Brand tried to keep up with his companion, but failed. His forehead grew clammy with the effort. He broke down at last, catching his breath with a choking cry that pulled up Cummings abruptly in his hot pursuit of fugitive visions. The boy turned, scarlet and confused. "I’m awfully sorry I dashed off like that. Here, take a pull from the flask. Do forgive me, old chap. It was beastly bad form of me forgetting——" He stopped in embarrassment, taken aback by the curious change that broke out in dull white patches on Brand’s face at his words. But Brand was of the world worldly, not likely to lose the object he had in view because of a temporary obstacle which tact could bridge. There was no trace of resentment in his answer. "You must remember my grey hairs. I’m quite ready to rest if you are. There’s lots of time, and you’ve had rather a strenuous week, I gather? Although I’m a distant relation, I’ve only actually met Martin Calvert once, and then I found him a tough customer. Isn’t a visit there rather a test of endurance? A bit of a bore between ourselves, eh? No leniency to one’s little failings to be met with in that quarter. People say blood is thicker than water; one’s relations always think it means that one is thicker-skinned." "My uncle has been most awfully good to me, you know," Cummings said, with some embarrassment. Brand flicked his cigar ash lightly. "A millionaire’s virtues can be seen with the naked eye, my good fellow. Once you step into the dead man’s shoes of which we were speaking just now, your friends and enemies alike will find you possessed of a thousand admirable qualities, to whose existence they were blind before. ’To him that hath shall be given’ is about the only scriptural injunction that society ever lays to heart, you know." "Oh, come now, that’s a bit satirical," cried Cummings impatiently, flushing again. The pass had narrowed into a gloomy gorge, through which it was impossible for two to walk abreast. The younger man stopped short, glad of an excuse to change the conversation. "What extraordinary country! Nothing but waste land. What’s wrong with the soil? It was right enough by Bruchill. Whom on earth does this belong to?" It was said of Henry Brand in Pall Mall clubs, that were he hurled headlong into the heart of Central Africa he would know the name and sum up the exact precedence of any tribe he came across. He answered deliberately. "There are about thirty thousand acres of this desert all told. And it belongs to Farquharson of Glune. "Farquharson of Glune," Cummings repeated. The name rang familiarly. "Didn’t a Farquharson once marry one of the Kilmaurs? Stay—I seem to remember some story—wasn’t there a rumour——" He broke off abruptly, knitting his brow.