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298 "NO," continued the dying man, in a stronger voice, as he opened his eyes. "I never … had … a … wife."

Silence again.

"Why Marguerite … My … darling … girl. Darling … at … last. Marguerite."

Sir Montague Merline's problem was solved, and the last of his wages paid.…

The Honourable Reginald Rupert Huntingten never forgot the hour that followed. The three broken-hearted men buried their friend in a shallow, sandy grave and piled a cairn of rocks and stones above the spot. It gave them a feeling akin to pleasure to realise that every minute devoted to this labour of love, lessened their chance of escape.

Their task accomplished, they shook hands and parted—the Bucking Bronco incapable of speech. Before he rode away, Huntingten thrust a piece of paper into his hand, upon which he had scribbled: "R. R. Huntingten, Elham Old Hall, Elham, Kent," and said, "Wire me there. Or—better still, come—and we'll arrange about Carmelita."

The Bucking Bronco rode away in the cool of the morning.

Having settled by the toss of a coin whether he or 'Erb should attempt the next train, he gave that grief-stricken warrior the same address and invitation.

With a crushing hand-clasp they parted, and Huntingten, with a light and jaunty step, and a sore and heavy heart, set forth for the station of Les Imberts to put his nerve and fortune to the test.