‘That’s good,’ said the man. ‘That’s very good.’

‘Is it?’ said Staines, smiling now. ‘Have I passed some kind of a test?’

‘Almost,’ said the man. ‘I’m after a favour. In good faith—and on your terms. Look here—’

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a nugget, around the size of a short cigar. He held it up, so that it caught the light. ‘Nice, isn’t it?’

‘Very nice,’ said Staines, but he was no longer smiling.

The man continued. ‘Picked this up in the Clutha Valley. Otago way. Been carrying it about for a month—two months—but I’m wanting to turn it into land, you see—got my eye on a patch of land—and the land agent won’t touch anything but paper money. Here’s the problem. I’ve been robbed. Got no proof of my own identity. My papers, my miner’s right. Everything’s gone. So I can’t bank this nugget on my own accord.’

‘Ah,’ said Staines.

‘What I’m after is a favour. You take this nugget into the bank. Say it’s your own—that you found it, on Crown land. Change it into paper money for me. It wouldn’t take you half an hour, all up. You can name your price.’

‘I see,’ said Staines, uncertainly. He hovered a moment. ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘you might simply explain your situation to the fellows inside. You might tell them that you’ve been robbed—as you’ve just told me.’

‘I can’t do that,’ said the man.

‘There are always records,’ said Staines. ‘Even if you don’t have your papers, they’ll have other ways of tracking who you are. The shipping news and so forth.’

The man shook his head. ‘I was on an Otago certificate,’ he said, ‘and I never came through the customhouse when I arrived. There’s no record of me here.’

‘Oh,’ said Staines—who was beginning to feel very uncomfortable.

The man stepped forward. ‘I’m telling you a straight story, lad. The nugget’s mine. Picked it up in the Clutha Valley. I’ll sketch the place for you. I’ll draw you a bloody map. My story’s straight.’

Staines looked again at the nugget. ‘Can anyone vouch for you?’ he said.

‘I haven’t gone waving this about,’ the man snapped, shaking his fist. ‘Where would be the sense in that? I’ve been robbed already; I won’t be robbed again. There’s only one soul on earth who’s touched this piece besides me. Young woman by the name of Anna Wetherell. She’d vouch for the truth of what I’m telling you; but she’s in Dunedin, isn’t she, and I can’t stand about waiting for the post.’

The name Anna Wetherell meant nothing to Staines, and he registered it only dimly as he considered the best way to withdraw. The man’s story was not at all convincing (it seemed obvious to Staines that the nugget had been stolen, and that the thief, fearing capture, was now attempting to cover his tracks by employing an innocent third man to turn the evidence to untraceable cash) and his countenance did not reassure. He had the weary, bloodshot look of a man long since ruined by drink; even at a distance of several paces, Staines could smell yesterday’s liquor on his clothes and on his breath. Stalling for time, he said, ‘Land agent, did you say?’

The man nodded. ‘There’s an acreage I’m keen on. Arahura way. Timber, that’s the business. I’m through with chasing gold. I had a fortune, and now it’s gone, and that’s the end of the game as far as I’m concerned. Timber—that’s honest work.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Crosbie Wells,’ said the man.

Staines paused. ‘Wells?’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ said the man. Suddenly he scowled. ‘What’s it to you?’

Staines was remembering the strange injunction that Francis Carver had given him at the Hawthorn Hotel in George-street, one month prior: ‘Just for today,’ he had said, ‘my name’s Wells. Francis Wells.’

‘Crosbie Wells,’ Staines repeated now.

‘That’s it,’ said Wells, still scowling. ‘No middle name, no nickname, no alias, nothing but plain old Crosbie Wells, ever since the day I was born. Can’t prove it, of course. Can’t prove a d—ned thing, without my papers.’

Staines hesitated again. After a moment he put out his hand and said, ‘Emery Staines.’

Wells transferred the nugget to his other hand, and they shook. ‘Care to name your price, Mr. Staines? I’d be very much obliged to you.’

‘Listen,’ said Staines suddenly. ‘You don’t happen to know—I mean, forgive me, but—you don’t happen to know a man named Francis Carver?’

For he still did not know the full story of what had happened on the day before he left Dunedin—where Carver had gone that afternoon; why he had chosen to assume an alias; why he had afforded such importance to a small chest containing nothing but five unremarkable gowns.

Wells had stiffened. He said, in a voice that was newly hard, ‘Why?’

‘I’m very sorry,’ said Staines. ‘Perhaps it’s of no consequence. I only ask because—well, about a month ago, a man named Carver took on your surname—just for an afternoon—and never told me why or what for.’

Wells’s hands had balled into fists. ‘What’s Carver to you?’

‘I don’t know him well,’ said Staines, taking a step back. ‘He stood me some money, that’s all.’

‘What kind of money? How much?’

‘Eight pounds,’ said Staines.

‘What?’

‘Eight,’ said Staines, and then, again, ‘Eight pounds.’

Wells advanced on him. ‘Friend, is he?’

‘Not in the least,’ said Staines, stepping back again. ‘I found out later that he was a con—that he’d served ten years, with labour—but it was too late by then; I’d signed.’

‘Signed what?’

‘A sponsorship agreement,’ said Staines.

‘And he signed in my name.’

‘No,’ said Staines, putting up his hands, ‘he only used it—your name, I mean—but I don’t know what for. Look, I’m ever so sorry to distress you—’

‘He was the one,’ said Crosbie Wells. ‘He was the one who took my papers. Cheated me out of a pile in pure. Turned my own wife against me. He took my name, and my money, and he tried to take my life—only the job didn’t come off, did it? I got out. I’m still here. Working for a pittance, and living hand to mouth, and keeping my head down, and looking over my shoulder every moment till I’m fairly driven mad. This’—he brandished the nugget—‘is all I’ve got left.’

‘Why do you not bring the law against him?’ said Staines. ‘All that sounds like evidence enough.’

Wells did not reply at once. Then he said, ‘Where is he?’

‘I believe he’s in Dunedin still.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘As much as I can be,’ said Staines. ‘I’ve his address; I’m to write to him as soon as I make my first venture.’

‘You’re his partner.’ Wells spat out the word.

‘No: I’m obliged to him, that’s all. He stood me eight pounds, and I’m to make him an investment, in return.’

‘You’re his partner. You’re his man.’

‘Look,’ said Staines, alarmed again, ‘whatever Mr. Carver’s done to you, Mr. Wells—and whatever his reasons—I don’t know anything about it. Truly. Why—if I’d known anything, I’d never have mentioned his name to you just now, would I? I’d have kept my mouth shut.’

Wells said nothing. They stared at one another, each searching the other’s expression. Then Staines said, ‘I’ll do it. I’ll take your nugget to the bank.’

MARS IN CANCER

In which Carver begins his search for Crosbie Wells; Edgar Clinch offers his services; and Anna Wetherell hardens her resolve.

Godspeed crossed the Hokitika bar at the highest point of the tide. It took Captain Carver the better part of an hour to negotiate the traffic in the river mouth, for several crafts were departing, and he was obliged to wait for a signal from Gibson Quay before he could approach the wharf; Anna Wetherell, standing alone on deck, had ample time to take a measure of the view. Hokitika was smaller than she had envisaged, and much more exposed. Compared with the city of Dunedin, which was tucked away down the long arm of the Otago Harbour, and enclosed on all sides by hills, Hokitika’s proximity to the ocean seemed almost fearsome. To Anna the buildings had a grim, forsaken look, made somehow wretched by the strings of red and yellow bunting that crossed back and forth between the rooflines and the awnings of the waterfront hotels.