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to learn that it was a mirage. It was a small and unsatisfactory water-hole, brackish as to flavour, but he was not in a critical mood. He lay down beside it, all his muscles relaxed, and went to sleep. He had not been thinking much; all the people he had ever known seemed extraordinarily remote, and his interest in them was limited only one cord held him to the world, his “death.” About that he cared tremendously; he had never acted a part before, and it was not in his line, but he meant to throw himself into this. It was rather exciting to turn into a different person at his time of life, and he looked forward to reading brief and tragic paragraphs about his own death. It was a blessing that nobody would mind—even Pamela the tenderhearted, for after all she had hardly known him, and―—Trent Stoke and the title, not to speak of that income which Tony knew vaguely, were a good salve.

The next stretch was a long one too. Tony did not know how many days he spent over it. Only one thing stood out in his mercifully blurred memory, it happened at dawn one day.

To the left of him on the plain far ahead, he saw something. This of itself was sufficiently startling. He approached and saw that it was a man lying face downwards; when Tony turned him over he moved slightly and tried to speak, but his tongue was swollen and quite black, he only made a croaking sound. Tony moistened the cracked dry lips with some of his precious water, gradually giving him more. But he was terribly weak, and Tony’s face was drawn and grim.

“This is bad,” he thought; “there’s barely enough for one, and it’s no use nursing him till he dies and then dying myself. Unless he can walk I must—leave him. He’s nearly done. Feel better now, mate?”

He had to repeat the question twice, but at the third time the man moved his head in assent.