The next morning early they left the solitude, the neighborhood of the lofty peaks and the desecrated earth beneath. They reached Brisbane in about four days, and put up once more at the Waharoo Hotel. There the real business for which all this preparation had been made commenced. Rycroft was a past master in drawing up reports of mines, and Ogilvie now helped him with a will. He found a strange pleasure in doing his work as carefully as possible. He no longer suffered from qualms of conscience. The mine would work really well for six months. During that time the promoters would make their fortunes. Afterward--the deluge. But that mattered very little to Ogilvie in his present state of mind. "If I suffer as I have done lately from this troublesome heart of mine I shall have gone to my account before six months," thought the man; "the child will be provided for, and no one will ever know." The report was a plausible and highly colored one. It was lengthy in detail, and prophesied a brilliant future for Lombard Deeps. Ogilvie and Rycroft, both assayers of knowledge and experience, declared that they had carefully examined the lodes, that they had struck four veins of rich ore yielding, after crushing, an average of six ounces to the ton, and that the extent and richness of the ore was practically unlimited. They spent several days over this document, and at last it was finished. "I shall take the next mail home," said Ogilvie, standing up after he had read his own words for the twentieth time. "Sign first," replied Rycroft. He pushed the paper across to Ogilvie. "Yes, I shall go to-morrow morning," continued Ogilvie. "The _Sahara_ sails to-morrow at noon?" "I believe so; but sign, won't you?" Ogilvie took up his pen; he held it suspended as he looked again at his companion. "I shall take a berth on board at once," he said. "All right, old chap, but sign first." Ogilvie was about to put his signature to the bottom of the document, when suddenly, without the least warning, a strange giddiness, followed by intolerable pain, seized him. It passed off, leaving him very faint. He raised his hand to his brow and looked around him in a dazed way. "What is wrong," asked Rycroft; "are you ill?" "I suffer from this sort of thing now and then," replied Ogilvie, bringing out his words in short gasps. "Brandy, please." Rycroft sprang to a side table, poured out a glass of brandy, and brought it to Ogilvie. "You look ghastly," he said; "drink." Ogilvie raised the stimulant to his lips. He took a few sips, and the color returned to his face. "Now sign," said Rycroft again. "Where is the pen?" asked Ogilvie. He was all too anxious now to take the fatal plunge. His signature, firm and bold, was put to the document. He pushed it from him and stood up. Rycroft hastily added his beneath that of Ogilvie's.