words must convince Harding of his foolishness--"a fortin, mate. And you carn't miss the place. Bill, he knows Deadman's Gully."
He held out the paper, but Harding shook his head and said:
"You are wasting your words."
"You won't send it? Look here, just look here." He stopped to moisten his dry lips, and then went on:
"You've heard of Tom Dearing?"
Harding nodded. It was the name of a noted bushranger, whose last crime had been a daring robbery of the chief bank of Adelaide.
"Well, I'm Tom Dearing. Now you know."
Harding gazed silently at him. He could not get the right words to speak, but it did not need words to make Dearing understand the intense ardent desire to help him that was flooding Harding's soul. It affected the man strangely. He forgot the buried treasure for a moment. The paper fluttered out of his hand and fell on the floor as he cried:
"You're sorry for me; sorry for me!"
"I'm dead sorry for you, lad," said Harding with s