‘Your gold,’ Penrose said. ‘The assayer’s been through the extra samples I took in the new year and reckons the reef could return in excess of three ounces per ton. Do you know what that means?’

When Caleb didn’t answer, Penrose continued, ‘You have a viable claim. The investors will flock to it.’

Caleb hefted a heavy sigh and held up the small nugget of gold.

‘Enough for a ring,’ Penrose said, with a knowing arch of his eyebrow.

Caleb’s fingers curled around the nugget and he stowed it in his waistcoat pocket. ‘You’ve heard?’

‘There are no secrets in this town. You should know that.’

‘Hunt?’ The few patrons of the Britannia scattered as the tall police sergeant entered.

Caleb stood up. ‘Is there a problem, Maidment?’

‘Beer, please, Oldroyd.’ Unbidden, Maidment sat down at their table and removed his helmet. ‘Hope you don’t mind if I join you?’ The sergeant looked from one to the other as Yorkie Oldroyd set a glass down in front of him. He downed it without drawing breath and wiped his hand across his mouth. ‘It’s been a hell of a few days,’ he said. ‘In the middle of everything I forgot to tell you some news I picked up in Melbourne, Hunt.’

‘To do with Bowen?’

‘No, that other matter. That mad Irishman, Hannigan.’

‘I’d forgotten about him,’ Caleb said. His business with Hannigan now belonged to another time, another world.

‘Well, he’s dead. Found at the bottom of a mine shaft near the Creswick diggings with a broken neck. Local constables reckoned he was drunk and fell in.’

Caleb raised his eyebrows at the unspoke “but”.

Maidment shrugged. ‘Seems like the O’Riley brothers had got into a fight with him a few nights earlier. They’ve vanished off the goldfield. Word is they’ve gone north to Queensland. Either way, you’re out of luck in getting your equipment back.’

Caleb shrugged. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ Maidment stood up and clapped his helmet on his head. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt you, gentlemen. Just thought you’d be interested.’

‘Before you go, Maidment,’ Penrose said, ‘do they know who the poor soul on the track might have been?’

‘There’s nothing to identify him. We think it was a prospector who was working the gullies beyond Blue Sailor, called himself Ivan the Russian.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s the nature of the goldfields.’

Caleb and Penrose waited until the policeman left the now nearly empty bar.

‘So, what do you intend to do about the mine now, Hunt?’ Penrose asked.

Caleb touched his waistcoat pocket where the little nugget weighed heavily. ‘I guess I need to put some capital together and get this mine going. What’s your advice, Penrose?’