“Stand!” he ordered gruffly.

The moon peeped coyly out from behind a cloud and shed her light upon the little group as if to see what all the fuss was about. The big man’s face was in the shadow, but Jack’s pistol was not. Into its muzzle the gentleman gazed, one hand deep in the pocket of his heavy cloak, the other holding a small pistol.

“Me very dear friend,” he said in a rich brogue, “perhaps ye are not aware that that same pistol ye are pointing at me is unloaded? Don’t move; I have ye covered!”

Jack’s arm fell to his side, and the pistol he held clattered to the ground. But it was not surprise at Jim’s defection that caused him that violent start. It was something far more overwhelming. For the voice that proceeded from the tall gentleman belonged to one whom, six years ago, he had counted, next to Richard, his greatest friend on earth.