till it flashed through the open doorway, full upon the yellow-burdened
scales. The precious heaps, like the golden breasts of a bronze
Cleopatra, flung back the light in a mellow glow. Time and space were
not.

"Gawd blime me! but you 'ave the makin' of several quid there, 'aven't
you?"

Jacob Kent wheeled about, at the same time reaching for his
double-barrelled shotgun, which stood handy. But when his eyes lit on
the intruder's face, he staggered back dizzily. _It was the face of the
Man with the Gash_!

The man looked at him curiously.

"Oh, that's all right," he said, waving his hand deprecatingly. "You
needn't think as I'll 'arm you or your blasted dust.

"You're a rum 'un, you are," he added reflectively, as he watched the
sweat pouring from off Kent's face and the quavering of his knees.

"W'y don't you pipe up an' say somethin'?" he went on, as the other
struggled for breath. "Wot's gone wrong o' your gaff? Anythink the
matter?"

"W--w--where'd you get it?" Kent at last managed to articulate, raising a
shaking forefinger to the ghastly scar which seamed the other's cheek.

"Shipmate stove me down with a marlin-spike from the main-royal. An' now
as you 'ave your figger'ead in trim, wot I want to know is, wot's it to