The Luminaries

arrived?’
    ‘Not at the customhouse,’ said the banker, ‘but if he made any dust, he’d have to have it counted and weighed before he left. He’s not allowed to transfer it to another province, or out of the country , without declaring it first. So he’d come here. We’d ask to take a look at the miner’s right. Then we’d make a record in this book that he was working under Otago papers, but on a Hokitika claim. There’s nothing in this book; therefore, as I said just now, we can safely assume he hasn’t prospected anywhere hereabouts. As for whether he’s prospected in Otago, I’ve no idea.’
    The banker spoke with the controlled alarm of a bureaucrat who is requested to explain some mundane feature of the bureaucracy of which he is a functioning part: controlled, because an official is always comforted by proof of his own expertise, and alarmed, because the necessity for explanation seemed, in some obscure way, to undermine the system which had afforded him that expertise in the first place.
    ‘All right,’ said Balfour. ‘Now, there’s one more thing. I need to know whether Carver has owned shares in any mining company, or if he took out shares on a private claim.’
    A flicker of doubt disturbed the banker’s mild expression. Forthe briefest moment, he said nothing, and again it seemed as if he were trying to think of a reason to decline Balfour’s request, to declare it unorthodox, or to press to know the reason why. He looked at Balfour with a gaze that was no less piercing for its mildness —and Balfour, who was always made uncomfortable by scrutiny, scowled very darkly. But, as before, the banker applied himself to the task demanded of his office. He wrote another note upon his ledger, blotted it, and then politely excused himself to pursue this new request.
    When he returned with the shares records, however, he looked openly uneasy.
    ‘Francis Carver
has
speculated in this area,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t call it a portfolio: it’s only one claim. Looks like a private agreement. Carver takes home a return to the tune of fifty percent of the mine’s net profit every quarter.’
    ‘Fifty percent!’ Balfour said. ‘And only one claim—that’s confidence for you! When did he buy?’
    ‘Our records show the date as July 1865.’
    ‘That far back!’ Balfour said. (Six months ago! But that was after the sale of the
Godspeed
—was it not?) ‘Which claim is it? Who’s owning?’
    ‘The mine is called the Aurora,’ said the banker, enunciating very carefully. ‘It is owned and operated by—’
    ‘Emery Staines,’ Balfour finished for him, nodding his head. ‘Yes, I know the place—up Kaniere way. Why, that’s capital news. Staines is a great friend of mine. I’ll go and talk to the man myself. Thank you very much, Mr.—?’
    ‘Frost.’
    ‘Thank you very much, Mr. Frost. You’ve been extraordinarily helpful.’
    But the banker was looking at Balfour with a strange expression on his face.
    ‘Mr. Balfour,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you haven’t heard.’
    ‘Something about Staines?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Balfour stiffened. ‘He’s dead?’
    ‘No,’ said Frost. ‘He vanished.’
    ‘What? When?’
    ‘Two weeks ago.’
    Balfour’s eyes went wide.
    ‘I am sorry to be the one to break the news—
if
you are his great friend.’
    Balfour did not notice the barb of emphasis in the banker’s remark. ‘Vanished—two weeks back!’ he said. ‘And no one’s talking ? Why haven’t I heard about it?’
    ‘I assure you that many men have been talking,’ said Frost. ‘A notice has been published in the Missing Persons column every day this week.’
    ‘I never read the personals,’ said Balfour.
    (But of course: he had been with Lauderback, this fortnight past, facilitating introductions up and down the Coast; he had not been frequenting the Corinthian, as he habitually did in the evenings, to share a mug of beer with the other camp followers while they exchanged the local news.)
    ‘Perhaps he found a strike,’ he said now. ‘That could be it. Perhaps Staines found a paying seam, up in the bush somewhere, and he’s keeping it quiet—until he’s staked the ground.’
    ‘Perhaps,’ the banker said courteously, and would not say more.
    Balfour chewed his lip. ‘Vanished!’ he said. ‘I can’t understand it!’
    ‘I rather wonder whether this news will be of import to your partner,’ said Frost, smoothing the open page of his ledger with his palm.
    ‘Who’s