"How did you get hold of this?" asked Hal.

"Well, that's a long story. Do you want breakfast?"

"Yes, we do."

"Then I'll go and order it, and come back and tell you all about it."

"Done again!" said Reg, looking at Hal, when the landlord, whose name was Camden, had disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

"Yes, there's no doubt of that, old chap."

"Now then, gentlemen," said Camden, returning, "I suppose you are D's.?"

"No, we are not, rest assured of that."

"Last Tuesday night a yacht sailed into the bay and anchored off shore. I recognised it as belonging to Macpherson, of Hobart, who was in the habit of letting it out. A small boat put off and brought ashore a young fellow in flannels, who came up to this house and called for a drink, asking me to join him. In the course of conversation he told me he intended making a few days' stay here, and visiting the ruins. He put up here till yesterday, and made himself very agreeable, and became quite popular, for he seemed to have plenty of coin, and was very free with it. He appeared to make the acquaintance of most of the girls in the neighbourhood, and be very popular with them, too. Well, about two o'clock yesterday we were all in here, and Wyckliffe was in the middle of a funny yarn when the old postmaster came in with a telegram for him, which he said had been sent on from Hobart, where it had been delayed. Wyck took the telegram, but before opening it said, 'Now, boys, drink up, for I have a lady visitor coming, and we'll drink to her safe journey.' The toast was drunk, and Wyck leisurely opened the telegram. I never saw such a change in a man in my life. In an instant he was turned from a jolly, good-hearted fellow, to a noisy, angry bully. His crew were all in the bar drinking, and, by Jove, he made the fellows fly. 'Make up my account at once,' says he to me, and 'get ready to sail on the spot' says he to his men in the same breath. He fussed and fumed about, and seemed fairly mad with rage. The fellows here really thought he was mad, for several tried to persuade him not to start, as they feared dirty weather, but he snapped them up and took no notice of them. In his anxiety he dropped the telegram, and without being seen I pushed it under the counter with my foot. An hour later the yacht was under sail, with two reefs in her mainsail and a small jib set."

They had followed this narrative with interest, and as they went into breakfast Camden asked:

"If you are not connected with the police, who are you?"

"We are merely here to save a young lady from that villain's clutches," said Reg.

"Then I am glad you came," said Camden, heartily, "for I should never have felt easy if I had been in any way connected with that business."

They sent a wire to Goody and sat down to an appetising breakfast of fried flounders, a dish that an epicure in need of a new sensation for his appetite is recommended to journey to Port Arthur to try. Hal and Reg both did excellent justice to the fare, much to the satisfaction and delight of Mrs. Camden, their landlord's wife. After their repast they decided to take the chance offered them of inspecting the prisons, and asked Camden to procure them a guide.

"There's the very man for you," said Camden, pointing to an old fellow sitting in the bar, whom they at once recognised as the man they had met when entering the Port.

"What's your name, old chap?" asked Hal, going towards him.

"My name is Thomas St. Clair Jones," he answered, with dignity.

"Well, Mr. Thomas St. Clair Jones, have another pint."

"I'm not in the habit of drinking with strangers, but as you are a gentleman like myself, I don't mind," and he graciously handed his pot to be filled.

"Now then, Jones, button up your coat, pull up your breeches, put your hat on straight, and lead the way," said Hal, in an imperious voice. To the surprise of Reg Jones did exactly as he was told, pulled himself together, and obediently led the way out.

"I thought as much," said Hal to his friend. "He's a lag and has been used to obey orders."

The procession halted in front of a dilapidated-looking building, commonly known as the Police Station. In answer to a knock an antiquated sergeant appeared and entrusted Jones with the keys after a whispered colloquy in which one could distinguish the word "halves." Jones preceded them with the keys, but had not gone far when Hal called out to him:

"Say, Jones: what were you sent out for?"

Jones cast a withering glance at the speaker, which softened from indignation to injured innocence in so dramatic a manner that Hal almost felt sorry he had spoken. Then he silently turned and resumed his road to the prisons.

"Jones, come back," said Hal, in his voice of authority, which again was instantly obeyed. "I ask again, what were you sent out here for; and I may say if you do not answer my question this yellow boy will stay in my pocket."

"I came out here on a visit, sir."

"Jones, you are a liar. Come on, Reg, he does not want this money."

"Oh! well, sir, since you put it that way, and since I know you are gentlemen, I will confide in you. It was like this: One day I was standing at a street corner wondering where my next meal would come from, when a swell joker comes along, and says to me: 'Do you want to earn a bob?' 'Rather, sir,' says I, 'how?' 'By just follering me and carrying this parcel.' 'Right!' says I, and I started off after him, pleased as anything at earning a bob so easily; but I had not gone far when a bobby comes up and says, 'Here's the man,' and he arrested me, what for I don't know. All I do know was, that I was brought before a beak and charged with stealing. I told him the whole story, but all he said was, 'ten years' penal servitude.' That's how I come out here, so help me G—"

"I don't wonder at the magistrate not believing you, Jones. You are an infernal, grey-headed, mouldy old liar. That yarn is as old as the hills, and since you cannot speak the truth we will go by ourselves," said Hal, coming forward and taking the keys from his hands.

"Hold on, Hal," said Reg. "Don't be too hard on the old chap."

"My dear Reg, I really can't stand such——"

"Oh, give him another chance. Come here, Jones. You see you have disgusted this gentleman. Now, out with the whole truth, or you'll lose your tip."

"Well, I can't see what it's to do with you," said Jones, in a sulkily aggressive tone. "But if you wants it so very particular, I'll tell you. I was poaching, and was nabbed. A keeper happened to be wounded, and they said I did it. I didn't say I didn't do it. That's all."

"That's better, Jones; now we are satisfied."

They spent an hour or two wandering with great interest over the ruins: now inside the huge penitentiary, now in the prison church. Everywhere ruin and desolation stared them in the face. All over the settlement vast walls lay crumbling to pieces, due almost as much to the destructive curiosity of the thousands of tourists, who flock here in the summer months, as to the effacing fingers of Time.

Camden met them on their return, and told them they had just sufficient time to dine before a butcher's cart would start for Port Arthur, in which they could have a lift to Norfolk Bay. Two hours later they were again on the Tarantula making for Hobart.



CHAPTER XIV.

EASTELLA.

When the boys, as Goody always called them and we will follow his example, left, he returned to his hotel to think the matter over. So much had occurred in such a short time; momentous events had succeeded each other so rapidly that he felt bewildered and unable to think coherently, so he retired to rest to sleep away the cobwebs in his brain. He awoke somewhat refreshed, and decided to pay a visit to Mrs. Eastwood, and, if possible, to see his daughter. Hal's telegram announcing Wyck's escape, was put in his hands as he was leaving the hotel. "Well," he mused to himself, "I am just as well pleased that he has got away, for it would have brought about a scandal, and my name and May's must have been made public; but there can be no doubt those boys have not only saved my life, but my honour too."

