"I have brought home a few belongings of his," the stranger went on to explain. "Just a port-manteau with some clothes and things."
He paused, and drew a small packet from the pocket of a covert-coat which he carried over his arm.
"Here," he went on, "are some papers of his--a diary and one or two letters. The rest of the things are at my hotel in town."
Arthur took the packet, and, still in the same dreamy, unreal way, opened it. He turned to the last entry--dated six weeks back.
"Got out of bed at five, but nothing to be seen in the valley. I feel a bit chippy this morning. If nothing turns up to-day shall begin to feel uneasy. The men seem all right. They are plucky little fellows."
There was a self-consciousness about Jem Agar's diary, a selection of the right word, which conveyed
