Had these diggers refreshed their minds by looking back for historical parallels, they might have been prepared in some degree for Miss Musgrave’s exit from among them, but as none of them indulged in such retrospections the manner of it took the camp somewhat by surprise.

It was first discovered in this wise.  Work was over for the day.  The Kaffirs had been searched and had returned to their kraal.  Pipes were being lit after the evening meal, and a picturesque assembly was grouping itself in an expectant semicircle on the sun-baked turf in front of Miss Musgrave’s dwelling.  She was usually outside to welcome the first comers, and her absence naturally formed the staple topic of conversation.  Digger after digger arrived, threw himself down, and joined in the general wonderment as to why Miss Mary wasn’t there, and at last some one hazarded a suggestion that she “must be asleep.”  There was a general epidemic of noisy coughing for a full minute, and then silence for another, but no sound from within the hut.

“Perhaps she’s ill,” was the next surmise.

After the etiquette to be followed had been strictly discussed, and a rigid course of procedure set down, the Scholar got up and knocked at the door.  He received no answer, and so knocked again—­knocked several times, in fact, and then rattled the handle vigorously, but without result.

“Better open it,” said a voice.

And he did so; and after looking inside, announced: 

“She’s not there.”

At this moment Dan came up.

“My ole mar’ ‘s gone,” he said; “an’ she ain’t stampeded, neither, but was stole.  Tote-rope’s been untied, an’ saddle an’ bridle took as well.”

There was uncomfortable silence, which the Scholar broke by a low, long-drawn whistle.

“Boys,” said he, “let’s look inside the safe.”

The three men who held the keys brought them up, the bolts were shot, and the massive door swung back.  There was every man’s little sack with his name on it; but somehow or other the sacks looked limper than of yore.  Each one was eagerly clutched and examined, and many a groan and not a few curses went up on the still night air as it was found that every sack save Dan’s had been relieved of the more valuable part of its contents.

So much heart-breaking labour under the burning sun thrown away for nothing; the dreary work to commence afresh, almost from the beginning!  Had the thief been any ordinary one, the denunciation would have been unbounded; but no one lifted his tongue very loudly against Mary Musgrave.  Yet mounted men were despatched on the three trails to bring back the booty if possible, and the rest moved dejectedly toward their old club.  The greasy Jew did not attempt to conceal his exultation.  He served his customers with his wicked old face glowing with smiles, and when a moment’s breathing-time came he observed: 

“We all ‘az hour lettle surbrizes in dis wairld, an’ I most confaiss I am asdonished myself to lairn that Mess Mosgrave is a thief—­” But here a crashing among the glassware announced that Tommy Dartmoor had begun shooting with his left hand, and Herr Gustave sputtered out from behind the fingers he held before his face, “Ach Gott!  I say nozzing more!”