At Eastella he received a cordial welcome, for Mrs. Eastwood and he had been friends for many years. Her sympathetic soul soon noticed that he was in sore trouble, and he was at once invited to her little office where they could talk undisturbed.

"Sit down, Mr. Goodchild, I want to give you a lecture. What have you been doing to my darling May? you who used to be so fond of her, that she has to run away to me; and she comes here so altered. All her light-heartedness is gone; she never goes out; receives no friends; and does nothing but mope inside the house. The only time she brightens up is when she asks for letters or telegrams. In fact she is breaking her heart, and you, though you won't own it, are doing the same."

"You are altogether mistaken, it is not—"

"No, of course it is not your fault; how could it be? No, sir, you need not try to throw dust in my eyes. I have known both of you for so many years, and I think too much of you both to see this going on without attempting to put matters straight."

"It's not I she's breaking her heart over. It's Wyckliffe: he's the man who has come between us, and who alone has done all this mischief. You had a gentleman here last night. I don't know what he told you."

"He did not say much. He referred me to you. But what became of him? Like most young fellows, I suppose he went out exploring the city by night, and lost his way."

"No, there you wrong him, madam, for as soon as he heard Wyckliffe was at Port Arthur he came back to me, and then hired a steamer to take him and his friend down there. I saw them off last night, and, see, here is a wire I got this morning. It reads:

'Mr. Goodchild, Hobart.

He has left here. Destination unknown. Suspicions well grounded.—Winter.'"

"I shall feel obliged if you can give me a little explanation, for Mr. Wyckliffe was staying here for several days, and I took a great fancy to him. You connect your daughter's ill-health with him; and finally you produce a telegram saying 'suspicions well-grounded.' I must say I cannot understand it. Help me to do so," said the lady, shifting about in her chair, in the fidgetty, uncomfortable way women have when they are puzzled.

"Well, the fact of the matter is that this fellow Wyckliffe is an English adventurer, and a scoundrel of the blackest dye. He passes as a gentleman, and his intentions from what I can learn are never of a very honourable description. Mr. Winter and his friend Morris are on his tracks for an affair something similar, but as they will both be here to-night, I would rather leave them to explain. I wish now to see my daughter to try and bring her to reason."

"And God grant you may," said Mrs. Eastwood, fervently. "You will find her in the Blue Room on the first floor."

Goody left the office, and hurrying up the stairs paused before a door painted a sky-blue colour. He knocked and a melancholy voice bade him enter. Opening the door, the sight that met his eyes almost unmanned him. Seated, or rather reclining as if she had flung herself there, in an arm-chair was his daughter, clad in a loose dressing-gown, carelessly thrown on. She presented a most forlorn appearance. All her bright, healthy colour had disappeared from her cheeks and her whole appearance was that of one suffering from severe mental worry.

"Is that you, father? I thought it was Mrs. Eastwood. Why have you followed me?" she said, in a low, sad voice.

"My darling girl. I could not stay away any longer; it was killing me," said the old man, in a despairing voice, as he embraced her fondly. "May, darling, tell your old dad your troubles, and let him help you to bear them."

The old man's appeal was intensely pathetic in its simplicity, and would under ordinary conditions have touched a harder heart than his daughter's; but she remained deaf to it; her manner was icily cold; the fond embrace was not returned, and though she kissed him, it was done mechanically, and the touch of her lips chilled him and made him shiver with apprehension. Her nature seemed frozen under some strange spell, and the old man stood helpless and bewildered by her side.

"Won't you confide in your old dad, May?" he asked again.

"My dear father, it hurts me to see you crying; but I cannot, I cannot do what you ask."

"You mean that you cannot trust your father, May."

"It's not that, father. You do not understand," and she restlessly turned her head away and almost moaned. "I wonder if Mrs. Eastwood is coming up?"

"If you want her, my dear, I will tell her," said the old man, now becoming visibly annoyed.

"Yes, I do, father. I do want her," and she lay back again and covered her face.

Goody left the room without another word in an agitated state and, meeting Mrs. Eastwood on the stairs, told her May wanted her, then he quitted the house and took a cab back to the "Orient" to await the arrival of the boys. He reached the hotel not in the best of humours. He was one of those simple-minded men unused to the analysis of complicated emotions, and by turns his grief had changed to anger, his anger to complaint. Fretfully he muttered to himself that it was too bad that after all these years of unchequered happiness a stranger should step in and destroy everything at one blow; that he should be made to feel he was no longer an element in his daughter's happiness. And his anger increased as his sense of injury grew stronger, until he clenched his fist and thundered to the empty room:

"May, you have turned against me; you have shown me you no longer want me. Well, then, I will shew you I no longer want—"

Here he came to a sudden pause. His voice trembled, his anger wavered, for, by a sudden wave of memory, he caught himself listening again to the voice of his dying wife as she handed over to him the care of the child whose advent they had welcomed so much in the long past. At the magic touch of the dead woman's memory his rage disappeared, his heart softened, and tears coursed down his cheeks, and he vowed not to forsake his daughter yet, and prayed for a way out of his difficulty.

As if in answer to his unspoken wish, he heard footsteps approaching and, with a glad cry of welcome, he grasped the hands of Hal and Reg. They, in their turn, noticed his altered appearance, and asked if anything had happened.

"I called on her to-day, and was given to understand I was not wanted," he said in a sad voice.

"We'll fix that all right, Mr. Goodchild," said Hal in his hearty way. And then he told him all that had happened during their trip to Port Arthur.

"Do you think he was referring to May when he spoke of a young lady joining him?" asked Goody when Hal had finished.

"I do, sir."

"And what conclusion do you draw from that?"

"Only the worst, sir, I am afraid."

"And you have no idea where he has gone now?"

"None, whatever. We called at the telegraph office and asked the shipping agent, but without result."

"I hope the scoundrel will be drowned."

"I hope not," chimed in Reg, emphatically.

"I don't think you need fear that," said Hal with light cynicism. "Fellows of his stamp have nine lives. If he were a useful man in the world then I should despair."

"What do you intend doing now?" asked Goody, anxiously.

"We intend going to Eastella and bringing your daughter to reason," said Hal, with determination.

"I admire your perseverance, but I am afraid you will be doomed to disappointment, for she always had a will of her own, but I never knew how strong it was until now."

"Never fear, sir. So far we have succeeded and I have no doubt our success will continue."

