quite dead.  Finally I recovered, and instead of digging for gold myself, got others to dig for me.  I set up an inn and a store, with the help of an American whose daughter I married, and now I am rich enough to be a formidable foe.  I have a little girl, and when my wife died I determined to realize everything, to come to England, and have the child brought up as an English lady.  On the voyage home I fell in with a man—­a fellow of the rolling-stone order—­to whom I used to talk now and again.  He turned out to be the brother of one of your clerks, and from him I heard that my father had died intestate, that my cousin had taken possession of everything, and that I was looked upon as dead.  Did you never attempt to prove the truth of Tom Dunford’s story?”

“We did.  I communicated with the police of Sydney, and they found that there had been a fight between bush-rangers and diggers returning from Woollamaroo at the time and place specified; moreover, that one of the diggers was killed, while the other escaped, but further nothing was known.  The man who kept the inn mentioned by Dunford had made money and moved off, so the track was broken.  Then all these years you made no sign.  Did you not see the advertisements I put in an Australian paper?”

“No; I was far away from any town, and rarely saw any but the American papers which came to my master.  Well, here I am, determined to have every inch of my rights, let who will stand in my way; and you”—­looking fiercely into Newton’s eyes—­“shall be my first witness.”