"I was," repeated Kentish. "I didn't sail till the middle of the month."
"To think you were in town till nearly Christmas!" and Stingaree gazed enviously. "It must be hard to realize," he added in some haste.
"Other things," replied Kentish, "are harder."
"I gather from the Punch cartoon that the new Law Courts are in use at last?"
"I was at the opening."
"Then you may have seen this opera that I have been reading about?"
Kentish asked what it was, although he knew.
"Iolanthe."
"Rather! I was there the first night."
"The deuce you were!" cried Stingaree; and for the next quarter of an hour this armed scoundrel, the terror of a district as large as England and Wales, talked of nothing else to the man whom he was about to bind to a tree. Was the new opera equal to its predecessors? Which were the best numbers? Did Punch do it justice, or was there some jealousy in that rival hot-bed of wit and wisdom?
Unfortunately, Guy Kentish had no ear for music, but he made a clear report of the plot, could repeat some of the Lord Chancellor's quips, and was in decided disagreement with the captious banter from which he was given more than one extract. And in default of one of the new airs Stingaree rounded off the subject by dropping once more into—
"For he might have been a Rooshian,
A French, or Turk, or Prooshian,
Or, perhaps, I-tal-i-an!
Or, perhaps, I-tal-i-an!
But in spite of all temptations
To belong to other nations
He remains an Englishman!"
"I understand that might be said of both of us," remarked Kentish, looking the outlaw boldly in the eyes. "But from all accounts I should have thought you were out here before the days of Gilbert and Sullivan."
"So I was," replied Stingaree, without frown or hesitation. "But you may also have heard that I am fond of music—any I can get. My only opportunities, as a rule," the bushranger continued, smiling mischievously at his cigar, "occur on the stations I have occasion to visit from time to time. On one a good lady played and sang Pinafore and The Pirates of Penzance to me from dewy eve to dawn. I'm bound to say I sang some of it at sight myself; and I flatter myself it helped to pass an embarrassing night rather pleasantly for all concerned. We had all hands on the place for our audience, and when I left I was formally presented with both scores; for I had simply called for horses, and horses were all I took. Only the other day I had the luck to confiscate a musical-box which plays selections from The Pirates. I ought to have had it with me in my swag."
So affable and even charming was the quiet voice, so evident the appreciation of the last inch of the cigar which had thawed a frozen palate, and so conceivable a further softening, that Guy Kentish made bolder than before. He knew what he meant to do; he knew how he meant to do it. And yet it seemed just possible there might be a gentler way.
"You don't always take things, I believe?" he hazarded.
"You mean after sticking up?"
"Yes."
"Generally, I fear; it's the whole meaning of the act," confessed Stingaree, still the dandy in tone and phrase. "But there have been exceptions."
"Exactly!" quoth Kentish. "And there's going to be another this afternoon!"
Stingaree hurled the stump of his cigar into the scrub, and without a word the villain was born again, with his hard eyes, his harder mouth, his sinister scowl, his crag of a chin.
"So you come back to that," he cried, harshly. "I thought you had more sense; you will make me tie you up before your time."
"You may do exactly what you like," retorted Kentish, a galling scorn in his unaltered voice. "Only, before you do it, you may as well know who I am."
"My good sir, do you suppose I care who you are?" asked Stingaree, with an angry laugh: and his anger is the rarest thing in all his annals.
"I am quite sure you don't," responded Kentish. "But you may as well know my name, even though you never heard it before." And he gave it with a touch of triumph, not for one moment to be confounded with a natural pride.
The bushranger stared him steadily in the eyes; his hand had dropped once more upon the butt of his revolver. "No; I never did hear it before," he said.
"I'm not surprised," replied the other. "I was a new member when you were turned out of the club." Stingaree's hand closed: his eyes were terrible. "And yet," continued Kentish, "the moment I saw you at close quarters in the road I recognized you as——"
"Stingaree!" cried the bushranger, on a rich and vibrant note. "Let the other name pass your lips—even here—and it's the last word that ever will!"
"Very well," said Mr. Kentish, with his unaffected shrug. "But, you see, I know all about you."
"You're the only man who does, in all Australia!" exclaimed the outlaw, hoarsely.
"At present! I sha'n't be the only man long."
"You will," said Stingaree through teeth and mustache; and he leaned over, revolver in hand. "You'll be the only man ever, because, instead of tying you up, I'm going to shoot you."
Kentish threw up his head in sharp contempt.
"What!" said he. "Sitting?"
Stingaree sprang to his feet in a fury. "No; I have a brace!" he cried, catching the pack-horse. "You shall have the other, if it makes you happy; but you'll be a dead man all the same. I can handle these things, and I shall shoot to kill!"
"Then it's all up with you," said Kentish, rising slowly in his turn.
"All up with me? What the devil do you mean?"
"Unless I am at a certain place by a certain time, with or without these letters that are not yours, another letter will be opened."
Stingaree's stare gradually changed into a smile.
"A little vague," said he, "don't you think?"
"It shall be as plain as you please. The letter I mean was scribbled on the coach before I got down. It will only be opened if I don't return. It contains the name you can't bear to hear!"
There was a pause. The afternoon sun was sinking with southern precipitancy, and Kentish had got his back to it by cool intent. He studied the play of suppressed mortification and strenuous philosophy in the swarthy face warmed by the reddening light; and admired the arduous triumph of judgment over instinct, even as a certain admiration dawned through the monocle which insensibly focussed his attention.
"And suppose," said Stingaree—"suppose you return empty as you came?" A contemptuous kick sent a pack of letters spinning.
"I should feel under no obligation to keep your secret."
"And you think I would trust you to keep it otherwise?"
"If I gave you my word," said Kentish, "I know you would."
Stingaree made no immediate answer; but he gazed in the sun-flayed face without suspicion.
"You wouldn't give me your word," he said at last.
"Oh, yes, I would."
"That you would die without letting that name pass your lips?"
"Unless I die delirious—with all my heart. I have as much respect for it as you."
"As much!" echoed the bushranger, in a strange blend of bitterness and obligation. "But how could you explain the bags? How could you have taken them from