or rheumatism, put on his battered hat and, shouldering his swag, set briskly forward.
But, as he had done all his life, he took the easiest road. The omens had been in favour of the other, but indecision will learn neither from misfortune nor experience. However clearly destiny or duty indicated the path for him to follow, his weakness led him in a direction entirely opposite.
He had hardly proceeded a dozen yards when he was startled by hearing the loud report of a pistol and a smothered cry, sounds on the quiet afternoon air distinct to painfulness. Afraid without knowing why, he stood still and listened. But, before he could ascertain from whence they proceeded, a man sprang into the road in front of him and disappeared in the scrub.
Hastening his steps the swagger reached a ti-tree gate, from which a narrow path, bordered by rose-bushes and tall white lilies, led to a cottage embosomed in greenery. There he paused, overcome by a curious sense of loneliness he had never felt, even in the heart of the wilderness. But, in spite of a strong desire to flee from the spot, a stronger drew him towards the wide-open door, on the threshold of which he could see the outline of a man's form.
It was evidently the owner of the house. He lay on his back, clutching in one hand a white rose, which he must have caught when he fell. From a deep wound in his temple blood was still slowly trickling, and from his fixed and staring eyes horror and dread looked forth. At his feet lay a pistol, as if the murderer had flung it down in a hurry at the sound of an approaching footstep, and on the ground a well-filled purse, fastened by an elastic band. Beyond these details the swagger's gaze, now feverishly bright, saw nothing.
In a dim sort of way he understood that he and the dead were
