The week following their arrival at their destination was remarkable in more senses than one. After the success which had attended Moreas’ search among the sands of the river-bed it was impossible for him to be idle for a moment. It was no sooner light than he was at work; he kept at it with feverish eagerness until darkness fell; and grudged every hour until dawn should reappear again. Under the influence of their success his old antagonism for Max seemed to have left him. If he were not quite so friendly as he had once been, it seemed as if he were at least anxious to make amends for his conduct in the immediate past. One thing, however, puzzled Max more than he liked to say, and made him suspicious of the other’s overtures. This was the fact that Moreas invariably preferred to do his work alone, and did not appear to mind very much what excuse he made so long as he achieved his object. It is true that in the evening he invariably added his day’s findings to the general store with scrupulous exactness, but on no account would he allow his companion to be present at the washings. Scarcely a day passed without their discovering something of value.

By the end of the month they had discovered six stones of considerable size, fourteen medium, and some twenty or thirty small ones, varying from a quarter to a carat each. These they placed in a small bag and religiously counted every evening.

Influenced by such a run of luck, Moreas’ manner underwent yet another change. He became geniality itself, upbraided himself for his former treatment of Max, and declared that if he had searched the whole world through he could not have found a better companion. He vowed that he entertained the affection of a brother for him.

How, considering all this, Max’s suspicions were first aroused, I cannot say. It may have been that the other’s excessive eagerness to recognise the honesty with which every evening he himself handed over the stones he had collected may have had something to do with it. It is certain, however, that, little by little, a feeling of positive distrust was born in his mind. In vain he tried to dismiss it from his thoughts. The more he told himself that he was doing the other an injustice, the stronger the feeling became that Moreas was playing a double game. He determined to watch him closely, and did so without, however, detecting anything suspicious. For the reason that they worked in different places, it was impossible for him to check all that was found. To propose to work with him, in order that he might keep an eye on him, was equally out of the question.

No, there was nothing for it but for him to watch and wait, hoping that if anything were wrong, some happy chance would enable him to detect and rectify it.

When they had been two months upon the field, and had explored the river up and down for a distance of nearly twenty miles, Max inquired of Moreas whether he did not think it was time for them to return to their friends.

“Perhaps it is,” said Moreas slowly. “And I think it will be better if we tried the other route, through Peru into Brazil. It is just possible it might be both safer and quicker than the way we came.”

“It’s just possible it might,” Max answered, realising at once what the other was driving at.

“But what about the party who are waiting for us on the other side of the mountains? How would it affect them?”

“They would in all probability return to civilisation,” said Moreas, “believing us to be dead. I can’t see that it would be altogether to our disadvantage if they did. What do you say?”

Max was silent for a moment. When he spoke again there was a note in his voice that should have warned the other not to proceed too far with his suggestions.

“Look here, Moreas,” he said, “I can see quite plainly what is in your mind, and, once and for all, let me tell you I will not have it. We are here in the interests of Bertram and the others, as well as to look after ourselves. We have pledged our honour to return within a certain time, and that is what we are going to do! You know me, I think, and you are aware that if I say a thing I mean it. Let that end the matter.”

“Well, well, let it be as you wish,” said Moreas, with extraordinary calmness. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be the thing, and if you are determined to play straight with them I will do the same. You’re a good fellow, Max, and I’m sorry I suggested anything else. Try to forget it.”

Though he spoke so fair and appeared so repentant, Max did not feel any the more inclined to trust him. As a matter of fact, the other’s ready compliance had made him even more suspicious of his motives than before. He knew that unless Moreas had some other plan in his mind he would not have given up his point or dismissed the matter so calmly.

“The rascal has got something up his sleeve,” said Max to himself, when he thought the matter over. “I wish I could discover what it is. The fellow is a thorough-paced thief as well as a would-be murderer. And I’m not going to trust him as far as I can see him.”

For some days after the conversation just recorded, they continued their work as if the subject of their return to civilisation had never been mentioned. Max noticed, however, that his companion did not show as good results as before, the stones were small, milky, and very poor in quality. He spoke to him on the subject.

“The place seems to have suddenly panned out,” the other replied angrily. “Above the bend there is not even an indication of the formacao diamante. I am beginning to think that for the future it is only on the flat we shall discover them.”