"And what shall I do?" asked Goody.

"Well, if you have any friends here, I suggest you should go to them for a day or two."

"You don't mean to desert me?" asked the old man, with a perplexity almost comic.

"Not by any means, sir. But we intend to live at Eastella, and for many reasons it would be better for you not to go with us. If we left you alone, I am afraid you would fret and worry, so I thought if you had an old acquaintance who would cheer you up—"

"Now I understand. I have plenty. There's old Brown, for one—he and I were schoolfellows. I know he'll be glad to see me."

"That's right. Let us know where she lives. And now get ready and rely on us to wire to you when it's time to come back and open your arms to take your daughter back to your heart again, from which you will find she has never really been estranged."

That evening all three had left the "Orient"; Hal and Reg for Eastella, and Goody for his old friend's house at Broadmeadows.



CHAPTER XV.

MAY.

As soon as the boys had made satisfactory arrangements about their rooms they had a long interview with Mrs. Eastwood, and as she was considered almost one of the Goodchild family, nothing of importance was kept back from her. It was arranged that Hal should be introduced to Miss Goodchild at the earliest possible moment. Fortune favoured their plot, for while they were together the lady herself appeared to enquire for letters, and with obvious reluctance underwent the ceremony of introduction to the two visitors.

May Goodchild was a tall, good-looking girl, with fair hair and pleasing features. Her face shewed her to possess a strong capacity for strong emotions, an intensity of love or hatred, both equally dangerous when roused. Hal's sharpened faculties of observation had made him a keen physiognomist and, in the brief moment of introduction he flattered himself he had read the chief points of her character.

She was about to leave the room, after looking at the letter-rack, when Hal who had been gazing at the rack, remarked in a casual manner to Mrs. Eastwood:

"Wyckliffe must have a large number of correspondents to judge by the heap of letters waiting for him here."

Miss Goodchild paused. She was on the qui vive instantly.

"You know Mr. Wyckliffe, don't you, Mr. Winter?" said Mrs. Eastwood, taking the cue.

"Oh yes, rather! known him a long time. I heard from him the other day," answered Hal, boldly.

May walked away, but not hurriedly, and Hal, seizing his opportunity, followed her out of the room.

"What a delightful morning, Miss Goodchild."

"Yes, it is," she answered. Then after a pause, she added, "Mr. Winter, you said you had heard from Mr. Wyckliffe. Can you tell me when he will return, as he is a friend of mine."

"Now I remember, Miss Goodchild. I have important news for you concerning him."

"What! news of him for me. Oh! tell me at once, please," and her whole face lit up with expectation.

"It is rather a long story," said Hal. "If we could talk together privately it would be preferable."

"Oh, I'll arrange that. You can come to my sitting-room. I'll just run and tell Mrs. Eastwood," and away she flew in a happy, childish way, very different to her languid manner previously. Mrs. Eastwood could scarcely believe, her eyes as the girl rushed into the office, crying:

"He has news for me. I am taking him to my parlour."

"This way, Mr. Winter," she cried out, as she re-appeared and ran up the stairs. "Do hurry, I am so anxious. There, come this way and sit down. Now we are quite private. Go on."

Her haste had left Hal breathless, and he was rather taken aback, as he had scarcely had time to formulate his plan of action.

"Before I commence, I wish to ask your permission to—"

"It is granted," she said, hurriedly.

"Your permission to speak in an open and candid way, and that you will hear me out to the end."

"Most decidedly, but why this precaution? You said Wyck was a friend of yours."

"Pardon me, Miss Goodchild, I never said he was a friend of mine. He is anything but that."

"But you will bear in mind, sir, he is a friend of mine, and if you have anything to his disparagement to say I would rather not hear it for I love him. There now it is out."

"I am obliged for your candour, but as what I have to say is not to his credit, I had better leave."

"No sir, since you put it that way, I will hear you."

Once more was the tale repeated, but never before with the strength and pathos that Hal put into his voice now. At the conclusion, neither spoke for some moments. At last, May broke the silence:

"You can prove your statements, Mr. Winter?"

"Yes, unfortunately for my friend I can. They have left undoubted traces behind them."

"If you can prove them, and Wyck turns out the villain you say, think for a moment what the result will be. I am no ordinary girl full of puling sentiment. I love or I hate, and if my love is trampled on, there is a dangerous woman to be faced who will thirst for revenge. So be careful," and her voice took a stern, menacing tone.

"Would you like Mr. Morris to corroborate all I have said?" asked Hal, struck with the change in her, and feeling she was all she described herself.

The waiter was summoned, and bidden to fetch Morris.

"Reg, I have told Miss Goodchild all about Wyck. Will you give her your version?" said Hal, as Reg entered the room.

Reg told his story, and Miss Goodchild listened attentively, and said:

"Your accounts certainly tally, but you can give me, doubtless, further proof. You have now a desperate woman to deal with, and if you have lied to me, I will be revenged on both of you."

Hal for a moment was nonplussed. He had not doubted that his statements would not be believed.

But Reg came to his rescue.

"We could procure that telegram from Port Arthur, and we could get the landlord to certify to his story."

"That is certainly a small point in your favour, but is it the best proof you can produce?" asked May.

"No, I have a letter here addressed to Wyckliffe. I know the hand-writing, and I am confident it would afford you conclusive proof that he is involved with other ladies."

"Do you mean to say you would be mean enough to suggest that the letter should be opened?" asked May, in a disgusted tone.

"Yes, I mean it, since you doubt our word."

Here Reg deliberately tore open the envelope.

"Mr. Morris, you are a thief," cried May, excitedly. "Had I known you were capable of such a low action, I would never have received you here."

"Miss Goodchild, your hard words are uncalled for, but in spite of them I shall go farther yet. We met your father when your conduct had left him heart-broken, and we promised him to save you from the clutches of this scoundrel Wyckliffe. And we will keep our word with or without your assistance. Your conduct to your father has been disgraceful, and it is not for your sake that we do this, but for his. And now I shall put the police on Wyck's tracks, and have him arrested. It is not the course I wanted to pursue, but having gone thus far I will go on to the end. Are you coming, Hal?" said Reg, as he got up to leave.

"Really, Reg, I think you ought to control yourself in this lady's presence, and not be too strong in your expressions," said Hal, going to him.

"Stay, Mr. Morris," said May, rising. "You are quite right in every word you have said about me. It is quite enough to convince me you are in earnest and, to show my belief I will read that letter."

Reg passed it to her, without a word, and she read aloud:

"Melbourne, "Sunday.

