“Do you mean this, captain?”

“Yes, I mean it, friend Brown.  You shan’t charge me with taking the lion’s share in this case.  If there are five thousand dollars, as my informant seems to think, your share shall be half.”

“Twenty-five hundred dollars!”

“Exactly; twenty-five hundred dollars.”

“That will pay for my hard luck lately,” said Brown, his face clearing.

“Very handsomely, too.”

“When shall we start?”

“To-morrow morning.  We will set out early in the morning; and, by the way, Brown, it’s just as well not to let your wife or anyone else know where we are going.”

“All right,” answered Brown, cheerfully.

The next morning the two worthies set out their far from meritorious errand.  Brown told his wife vaguely, in reply to her questioning, that he was called away for a few days on business.

If he expected to evade further question by this answer, he was mistaken.  Mrs. Brown was naturally of a jealous and suspicious temperament, and doubt was excited in her breast.

“Where shall I say you have gone if I am asked?” she said.

“You may say that you don’t know,” answered Brown, brusquely.

“I don’t think much of a man who keeps secrets from his wife,” said Mrs. Brown, coldly.

“And I don’t think much of a man who tells everything to his wife,” retorted Brown.  “It’s all right, Kitty, You needn’t concern yourself.  But the captain and I are on an expedition, which, to be successful, needs to be kept secret.”

Mrs. Brown was not more than half convinced, but she was compelled to accept this statement, for her husband would vouchsafe no other.

That part of the State into which they journeyed was not new ground to either.  They were familiar with all the settled portion of Colorado, and had no difficulty in finding the cabin occupied by George Melville.

Now it happened that they reached the modest dwelling in the woods about three o’clock in the afternoon.  Herbert had ridden over to Deer Creek to look after his mining property, and it was not yet time to expect him back.  George Melville was therefore left alone.

Knowing, as my young readers do, his literary tastes, they will understand that, though left alone, he was not lonely.  The stock of books which he had bought from his predecessor was to him an unfailing resource.  Moreover, he had taken up Italian, of which he knew a little, and was reading in the original the “Divina Comedia” of Dante, a work which consumed many hours, and was not likely soon to be over.  To-day, however, for some reason Melville found it more difficult than usual to fix his mind upon his pleasant study.  Was it a presentiment of coming evil that made him so unusually restless?  At all events, the hours, which were wont to be fleet-footed, passed with unusual slowness, and he found himself longing for the return of his young friend.