Yet even this disastrous intelligence did not prevent him from returning next day to work at the same place. From a vantage spot on the side of the hill to which Max had climbed for the purpose, he could see him busily engaged there, digging and washing as if for dear life. This set Max thinking. Moreas, he knew, would not waste his time, every second of which he valued like so much gold, on unprofitable labour. Then an idea occurred to him, and he determined to act upon it. He had noticed that, every afternoon, a considerable interval elapsed between the time that Moreas had ceased work and his appearance at the camp. What did he do during the time? Max determined to find out. Accordingly, that afternoon, a quarter of an hour or so before the usual time for returning to their camp, he set off along the side of the hill, keeping under cover of the rocks. At last he was near enough to be able to see Moreas in the river-bed, working away with his usual persistence. Five minutes later the other put down his tools and began making his way in an opposite direction to the camp. From the stealthy way in in which he walked, and the manner in which he constantly looked behind him, it was plain that he was afraid of being followed. But, as Max asked himself, if his motives were honest, what should he have to fear?

At last he reached what was evidently his destination, a peculiar cluster of rocks some three-quarters of a mile from the camp. A moment later he had disappeared from view, not to reappear for something like a quarter of an hour. When he did so he looked anxiously about him as before, and then, as soon as he had satisfied himself that his proceedings had not been overlooked, started back for the river-bed, keeping as much cover as possible between himself and the place where he supposed Max to be still working.

Max, in his turn, waited until the other was out of sight and then, skirting the base of the hill, approached the rocks where, a quarter of an hour or so before, Moreas had been so mysteriously engaged. He was quite aware that if by any chance Moreas should return and find him there, it would put an end to their partnership.

“Let that be as it may,” he said to himself, “I’m determined to find out what it was that brought him here.”

When he reached the open space between the rocks, he looked eagerly about him. No sign, however, of anything unusual was to be discovered there. He could not see that the ground had been touched, nor could he find any place where things, such as he was thinking of, could be hidden. The ground was of a sandy description, bare for the most part, but varied here and there with tufts of rough grass, some eight to ten inches in height. After patient investigation he found that one of these showed signs of having lately been pressed down by a heavy weight.

“Now I think I understand,” he said to himself, and immediately resolved to overhaul the smaller rocks in its neighbourhood.

A few minutes later he uttered a cry of delight, and immediately replaced the stone he had lifted. Moving to the other side of the circle he carefully overhauled the neighbourhood, in order to make quite sure that Moreas was not returning. Nothing was to be seen of him, however. He accordingly returned to his examination of the hole. As it proved, he was not wrong in his conjecture. In it reposed what he had quite expected to find there, namely, a small leather bag, similar to that in which the diamonds at the camp were kept.

“So, friend Moreas, you turn out to be a thief after all,” he said, as he sat down upon the ground and opened the bag. “You hand over to me, for the welfare of the syndicate, the small stones you find, while the more valuable you hide here for your own benefit.”

So saying he shot the contents of the bag into the palm of his hand and studied them attentively. It was impossible to say what the collection was worth in its entirety, but the total could scarcely have been less than thirty thousand pounds.

He placed the bag in his pocket, and retraced his steps to the hillside. Once there he sat down and considered the position. To have taken his haul back to the camp, as things stood, would have been the height of folly. In that case they would have been ready at hand for Moreas to take possession of them, should he be lucky enough to put a bullet into Max before the latter could defend himself. No! he must find a new hiding-place for them. He looked the hillside up and down without discovering what he wanted. Then half way to the summit, and a quarter of a mile on his right, he saw a conspicuous rock, the shape of which reminded him irresistibly of a church steeple. For some distance to the eastward the hill was entirely bare. He accordingly hurried thither, and having measured the distance carefully, foot by foot, dug a large hole, seventy-one feet due east from the rock just mentioned. In this hole he placed the bag containing the precious stones, and afterwards returned the soil to its former position, covering it with a small rock, in order that the fact that he had been digging should not be apparent to the casual observer, should one ever chance to pass that way. Then, to make sure that there was no error in his calculations, he carefully stepped the distance once more. As before, it was seventy-one feet exactly. To further impress this fact upon his memory, he took his hunting-knife, bared his breast, and drew, regardless of the pain, a rough picture of the spire rock, and below it the number “seventy-one,” with a large E to indicate the east. The blood gushed out before he had finished, the pain was excruciating, but he showed no sign of flinching. When he had done this he picked up his rifle once more and set off for camp.

