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"Douglas Macray."

Cobby's pen paused in air. Looking at the man, he muttered, "Singular"; and added with a smile: "You are not, I take it, the millionaire of that name?"

"W-e-ll, I'm afraid not, if there is such a millionaire. But never say die, sir! I may yet stand in his shoes."

Now, frowning in an effort of memory, Cobby asked: "Where have I seen you before? Some where."

"Dartmoor jail, sir." He chuckled.

"No, I never was there. You?"

"Well, no—not actually inside. I wouldn't say that the traps have never been after me, but they never yet got me."

Cobby smiled on him—liked a certain hardihood, stoicism, and cheery frankness which was about him.

"Well, sign," he said, and, this done, wrote a letter to a Boer at whose stead he had slept during his hunting-trip, a letter of no importance in itself, only written in order to get Macray, who was to take it, out of reach of schemers. "We others will perhaps have started before you get back," he said, "but you will readily pick up our spoor. Here's the cash; and now I will come with you to the yard."