Stormont gave him some paper money, and then turned to the clerk. "See
about mailing the letters, Watson."

The clerk went out, knowing why he had been sent. His employer trusted
him where he was forced, but did not want him to hear what Drummond had
to say.

When Watson had gone Drummond knitted his brows, as if trying to
remember something. "The vein runs out on the face of a cliff, 'bout
forty paces from the first rampike pine; there's three or four rampikes,
but the fire hadn't gone far into the bush."

"Not much of a clue! There are patches of burned forest all over the
country," Stormont remarked.

"Don't interrupt!" said Drummond, with a frown. "It's pretty hard to
remember. Give me 'nother drink. I wanter get it right."

Stormont filled his glass and he resumed in an unsteady voice: "Cliff
rises from the creek in a little round hollow. There's a big rock near
the top of the divide opposite--"

"Go on. How does the creek run?"

"You're hustling me," Drummond grumbled. "I wanter think. It's
important. Knowing how the creek runs fixes where she is." He paused,
and a vague distrust of Stormont entered his bemused brain. He had got
the fifty dollars and saw, with drunken cunning, that it might be
prudent to keep something back. "She runs south."