“Come here, Mr. Girdlestone,” he croaked; “come here.”

Ezra strode over to him with a face as inexorable as fate.

“You’ve done for me,” said Farintosh faintly.  “It’s a queer end for the best man of his year at Trinity—­master of arts, sir, and Jacksonian prizeman.  Not much worth now, is it?  Who’d have thought then that I should have died like a dog in this wilderness?  What’s the odds how a man dies though.  If I’d kept myself straight I should have gone off a few years later in a feather bed as the Dean of St. Patrick’s may be.  What will that matter?  I’ve enjoyed myself”—­the dying man’s eyes glistened at the thought of past dissipations.  “If I had my time to do over again,” he continued, “I’d enjoy myself the same way.  I’m not penitent, sir.  No death-bed snivelling about me, or short cuts into heaven.  That’s not what I wanted to say though.  I have a choking in the throat, but I dare say you can hear what I am driving at.  You met a man riding towards Jacobsdal, did you not?”

Ezra nodded sullenly.

“You didn’t speak to him?  Too busy trying to catch yours truly, eh?  Will you have your stones back, for they are in the bag by my side, but they’ll not be very much good to you.  The little spec won’t come off this time.  You don’t know what the news was that the man was bringing?”

A vague feeling of impending misfortune stole over Ezra.  He shook his head.

“His news was,” said Farintosh, leaning up upon his hand, “that fresh diamond fields have been discovered at Jagersfontein, in the Orange Free State.  So Russia, or no Russia, stones will not rise.  Ha! ha! will not rise.  Look at his face!  It’s whiter than mine.  Ha! ha! ha!” With the laugh upon his lips, a great flow of blood stopped the clergyman’s utterance, and he rolled slowly over upon his side, a dead man.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A MOMENTOUS RESOLUTION.

During the months which Ezra Girdlestone had spent in Africa the affairs of the firm in Fenchurch Street had been exceedingly prosperous.  Trade upon the coast had been brisker than usual, and three of the company’s ships had come in at short intervals with excellent cargoes.  Among these was the Black Eagle which, to the astonishment of Captain Hamilton Miggs and the disgust of his employer, had weathered a severe gale in the Channel, and had arrived safe and sound once more.  This run of luck, supplemented by the business capacity of the old merchant and the indomitable energy of young Dimsdale, made the concern look so flourishing that the former felt more than ever convinced that if he could but stave off the immediate danger things would soon right themselves.  Hence he read with delight the letters from Africa, in which his son narrated the success of the conspiracy and the manner in which the miners had been hoodwinked.  The old man’s figure grew straighter and his step more firm as the conviction grew upon him that the company would soon return once again to its former condition of affluence.