"My own darling Wyck,

"Your poor little Kitty is crying and fretting for you; come back to her, my darling. I received your last letter, and roared over the contents. What fun you must have had with that old chap Goody, and his daughter. I would have given anything to have seen the old fellow lying on the deck yelling. But I say, my darling, I'm not jealous, but I did not like the other part of it. What a hussey the daughter must be! You say you are going to take her yachting, and that's she's a proud sort. I guess she won't be so proud when she comes back. You are a terror for girls, but I won't be jealous, as I know you only love me. But be quick and come back. I forgot to say that two fellows looking like toffs have been enquiring for you, and from what I can learn they don't mean you any good. They tried to pump Dick, and he sent you a wire, which you will have had long ago. My dear boy, do be careful. I am rather busy, but your little wife sends you hundreds of kisses. Good-bye, my own darling,

"Your ever loving "KITTY HARRIS."

May read the letter through calmly, without a tremor in her voice. There was a supercilious curl of contempt on her lips as she finished. She gave vent to neither grief nor rage, for she was made of sterner stuff than those of her sex who faint and give way under stress of disappointment. A change had come over her whole being, one of those subtle changes that a moment of crisis can produce. The fickle, light-hearted girl had disappeared, the injured woman came to the front. There is this peculiarity about Australian girls. Outsiders consider them empty-headed and frivolous, for they have a light, lackadaisical manner of spending their lives, but lying dormant beneath is a nature with a purpose which once roused is relentless in its desire for exacting satisfaction. May Goodchild was a typical daughter of her land. She had given her heart honestly and wholly to the man she loved; she found he had accepted it only to trifle with it and dishonour her. It was enough. There was no trait in her nature to lead her to repine; it was entirely controlled by a dominant desire to punish the traitor. Hal could scarcely believe that this stern, resolute woman was the same woe-begone inanimate girl he had interviewed. She examined the letter carefully, noting its date and post-mark, and putting it into her pocket, said:

"I will keep this letter, Mr. Morris."

"I do not want it," said Reg. "Pray please yourself."

"I must apologise for my rudeness," she said, simply. "But you must allow I should not be the woman I am if under the original circumstances I had not defended the absent. Now all is changed; you have convinced me of his duplicity, and gentlemen"—here she held out one hand appealingly, and tears welled in her eyes—"an Australian girl thanks you with her whole heart for saving what is her most precious possession. By your help I have been able to free myself from a spell that bound me hand and foot. You have opened my eyes, and believe me, you will not find me ungrateful. Now, one more favour; will you kindly send for my father at once."

"We will wire at once," said Hal, leaving the room with his friend.

They despatched the message, and started for a stroll in the open air.

"Reg," said Hal, "you are improving. By what lucky chance did you get hold of that letter?"

"I am afraid it was hardly justifiable, but things were desperate," he said. "You see, when you and the girl went upstairs, I felt that your impetuous nature might have let you overlook the fact that we had no proofs against Wyck, so I determined to lay hands on some of his letters, and use them against him. By means of a little steaming I opened three; two were invitations, the third, which you have heard read, answered my requirements."

"Then you knew its contents all the time?"

"Of course, or I should not have presented it."

"Well, it has done our business for us," said Hal, satisfied.

"Yes, and Wyck has a dangerous customer to meet should he cross her path again. Her nature is of different construction to my Amy's, for she has strength and determination to shake herself free, and to turn the strength of her love into bitter hatred, whereas my poor girl succumbed."



CHAPTER XVI.

HOBART.

The next morning the boys had the satisfaction of seeing Goody and his daughter off by the first train. Neither Hal nor Reg was present at their reunion, and when they saw them together, they realized it was complete. No two people felt more indebted to their benefactors than this couple, and words failed them to express it. But their manner, their faces and their attitude to each other showed what was in their minds, though the only words that passed were a cordial, "Good-bye; God bless you," from Goody, and a few heartfelt words of thanks from his daughter.

The boys held a long consultation as to their future movements, but were unable to come to a more decisive conclusion than that they should wait results.

"Wyck," said Hal, "left in a small boat; he may be wrecked; he may be blown out to sea; he may run for shelter into one of the neighbouring bays on the East coast. We had better make arrangements with the telegraph station to inform their officers that if any boat answering to the description of Wyck's should turn up, we are to be informed of it immediately. Meanwhile, we will stop here."

Mrs. Eastwood had had a long conversation both with Goody and his daughter, and this resulted in her holding a high opinion of the boys. As she moved in the best society of the district she determined to make their stay as enjoyable as possible. She procured them tickets for the Mayor's ball, an annual affair of great moment. They acknowledged to the full her kindly intentions, but explained to her why they avoided any pleasure or society that might draw them away from the fulfilment of their compact. A more practical objection was the fact that they had brought no dress clothes with them, but seeing the good lady's disappointment, Hal suggested that, as they should like to have a peep at Hobart society, they might gaze down upon it from the gallery.

This they did do, and Hal after taking the keenest interest in the animated scene below him, and commenting on all the features of the ball, was struck with remorse to find Reg sitting by his side with a pained face. The memories the scene called up were too bitter, and it was with a sense of relief when Hal got up hurriedly and left.

"I'm sorry, old chap. I'm a brute," he said, when they were outside.

"Don't talk like that," answered Reg. "You are one in ten thousand. Where could one find another fellow such as you are, gifted with all that makes life worth the living; ready to throw up everything to help a chance stranger. It's I who am the brute, old fellow, to expect you to be tied to the vow you made."

"I don't like you to say that," said Hal. "I shall never regret having met you, and I thank my stars we were thrown together, and that I am able to help you."

A silent hand-clasp was Reg's only answer, and as Hal gripped his in return, both knew that the bond between them was stronger than ever.

In reply to Mrs. Eastwood's enquiries, Hal said he found looking-on most enjoyable, and agreed there was as nice a lot of good-looking girls present as one could find.

"Would you care to go to the Mayor's garden party this afternoon?" she asked.

"What, a garden party to-day, after dancing till three in the morning! In England they would just be thinking of having breakfast," said Morris, in surprise.

"Ah, we do things differently in the colonies."

"And a very good thing you do," was Reg's emphatic reply, as the obliging lady left them together.

"You seemed to find scrutinising those fair damsels an interesting occupation last night, Hal," he observed to his friend.

"So I did, my boy. You see, Tasmanian women have many points of difference compared to those in the other colonies. Tasmania is only a small island and the inhabitants, especially in the South, do not trouble themselves much about business or anything that conduces to worry. They pass their days in happy serenity so long as they have enough to live upon. Being a very healthy country, the birth-rate is enormous, considering the population. It is no uncommon thing to find families of fifteen to twenty, all alive and well, girls, of course, preponderating. Now, as Tasmania has no factories or important industries, the boys when they grow up emigrate to other colonies to make a livelihood; the girls remain behind, so the proportion of women to men is about ten to one."

