Peckover told himself that this was scarcely the detective, and even if he were his condition gave colour to a wild hope of escape. "Tired?" The superfluous question was put tentatively. "You bet." "Dry?" "Always." "Have a glass of fizz?" In Peckover's situation even that unusual hospitality was a matter of indifference. "Thanks," answered the man, smothering a third yawn in recognition of his fellow-guest's civility. "You are a brick. Got more than you care to drink there?" he added to qualify his somewhat grabbing acceptance of the offer. "Yes," answered Peckover with grim significance. Then checking himself as he was about to offer the drugged glass to the stranger, he exclaimed hastily, "Oh, that won't do." "Short of glasses?" said the other accommodatingly. "I don't mind a tumbler to save time." He spun one across to Peckover who emptied the remains of the bottle into it. The stranger poured the wine down his throat without the action of swallowing. "Ah, that's better!" he declared with a great sigh of enjoyment. "Walked too far?" Peckover suggested listlessly. "Not used to it, p'raps?" "Got out of the way of it," the man explained. "Three months aboard ship." "Australia?" Peckover suggested. The stranger nodded. "That's it. Come from London this morning. Got out at Faxfleet to walk over here. Lost my way in the woods." "Didn't come straight, then?" Peckover had an indistinct recollection of having seen this fellow at the station, but had been too much flurried to take more than passing notice of him. Were they companions in bad luck, he wondered. "Have a glass of port," he said, warming towards his fellow-guest. "Your wine? Thanks. Good chap. Crime to refuse old crusted, eh?" He emptied the glass which Peckover promptly refilled. Then put on a mysteriously significant look. "No, I didn't come straight here, and for a good reason." He sank his voice. "Fact is, I'm dodging a bush-ranger." "What?" exclaimed Peckover, disinclined to take the statement seriously. The stranger pulled his chair close up to his companion, and tapped him with his forefinger on the knee. "Look here," he said confidently. "You don't belong to these parts? Nothing of the chawbacon about you. Town man?" "Slightly," answered Peckover, with a chastened pride in the undisputable claim. The other grasped his hand. "I can trust you?" Peckover, recovering from the cold thrill which the somewhat demonstrative clasp occasioned, nodded impressively. "You are a smart Londoner," the stranger continued, "I'll tell you my situation, and get your advice. Mind, though, it's a dead secret." "It soon will be with me," thought Peckover miserably, as he assured his companion on the point.