On his arrival there he found Moreas seated on a log beside the fire. He looked up as Max came near, and seeing that he was carrying his rifle, asked what sort of luck he had had. The other noticed that there was the same shifty look upon his face that always heralded the approach of mischief. However, since he was prepared for all eventualities, he did not mind so very much. It was when Moreas was genially disposed that he feared him.

“I did not see anything to shoot,” Max replied, as he approached the fire. “What luck have you had?”

“Only two small stones,” answered the other; “One runs, perhaps, to a carat, and the other to about a half. To tell the truth, I’m getting tired of it. Our luck is but half so good as it was.”

“Surely you are not dissatisfied,” said Max, seeing that the moment had come for him to bring his accusation. “You should be the last to say that, seeing the nest-egg you’ve got in the bag under that stone yonder. What more could you want?”

Moreas sprang to his feet with a cry.

“You have taken my stones!” he cried, at the same time producing his pistol. “What have you done with them? Curse you!”

“I have hidden them where you will never find them,” answered Max. Then, seeing that the other was advancing threateningly towards him, he cried, “Stand back, Moreas! I warn you, stand back! If you come a step closer, your blood be upon your own head.”

“Damn your waste of words!” stormed the other, scarcely able to speak for the rage that was consuming him. “Give me my stones. Tell me where you have hidden them.”

“I’ll tell you nothing,” retorted Max, “save that you had better not come any nearer. I know you for the traitorous cur you are, and if you advance another step I’ll shoot you.”

But Moreas was too far gone to hear or heed him. A fit of demoniacal rage had taken possession of him. The madness he had shown in the desert, and which had since died down, had returned to him once more and with a yell of fury he pointed his revolver at Max and fired. The bullet whistled past the other’s ear. He fired again, this time with better execution, for Max felt a stab, as of a red-hot knitting needle passing through his shoulder, and knew that he was hit. Still able, however, to lift his arm, he raised his rifle, pointed it, and pulled the trigger. Moreas leapt into the air with a cry, and an instant later fell forward on his face. His body quivered for a moment, and then all was still.

“Exit Moreas,” said Max quietly, and then, letting his rifle fall, put up his right hand to his face. The world was swimming before his eyes. He staggered and fell to the ground in a dead faint. How long he lay there he could not tell, but when his senses returned to him it was night and the stars were shining brightly. His shoulder hurt him terribly, but he gave it scarcely a thought. “What shall I do?” he muttered, as he staggered to his feet. “I cannot stay here. This place is accursed.”

His one all-mastering desire was to be done with that plain for ever. He felt that it would drive him mad to stay on it another hour. The fire was still burning, though very faintly; sufficient light, however, came from it to show him Moreas’ body still lying beside it. The man’s dying shriek rang in his ears, as it would ring so long as he could hear anything. He shuddered, as the recollection of the scene occurred to him. There was no doubt about it, he must get away at once. With as much haste as he could command, he stumbled about the camp, collecting the two mules and loading them with such things as he desired to carry away with him. The small bag of diamonds, to which Moreas had contributed a minor share, he resolved to take with him. With the others, however, which had been the cause of all the trouble, and for which Moreas had paid with his life, he would have nothing to do. If the other members of the party desired to possess them, let them come after them and find them for themselves. For his part, he was not going to handle them again. Then, throwing another shuddering glance at his dead foe, he reeled away in the dark up the hillside, en route for civilisation once more. The spirit of Moreas seemed to be walking beside him, and it was as if his last dreadful shriek echoed continually among the hills. Scarcely knowing what he was doing, weak and exhausted from loss of blood, he staggered on as best he could, willing to do or bear anything rather than remain in a place, the mere thought of which was as bitter to him as hell. At last, unable to go any further, he threw himself down upon the ground and fell into a deep sleep that was something more than a mere slumber. He can remember nothing more save that one longing continually possessed him, namely, to push on in search of Bertram, and never to see that plain again.

How he managed to accomplish it in the condition in which he was then, no one will ever know. It is quite certain that he himself could not tell. Cross the range, however, and that terrible desert on the other side of it, he certainly did. A month later, with both mules missing, though where he had lost them he could not tell, and his own frame reduced to a skeleton, he reached the spot in the mountains where he and Bertram had drawn lots and had said good-bye to each other so many months before. Then he dropped, as he thought, to die.