"No wonder Wyck came on here," said Reg, grimly.

"The Tasmanian girls," continued Hal, not deigning to notice the interruption, "are noted for their beauty. Nearly all the beautiful women in Melbourne and Sydney are Tasmanian born."

"Well I cannot say I am much struck with their beauty. They have nice complexions, but not beauty of form," objected Reg.

"Wait a minute, I am coming to that. I always compare Tasmanian girls to Tasmanian race-horses, though perhaps the former might not feel flattered. They have here some of the finest studs in the colonies. There are sires whose foals have won all the leading events of the neighbouring colonies, but strange to say none of them can do anything in their own country. It is only when they are sent to the training stables in Melbourne and Sydney to be properly brought up that they turn out well. So it is with the girls; they have to be finished off in Melbourne and Sydney. Their rosy cheeks and fresh complexion are retained, but their gaucheries of manner and clumsiness of figure are pruned away."

"There's a deal in what you say, Hal, but I have a liking for this little spot. Everything surrounding you is so peaceful; the scenery is so beautiful that it is an island paradise."

"Yes, it's a nice place to live in, if you have money to spend; otherwise it is dull."

"Like all pleasure resorts. But there is a delightful air of laziness about it. Nobody seems in a hurry. It is such a contrast to the bustle of Melbourne."

"And such a harbour, eh?"

"Yes, it's the finest I've ever seen."

"If you ever get to Sydney you will see one better."

"Here's a note from the telegraph office for you," said Mrs. Eastwood, hurrying in.

Hal opened it and read:

"Sydney.

"S.S. Flora, from Hobart, arrived to-day with Villiers Wyckliffe and crew rescued from yacht totally wrecked.

"Agents—T. S. W. Coy."

"That's awkward. Sydney is a long way off and it gives him a good start. What's the paper say, Reg?"

"Corrinna leaves Launceston for Sydney to-morrow at noon. Train leaving here at 7 a.m., arrives there 11.30."

"I'll wire Goody another copy of this telegram."

"No bad news, I hope, gentlemen," asked Mrs. Eastwood, entering.

"In one sense it is good, in another, unfortunate," said Hal, handing her the telegram to read.

"It's a pity he was not drowned," she answered, mercilessly, handing the telegram back. "However, it will cost him a pretty penny, as Macpherson valued his yacht very highly."

"We shall leave by the first train to-morrow. I am now going to wire to Mr. Goodchild."

The next morning they were up betimes, and had considerable difficulty in settling their account with Mrs. Eastwood.

"I am sorry you treat your stay beneath my roof as a matter of business," she complained, "You have repaid me twenty times over by what you have done for the Goodchilds. They are my oldest friends, and I look upon May as a daughter. You have made some good and true friends, who will be heavily indebted to you until you give them one day an opportunity of shewing some acknowledgment."

"You are making too much, Mrs. Eastwood, of the service we have been able to render them. We have our work marked out for us, and until it is finished there is neither rest nor leisure for us. When it is finished we shall come and stay with you and your friends, for more hospitable people we have rarely met," said Reg, as he bade her good-bye.

After an uninteresting train ride they reached Launceston, and found, to their surprise, Goody waiting for them.

"Are you going on to Sydney, to-day?" he asked.

"Yes. How is Miss Goodchild?"

"Very well, thanks. She and I are going over too. You had better come to my trap here," and he led the way to a handsome barouche.

"My daughter is down at the steamer making arrangements," he said, when they were seated, and being driven to the wharf. Goody still had an anxious look about him, and seemed somewhat disturbed.

"Here we are, boys, jump out, and never mind the luggage. George will see to that." With astonishing activity the old man ran up the gangway, followed by the boys, and found May waiting for them. Their greetings were of the simplest, and May calling the chief steward told him to shew the gentlemen their cabins, while Goody handed Hal an envelope as they followed. On opening it he found it contained their tickets to Sydney.

"I say, Reg, they seem determined to run the show here," said he. "We have done nothing but what we were told to do since we left the train. What do you think of it?"

"I think we had better appear grateful. They are evidently anxious to do something in return."

They arranged their berths and returned on deck as the ship was leaving the wharf. Goody and his daughter seemed to be popular, judging from the number of friends who came to see them off. Once started, the two were always together, and it was pathetic to watch the way in which the old man's eyes rested continually on his daughter. He told Reg they had only made up their minds to go to Sydney when the wire reached them. His daughter wished to go, as she had some plan in her head which she wouldn't let him know of yet, and he continued, sadly, "she will never be to me what she once was. She was then an innocent child, now she is a resolute woman. She seems ten years older in her manner and speech. She is going to a cousin of hers who has the reputation of being a bit lively, but is an excellent girl at heart."

"I cannot tell what steps I shall take," said May, at the same time, to Hal. "That depends on my cousin, Hil. I shall follow her advice, for I have not the slightest doubt that she'll assist me to be revenged."

"Do you mean to follow Wyck up as we are doing?" asked Hal, laughing.

"I can't say what I shall do until I see her."

"Of course you will give us your address, so that we can keep you informed if we accomplish anything."

"'Grosvenor Hotel' will always find us."

"I should like to know if we can be of any assistance to you before we arrive, because we have our work to do, and goodness knows where Wyck will be by the time we reach Sydney, and we may not see you again for some time."

"If I wanted anything ever so badly, I would not ask you for it, for you have your own work cut out, and in doing that successfully you will greatly please both me and my father."

May evidently wishing to take an independent course, Hal did not trouble her further. He felt the friendship now established between them was likely to be a lasting one, for Australians never forget a kind action.



CHAPTER XVII.

SYDNEY.

At day-break the steamer entered that splendid harbour, second to none in the world, and made for Port Jackson. The magnificent scenery and its ever-varying vista of lovely views were unheeded by the boys in their restlessness to get ashore and find traces of their quarry. As soon as the boat was made fast, they hurried ashore with their baggage and passed rapidly the sleepy inspection of a Customs' official. Hailing a cab and directing the driver to Tattersall's Hotel, another surprise awaited them, for, seated by the side of the driver, was the familiar face of Terence O'Flynn.

"Hallo, Terence. What are you doing here?" asked Hal, in astonishment.

"Just over for a holiday, your honour," answered he, at the same time giving an expressive wink, so Hal said no more but jumped in.

Arriving at the hotel, Terence carried their baggage inside, followed closely by Hal and Reg.

