The Black Opal, Katharine Susannah Prichard [i have read the book a hundred times txt] 📗

in the nature of a try-on; but he had determined to put a stop to it.

“No, you won’t!” he said.

“Won’t I?” Charley turned on his son.

“No.” Potch’s tone was steady and decisive.

Charley looked towards Michael again.

“Well⁠ ⁠… what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ve told you,” Michael said. “Nothing.”

“Did y’ hear what I’ve been calling your saint?” Charley cried, turning to Potch. “I’m calling him what everybody on the fields’d be calling him if they knew.”

Michael’s gaze wavered as it went to Potch.

“A thief,” Charley continued, whipping himself into a frenzy. “That’s what he is⁠—a dirty, low-down thief! I’m the ordinary, decent sort⁠ ⁠… get the credit for what I am⁠ ⁠… and pay for it, by God! But he⁠—he doesn’t pay. I bag all the disgrace⁠ ⁠… and he walks off with the goods⁠—Rouminof’s stones.”

Potch did not look at Michael. What Charley had said did not seem to shock or surprise him.

“I’ve made a perfectly fair and reasonable proposition,” Charley went on more quietly. “I’ve told him⁠ ⁠… if he’ll go halves⁠—”

“Guess again,” Potch sneered.

Charley swung to his feet, a volley of expletives swept from him.

“I’ve told Rummy to get the law on his side,” he cried shrilly, “and he’s going to. There’s one little bit of proof I’ve got that’ll help him, and⁠—”

“You’ll get jail yourself over it,” Potch said.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Charley shouted, and poured his rage and disappointment into a flood of such filthy abuse that Potch took him by the shoulders.

“Shut your mouth,” he said. “D’y’ hear?⁠ ⁠… Shut your mouth!”

Charley continued to rave, and Potch, gripping his shoulders, ran him out of the hut.

Michael heard them talking in Potch’s hut⁠—Charley yelling, threatening, and cursing. A fit of coughing seized him. Then there was silence⁠—a hurrying to and fro in the hut. Michael heard Sophie go to the tank, and carry water into the house, and guessed that Charley’s paroxysm and coughing had brought on the hemorrhage he had had two or three times since his return to the Ridge.

A little later Potch came to him.

“He’s had a bleeding, Michael,” Potch said; “a pretty bad one, and he’s weak as a kitten. But just before it came on I told him I’d let him have a pound a week, somehow, if he goes down to Sydney at once.⁠ ⁠… But if ever he shows his face in the Ridge again⁠ ⁠… or says a word more about you⁠ ⁠… I’ve promised he’ll never get another penny out of me.⁠ ⁠… He can die where and how he likes⁠ ⁠… I’m through with him.⁠ ⁠…”

Michael had been sitting beside his fire, staring into it. He had dropped into a chair and had not moved since Potch and Charley left the hut.

“Do you believe what he said, Potch?” he asked.

Michael felt Potch’s eyes on his face; he raised his eyes to meet them. There was no lie in the clear depths of Potch’s eyes.

“I’ve known for a long time,” Potch said.

Michael’s gaze held him⁠—the swimming misery of it; then, as if overwhelmed by the knowledge of what Potch must be thinking of him, it fell. Michael rose from his chair before the fire and stood before Potch, his mind darkened as by shutting-off of the only light which had penetrated its gloom. He stood so for some time in utter abasement and desolation of spirit, believing that he had lost a thing which had come to be of inexpressible value to him, the love and homage Potch had given him while they had been mates.

“I’ve always known, too,” Potch said, “it was for a good enough reason.”

Michael’s swift glance went to him, his soul irradiated by that unprotesting affirmation of Potch’s faith.

He dropped into his chair before the fire again. His head went into his hands. Potch knew that Michael was crying. He stood by silently⁠—unable to touch him, unable to realise the whole of Michael’s tragedy, and yet overcome with love and sympathy for him. He knew only as much of it as affected Sophie. His sympathy and instinct where Sophie was concerned enabled him to guess why Michael had done what he had.

“It was for Sophie,” he said.

“I intended to give them back to Paul⁠—when she was old enough to go away, Potch,” Michael said after a while. “Then she went away; and I don’t know why I didn’t give them to him at once. The things got hold of me, somehow⁠—for a while, at least. I couldn’t make up my mind to give them back to him⁠—kept makin’ excuses.⁠ ⁠… Then, when I did make up my mind and went to get them, they were gone.”

Potch nodded thoughtfully.

“You don’t suspect anybody?” he asked.

Michael shook his head. “How can I? Nobody knew I had them, and yet⁠ ⁠… that night⁠ ⁠… twice, I thought I had heard someone moving near me.⁠ ⁠… The memory of it’s stayed with me all these years. Sometimes I think it means something⁠—that somebody must have been near and seen and heard. Then that seems absurd. It was a bright night; I looked, and there was no one in sight. There’s only one person besides you⁠ ⁠… saw⁠ ⁠… I think⁠—knew I had the stones.⁠ ⁠…”

“Maud?”

Michael nodded. “She came into the room with you that night. You remember?⁠ ⁠… And I’ve wondered since⁠ ⁠… if she, perhaps, or Jun⁠ ⁠… At any rate, Armitage knows, or suspects⁠—I don’t know which it is really.⁠ ⁠… He says he has proof. There’s that stone I put in Charley’s parcel⁠—a silly thing to do when you come to think of it. But I didn’t like the idea of leaving Charley nothing to sell when he got to Sydney; and that was the only decent bit of stone I’d got. Making up the parcel in a hurry, I didn’t think what putting in that bit of stuff might lead to. But for that, I can’t think how Armitage could have proof I had the stones except through Maud. And she’s been in New York, and⁠—”

“She may have told him she saw you the night she came for me,” Potch said.

“That’s what I think,” Michael