"He laid a leaf from a pocketbook on top of the steps. I read the message
written in pencil:

"`To Jack Mitchell. -- We were mates on the track. If you know
anything of my affair, don't give it away. -- J. D.'

"I tore the leaf and dropped the bits into the paint-pot.

"`That's all right, Doctor,' I said; `but is there no way?'

"`None.'

"He turned away, wearily. He'd knocked about so much over the world that
he was past bothering about explaining things or being surprised at anything.
But he seemed to get a new idea about me; he came back to the steps again,
and watched my brush for a while, as if he was thinking,
in a broody sort of way, of throwing up his practice and going in
for house-painting. Then he said, slowly and deliberately:

"`If she -- the girl -- had lived, we might have tried to fix it up quietly.
That's what I was hoping for. I don't see how we can help him now,
even if he'd let us. He would never have spoken, anyway.
We must let it go on, and after the trial I'll go to Sydney
and see what I can do at headquarters. It's too late now.
You understand, Mitchell?'

"`Yes. I've thought it out.'

"Then he went away towards the Royal.