"I was after following Dick over here, sir," he said, hurriedly. "Wyck left for Brisbane two days ago. I wired to Hobart, but, having no reply, so faith I reckoned you had left. I should like to have a talk beside you, but sure I want to do another trip with my mate, I will come back in a quarter-of-an-hour."

On his return the three adjourned to a private room, and Terence told his story.

"'The devil' says I as I read about Wyck being picked up and landed at Sydney. I had been keeping a sharp eye on Dick, and when I sees a boy bring him a telegram I guessed something was in the wind, so when he put a pal on his cab, I followed suit. We both came by the express, and I took good care Dick should not spot me. When we arrived, he calls a cab, as bold as brass, and sings out, 'Grosvenor Hotel.' I didn't follow him there, but went to Moloney's house. That was Moloney's cab we were in, for Jim and myself are old friends. Yer see, him and me was courting the same——"

"Never mind that, Terence. Go on. What did you do next?"

"I just kept my eyes on them, and several times see them together, and the day afore yesterday I see them going to the wharf, and Wyck goes aboard one of the Queensland boats. Dick stayed till the boat left, waved his hat like mad, and then went off to a pub and got awfully tight. Next day he went back home by the train, and I would have gone too, only Jim got me to stop for his baby's christening, as I was to be godfather. I did stop yer honours, and we did christen that baby, both inside and out. Jim and meself went on the spree, and a right good time we had, so help me——"

"Never mind that, Terence. Has Dick had any more soft lines since?"

"No more that I know of, your honour."

"Did he not have one to St. Kilda?"

"Och, moi! I knew it: by jabers I did. Directly I heard it, I knew it," shrieked Terence, excitedly, and he lay back, and went off into one of his laughing fits. He rolled in his seat, and swayed to and fro, fairly roaring with laughter. Hal and Reg looked on in quiet amusement, and when Terence had subsided somewhat, Hal said, sternly:

"Terence O'Flynn, when you have finished your laugh, you will, perhaps, let us into the joke."

"Beg pardon, your honours," jerked out Terence. "But it was a joke. Poor old Dick," and off he started again.

"Go on, Terence, have another try," said Reg.

"No, no, but you know the joke. I know you did it, and ye did it well, too."

"If you will tell us what it was, we shall be able to judge," said Hal, quietly, which sobered Terence.

"I'll tell you, then. It was a couple of days after you'd left for Tasmania, when Dick comes up to me and Joe Gardiner—that's another cabby. He comes up smiling, in fact regular grinning, and flashes a letter in front of us. 'See here, chaps,' says he, 'this is the sort of game that pays. Darn your shilling fares, says I; this is my style.' The letter was from some toff, 'cause it come from Menzie's Hotel. It asked Dick to meet him at St. Kilda. 'See what it is to have a connection. This 'ere chap was recommended to call on me, and I knows his game. I've just got to get a good turn-out and drive down to the beach, call at the pub and get a letter which will give me instructions where to meet him. Then I picks up a flash gent with a little, innercent girl, and they'll get into the cab. 'Straight home, cabby,' he'll cry, 'we've missed the train.' That'll mean that I'm to go in the opposite direction where there ain't no houses, and if I hear screamin' I never listens. Then I get home about three; there's a big row, but I get a tenner for the job.' 'Well, Dick,' says Joe, who is a good-hearted sort of chap, 'if I thought anything of that kind was going on in my cab, a hundred wouldn't buy me, but I'd take the horse-whip to him.' 'Shure,' says I, 'I would put the blackguard in the sea, and drown him just.' 'Ha, ha,' laughs Dick, 'it wouldn't do for us all to be so soft, else half of us would starve. Now I'll just tell you chaps how I serve my customers. I just go round to Wallace's and get the best turn-out he has, and I guess we'll cut a dash.' Then he got in his cab and drove away. Neither me nor Joe envied him his tenner. Next day Dick came up to the stand looking terrible black. He cussed and swore, and looked as if he'd had a big drop too much. 'Have a good time last night,' says I to him, civil like. 'No, blast yer; go to—' he says. I never spoke no more, but after a bit he comes up to me and says—'Terry, those beggars had me last night; it was a put-up job.' 'Go on,' says I, 'the infernal scoundrels, how did they do it?' He swore a terrible lot, and 'twixt his swears I made out that he had hired a turn-out that cost him thirty bob, and drove quietly to St. Kilda, smiling all the way. He waits till nearly eleven, and refused two good fares, then goes to the Pier Hotel, and asks if there is a letter for him. The barman hands him one, and he was so pleased he called for drinks all round and spent about three bob that way. Then he says good-night, goes to a lamp-post to read his letter, which said something about swindlers being swindled, and policy being the greatest honesty, or something like that. He was out till nearly three, and never earned a bob. Joe had come up behind, and heard the yarn, and we both let out a yell. Dick he swore awful, and jumped on his cab and drove away. He got fined for being drunk on his cab that night. And now it's all the joke on the ranks. 'Going St. Kilda, Dick'—'Any more ten-pound jobs, Dick,' and he does get blooming wild." Here Terence roared again, and this time the boys joined in.

"Have another drink, Terence. You told that well," said Reg.

"But it was your honours that did it, I know."

"Yes, we did it, Terence," answered Hal, "Dick had us and we returned the compliment, and here's a tenner for your trouble. Now you had better go back to Melbourne by to-day's express and keep your eye on Dick. Our address will be Brisbane."

"Right, your honours. I'm off."

"I have been looking through the "Herald," said Reg, when they were alone, "and I find there are two companies trading between here and Brisbane, the Howard Smith line and the A.U.S.N. Company; one has a boat leaving to-day at twelve, the other at two."

"That's good. We will have a look at the boats and see which we like best, and as there is no time to be lost, let us start at once."

The Buninyong, of the Howard Smith line, and the Maranoa, of the rival company, were both examined, and the preference given to the former.

"Sydney seems a delightful place. I am almost loth to leave it so soon," said Reg.

"We'll have plenty of time when we have caught our man," said Hal. "I'll now go to the Tasmanian Company's offices and hear all about the rescue."

There he learnt the captain's report, that he picked up Wyckliffe and four men off a raft, about six hours from Hobart. The rescued reported they had been capsized while trying to fetch Maria Island.

At twelve o'clock the Buninyong, with a full passenger list including the boys, sailed for Brisbane.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE GIRLS.

Had Reg and Hal not been in such a great hurry when they landed at Sydney, they might have noticed a young lady not unlike May standing on the wharf scanning the passengers very closely. When she caught sight of the Goodchilds, she jumped on board and embraced both May and her father.

"I have had your wires, May, and all arrangements are made," she said, with an air of decision.

"Have you seen him, Hil?"

