“I don’t understand it,” said Dick.  “Whatever made you think he was here, sir?”

“Why, I tell you he left me to come here.”

“Left you, sir!” faltered Phoebe.  “Why, when?—­where?”

“At the diggings—­ever so long ago.”

“Blank him! that is just like him; the uneasy fool!” roared Dick.

“No, Mr. Dale, you should not say that; he left me, with my consent, to come to Mrs. Falcon here, and consult her about disposing of our diamonds.”

“Diamonds!—­diamonds!” cried Phoebe.  “Oh, they make me tremble.  How could you let him go alone!  You didn’t let him go on foot, I hope?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Falcon; he had his horse, and his rifle, and money to spend on the road.”

“How long ago did he leave you, sir?”

“I—­I am sorry to say it was five weeks ago.”

“Five weeks! and not come yet.  Ah! the wild beasts!—­the diggers!—­the murderers!  He is dead!”

“God forbid!” faltered Staines; but his own blood began to run cold.

“He is dead.  He has died between this and the dreadful diamonds.  I shall never see my darling again:  he is dead.  He is dead.”

She rushed out of the room, and out of the house, throwing her arms above her head in despair, and uttering those words of agony again and again in every variety of anguish.

At such horrible moments women always swoon—­if we are to believe the dramatists.  I doubt if there is one grain of truth in this.  Women seldom swoon at all, unless their bodies are unhealthy, or weakened by the reaction that follows so terrible a shock as this.  At all events, Phoebe, at first, was strong and wild as a lion, and went to and fro outside the house, unconscious of her body’s motion, frenzied with agony, and but one word on her lips, “He is dead!—­he is dead!”

Dick followed her, crying like a child, but master of himself; he got his people about her, and half carried her in again; then shut the door in all their faces.

He got the poor creature to sit down, and she began to rock and moan, with her apron over her head, and her brown hair loose about her.

“Why should he be dead?” said Dick.  “Don’t give a man up like that, Phoebe.  Doctor, tell us more about it.  Oh, man, how could you let him out of your sight?  You knew how fond the poor creature was of him.”

“But that was it, Mr. Dale,” said Staines.  “I knew his wife must pine for him; and we had found six large diamonds, and a handful of small ones; but the market was glutted; and to get a better price, he wanted to go straight to Cape Town.  But I said, ’No; go and show them to your wife, and see whether she will go to Cape Town.’”

Phoebe began to listen, as was evident by her moaning more softly.

“Might he not have gone straight to Cape Town?” Staines hazarded this timidly.

“Why should he do that, sir?  Dale’s Kloof is on the road.”