Having decided the point, Chaytor's unscrupulous fingers became busy, and every article in Basil's pockets passed through his hands. With the exception of a purse, he replaced everything he had taken out. This purse contained a locket with a lock of hair in it: at the back of the locket was an inscription in Basil's writing--"My dear Mother's hair," her Christian name, the date of her death, and her age. There was no money in the purse. Undoubtedly Basil, when he recovered his senses, would miss his purse, but if his pocket-book slipped out of his pocket while running, why not that? Chaytor was perfectly easy in his mind as he deposited the purse by the side of the pocket-book inside his waistcoat.
Meanwhile Basil lay motionless. "I'll carry him a little way," thought Chaytor. "Anything might drop from his clothes while he is hanging over my shoulder. I'll have as many arrows to my bow as I can manufacture. When he gets to his senses we will have a hunt for the purse and the pocket-book, and of course shall not find them." With a grim smile he raised Basil to a sitting posture, and gradually lifted him on to his shoulder. Clasping him firmly round the body, Chaytor staggered on.
Basil was no light weight, and Chaytor, while he was pursuing his dissipated life in London, had not been renowned for strength; but his colonial career had hardened his muscles, and enabled him now to perform a task which in years gone by would have been impossible. A dozen times he stopped to rest and wipe his brows. The form he carried was helpless and inert, but Basil's mind was stirred by the motion of being carried through the fresh air, and he began to babble. He thought he was upon old Corrie's mare, and he urged the animal on, muttering in disjointed and unconnected words that he must reach the township of Gum Flat that night, and be back again next day. Then he went on to babble about Annette and her father, and to a less intelligent man than Chaytor--give him credit for that--his wandering talk might have been incoherent and meaningless. But Chaytor's intellect was refined and sharpened by the possibilities of a gilded future. He listened attentively to every word that fell from Basil's fevered lips, and put meaning to them, sometimes false sometimes true.