"Yes, he went to Brisbane two days ago. We will follow him, May," she answered, quietly; then, turning to Goody, said, "you will, of course, stay at the 'Grosvenor', uncle."

"Well, I don't know, Hilda. What is May going to do?"

"I have my carriage here. You had better come with us and send your luggage on to the hotel," said she, in her decisive way, as if she were accustomed to help people make up their minds.

"As you please," said Goody, with a sigh, resigning himself to the inevitable.

All three stepped into Hilda's conveyance, and were rapidly driven in the direction of Potts' Point and set down at the door of a handsome mansion surrounded by extensive grounds that overlooked the bay.

"Now, uncle, you must excuse us for a little while, as we have a lot to talk about," said Hil, leading May away to her own room, and leaving Goody to amuse himself in the drawing-room.

"Now then, May, to business," said she, promptly seating herself by her cousin's side. "When I received your wires I was rather upset, and spent a good deal of my anger on that man. I went off to the 'Grosvenor,' where I found out he was staying, and saw him come out with a low-looking fellow. They both got into a cab on which was a lot of luggage, and I guessed he was off, so I hailed another cab and followed them. We came to the wharf where the Glanworth was lying, and they went on board. I waited till the boat sailed, saw him bid good-bye to his companion, who seemed very excited, and then came home. That we had to follow him I looked upon as certain, but how? We could not follow him in the costume of ladies, that would make us look ridiculous."

"How are we to go then?" asked May, impatient with excitement.

"Please don't interrupt. You shall hear all if you are patient," said Hil, smiling. "I thought over it a good deal, and then the idea struck me that we would go to Brisbane as ladies disguised and, if he cleared to the country, we would follow as men."

"Oh, Hil!" cried May, laughing.

"Of course, you know when I am out on my station and there is a buck-jumper to ride I always wear trousers, as one can get a better grip."

"Yes, I have heard father speak of that. Now, go on."

"Another thing, I have done a lot in private theatricals, and I invariably take a man's part, and I flatter myself I am so au fait at the make-up that I can easily pass as a man. I have several suits of men's clothes among my 'props,' and as you are about my size, they will fit you well. Now, what do you say?"

"That you are a darling old girl. Come here and be hugged."

"Then that's settled. Now we had better leave to-day. There are two boats starting, one at twelve and the other at two and, as they are both good boats, I think we had better go by the later one, as it will give us more time to get ready."

"I am quite agreeable, my dear. But we must tell dad what we intend doing."

"Not about the men's clothes."

"No, that we will keep to ourselves. What fun it will be!"

"Well, have you settled your plans?" asked Goody, as they entered the drawing-room, which they found him pacing restlessly.

"We leave for Brisbane to-day," said May.

"So you are going to leave your old dad again," he asked, sorrowfully.

"Yes, father, duty calls us and we must obey."

"Uncle," said Hil, coming to him and taking his arm, caressingly. "Your daughter was saved by two Australians from the clutches of one of England's gentlemen. If you were young and strong it would be your duty to avenge your daughter's wrongs; if you had a son the duty would fall on her brother, but you are too old for work of that kind and consequently the duty falls on her."

"But, my dear girl, I—"

"Stay, uncle, hear me out. She does not go alone, for I go with her. She is my cousin, for her mother was my mother's sister, so we are of the same blood, and our blood calls out for revenge."

"Really, you are—"

"We are going, yes; I'll tell you why. An Australian girl has been wronged by an Englishman and, though we may be proud to count England as our mother-country, we are not going to allow her sons to insult us with impunity. We Australians are made of as good grit, and one day we shall put Australia in its true place, when we have Australia for the Australians."

"Hear, hear, Hil! That's the true Australian sentiment."

"My dear children, you are young and foolish and do not know what you are talking of," said Goody, becoming annoyed.

"Don't we," continued Hil, with imperturbable good-humour. "We leave loyalty and bowing down to Her Most Gracious Majesty to you old people. When our young generation grows strong enough to assert itself, you'll see what you will see," and she touched a bell and ordered refreshments.

"It's eleven o'clock now, Hil," said May.

"Then we must be getting ready. You will go to the hotel, uncle, and we will send you word how we are getting on."

"Yes do, father," said May, throwing her arms round his neck. "Let me go this time and then we will stay at home together, and never be parted any more."

"As you will, my dear," said he, giving in, with evident reluctance.

"Now then, May," said Hil, when they had bidden the old man good-bye, "I want you to tell me how you became mixed up with that fellow, for I must confess I saw nothing striking in him."

"I'll tell you all about it. My father and I started on our journey as usual. When we were on deck, it came on to blow and we decided to go below. I was going down the companion-way, dad following behind, when he trod on my skirt, which gave me a sudden jerk, just at the same moment that the ship lurched, and I lost my balance and fell. I had noticed a young man waiting below for me to come down. He saw my danger and, instead of falling on the floor, I fell into his arms. I came down pretty heavily, for we both landed on the floor, I on the top. Several men came to our assistance, and when I was getting up, I found a button of his coat had become fixed in my hair. I had to lean over while he released it, and in doing so my face came close to his, and, looking up, I found him gazing at me in a curiously fixed way. Here the strange part of it comes in. I found it difficult to take my eyes off him and, as he gazed, I felt a peculiar sensation through me, and instantly realized he was to be my fate. As I left with dad my brain seemed to be fixed on him. I seemed to belong to him and, when he asked me to walk on deck with him, I was literally powerless to refuse. The rest you know."

"Did you see him in Tasmania?" asked Hil, thoughtfully.

"Yes, twice. He came to our place unknown to dad. We were to have met again on the following day, but he sent me a note, saying he was going to Hobart, and he wished me to join him. I could not resist, so I went two days later."

"But what about the yacht?"

"He mentioned in the letter his intention to go for a cruise, and that I was to meet him at Port Arthur. I was preparing to get ready when Reg and Hal—I mean Mr. Morris and Mr. Winter—came on the scene, and here I am."

"They are fine fellows, and they don't belie their looks," said Hil, seriously.

"Why, how do you know?"

"I watched them closely as the boat was coming alongside the wharf. I picked them out at once."

"If they had waited we might have given them some information."

"Let them find out, my dear. We'll shew them we are as good as they."

"But what if they should find out and go by the same boat."

"Then we will go by train. But come now and I will shew you our clothes, besides we must have our hair cut short, so that we will be able to use a wig when we resume our discarded sex."

An hour was spent in arranging their trunks and getting all necessaries together, and then they drove to the steam-boat offices and took a double-berthed cabin in the names of Miss Walker and Miss Williams, having previously found out that neither Hal nor Reg had booked berths.

