The Luminaries

Harmon, I think it was. He’s off in Greymouth now. Any one of them might have mentioned it to any number of others. It was quite remarkable, of course—that inscription. Not something a man would easily forget.’
    ‘D—n,’ said Mannering. He struck the desk with his fist. ‘D—n, d—n, d—n.’
    ‘But I don’t understand,’ Frost said again. ‘What’s this all about?’
    ‘What’s the matter with you, Charlie?’ Mannering burst out suddenly. ‘Why—it’s taken you
two bloody weeks
to front up to me about this! What have you been doing—sitting on your fingers? What?’
    Frost drew back. ‘I came to see you today because I thought this information might help recover Mr. Staines,’ he said, with dignity. ‘Given that this money very plainly belongs to
him
, and not to Crosbie Wells!’
    ‘Rot. You might have done that two weeks ago. Or any day since.’
    ‘But I only made the connexion to Staines this morning! Howwas I to know about the Aurora? I don’t keep a tally of every man’s bankroll, and every man’s claim. I had no reason—’
    ‘You got a cut,’ Mannering interrupted. He levelled a finger at Frost. ‘You got a cut of that pile.’
    Frost flushed. ‘That’s hardly pertinent.’
    ‘Did you or did you not get a cut of Crosbie Wells’s fortune?’
    ‘Well—unofficially—’
    Mannering swore. ‘And you were just sitting tight, weren’t you?’ he said. He sat back, and with a disgusted flick of his wrist, threw the end of his cigar into the fire. ‘Until the widow showed up, and you got backed in a corner. And
now
you’re showing your cards—and making it look like charity! Well, I’ll be d—ned, Charlie. I’ll be God-d—ned.’
    Frost had a wounded look. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s not the reason. I only put the pieces together this morning. Truly I did. Tom Balfour came by the bank with this cock-and-bull story about Francis Carver, and asked me to look up his shares profile, and I found out—’
    ‘What?’
    ‘—that Carver had taken out shares against Aurora, soon after Mr. Staines purchased it. I didn’t know about that before this morning.’
    ‘What’s that about Tom Balfour?’
    ‘And when Mr. Balfour left I looked up the Aurora’s records, and I noticed that Aurora’s profits started to fall away right around the time that Carver took out his shares, and
that’s
when I remembered about the name in the smelting, and put it all together. Truly.’
    Mannering raised his voice. ‘What’s Tom Balfour wanting with Francis Carver?’
    ‘He’s wanting to bring him to the law,’ Frost said.
    ‘On what account?’
    ‘He said that Carver lifted a fortune from another man’s claim, or something to that tune. But he was cagey about it, and he began with a lie.’
    ‘Hm,’ said the magnate.
    ‘I brought the matter to you directly,’ Frost went on, still hopingfor praise. ‘I left the bank early, to come to you directly. As soon as I put all the pieces together.’
    ‘All the pieces!’ Mannering exclaimed. ‘You haven’t
got
all the pieces, Charlie. You don’t know what half the pieces look like.’
    Frost was offended. ‘What does that mean?’
    But Mannering did not reply. ‘Johnny Quee,’ he said. ‘Johnny bloody Quee.’ He stood up so suddenly that the chair fell away behind him and struck the wall; the collie-dog leaped to her feet, overjoyed, and began to pant.
    ‘Who?’ said Charlie Frost, before he remembered: Quee was the name of the digger who worked the Aurora. His name had been written on the record at the bank.
    ‘My Chinese problem—and now yours too, I’m afraid,’ said Mannering, darkly. ‘Are you with me, Charlie, or against me?’
    Frost looked down at his cigar. ‘With you, of course. I don’t see why you have to ask questions like that.’
    Mannering went to the back of the room. He opened a cabinet to reveal two carbines, sundry pistols, and an enormous belt that sported two buckskin holsters and a leather fringe. He began buckling this rather absurd accessory about his ample waist. ‘You ought to be armed—or are you already?’
    Frost coloured slightly. He leaned forward and crushed out his cigar—taking his time about it, stabbing the blunt end three times against the dish, and then again, grinding the ash to a fine black dust.
    Mannering stamped his foot. ‘Hi there! Are you armed, or are you not?’
    ‘I am not,’ said Frost, dropping the cigar butt at last. ‘To be perfectly honest with