"I noticed, May," said Hil, nudging her and smiling maliciously, "that you let slip their Christian names. Hal and Reg. They are very nice names. Which do you like the better of the two?"

"The names or the men?" queried May.

"Say the men for argument's sake."

"Well, I think I rather like Reg, although both are good fellows. I felt for Reg though, awfully, when he told me his sad story."

"And Hal?"

"An awfully nice fellow and, I should say, very clever and a valuable help to Reg, I should think. While Reg is all earnestness and determination Hal seems to be quick at grasping situations and between the two, to say nothing of ourselves, Wyck is likely to have a bad time."

"Be quick and let us get out of sight, for what would Society say if I was discovered going on this errand? There are so many of the Mrs. Grundy type who would be delighted to put it in print."

"But, surely, you don't mind?"

"No, my dear, I once taught Society a lesson it will not forget. I was thinking of your father, he is propriety itself."

"Quite right, Hil, we must not be seen and, as I think we have everything now, we had better lose no time in getting on board."

Thus Hil and May, whom we shall know for the future as "the girls" went on board the Maranoa, and at two o'clock the good ship left the harbour for Brisbane.



CHAPTER XIX.

HIL.

While the two steamers are ploughing their way to Brisbane, the one with the boys, the other with the girls, on board, it will not be amiss if the narrative pause for a moment for the purpose of presenting the reader with an ampler picture of the singular personality of Hil.

Hilda Mannahill was the daughter of the late Samuel Mannahill, who died when she was ten years old. Three months later she lost her mother. Few men were more respected and beloved than Sam Mannahill, as he was familiarly called. He was a self-made man, who had landed in the colony in the early days, and by dint of hard work and upright dealing had become very wealthy. At his death he left behind him not only a vast fortune, which is a comparatively common circumstance, but also an honoured name, which is less so. After his wife's death the whole of his wealth passed to his daughter, Hilda, who at the time of our story was twenty-three years of age. Hilda would be best described as a jolly girl with no humbug about her. Simple in tastes, unaffected in manner, strikingly self-reliant, and as straight as a die in disposition, her inherited strength of character had been fostered and fortified at the expense of all the weaknesses of her sex, by the manner of her upbringing. Yet, withal, she was purely womanly. In appearance she was tall and fair, her figure slender but firmly-built; she was lissom in all her movements and a general air of independence, in harmony with the frankness of her speech and the directness of her gaze, hung around her. She was a large-hearted girl and no one but her banker knew of the thousands of pounds that were quietly distributed amongst the charities of the city every year: a decided eccentricity, and most directly opposed to the current method, which consists in having the name of the donor published in the leading papers, to be cabled over to England and brought at any cost under the notice of Her Majesty, in case there might be a spare title going begging. Had she wanted a title she could have had one, for it was well-known that a certain sprig of the nobility, when on a visit to the colonies, had graciously decided to make her and her fortune his own. "She is not much to look at, but her fortune is good," he had said to his friend, the Governor, who was complaining that he had given up his home and friends to spend five years penal servitude amongst those ignorant Australian savages. A few days after, therefore, the Honourable—it would be unfair to give his name—presented himself to Hilda, and was about to offer her his hand and heart, when he was stopped midway with the remark—"I am really very busy to-day. If it is a situation on one of my stations that you want, I will be pleased to mention your name to my manager, for I do not meddle with those matters myself." It is not known if he ever consulted the manager.

She now owned three large stations, besides city property and countless investments. The management of all this she had taken into her own hands on her coming of age. She then purchased Blue Gums, the handsome mansion in which we have seen her, where she shocked and scandalised Society for the moment by entertaining on her own account. Society salved its conscience by holding aloof from her for a few weeks, then thought better of it, and she was now one of the most prominent entertainers in Sydney. At Government House she was not a frequent visitor, the foppery and toadyism there were revolting to her. As she said, bluntly, "There's too much hypocrisy there for me!"

As a schoolgirl she was somewhat tom-boyish and a recognised leader in the mild forms of mischief open to the limited capabilities of young ladies' academies. Memories of an heroic pillow-fight, in which she figured as a leader, still linger among her schoolfellows. But her happiest times were the holidays spent in the rough enjoyments of Australian station life.

Life on a station is an interesting phase of colonial existence. There are stations, of course, in these degenerate days, where a great deal of style and vulgar "side" is put on; where the house-servants are in livery; the dinner is served on silver plates, in empty mimicry of a ducal mansion; where all travelling sprigs of nobility are welcomed by the proprietor (who was probably a costermonger before his emigration) to whom he is glad to introduce his daughter with the scarcely-veiled recommendation that she has fifty thousand to carry in her hand to the right man, provided he has good English blue blood in his veins and none of the inferior colonial trickle. Fortunately for Hilda, she spent her holidays on a typical Australian station, managed on Australian lines, by an Australian owner, with Australian hands. Here she became an expert horsewoman and her fearless nature had full play in its stirring daily work, of which she always took her fair share. Her bosom friend and fellow-conspirator at school was Susan Tyton, the daughter of old Tyton, the owner of the station "Cattle Downs," and the two girls invariably contrived to be there during the annual muster, in the work of which she had been known to perform the duties of an experienced stockman.

May had once listened, with vivid interest, to the following description by an old stockrider of one of her feats. He said—"I can see old Tyton now, coming out of the house, followed by the two girls, his daughter and Miss Mannahill. 'Now then, girls, if you are ready,' says old Tyton: and we bring them two of the horses. They have no ladies' saddles, no pommels to hold on to, only just a man's saddle with one stirrup, and it was a treat to see them spring into them and settle themselves down and quietly wait orders. They used to dress in short habit and leggings. The stockmen take one direction, and Tyton with his party take another, at full gallop, a pace they keep up for a mile or more. There is a big double in front of them and Tyton calls a halt, but the girls either do not or will not hear and, tightening their reins and over—up—over! they both fly the two high fences and calmly turn their horses' heads and open the gates for the others. They meet old Tyton's severe look with a smiling—'Don't be cross, we won't do it again. It was too tempting.' The old chap is too proud of them to say more than warn them not to take too much out of their horses. 'Gad!' adds the old fellow, 'I'd like some of them fashionable ladies who talk of their riding to see you two.' After a couple of hours' riding, they come across some black boys who have been keeping the cattle from going back to the hills. They now know that the outside boundary is reached. Fastened on each of their saddles is a stock whip, which each now takes off, and a few preliminary cracks are given. Fancy your town girls cracking and handling a whip sixteen feet long! After a short halt for a spell, Tyton himself gallops along the ranks and orders all to push on. That is the signal for a general shout, cracking of whips, barking of dogs, and yells from the niggers: soon there is one vast crowd of living animals in front of them. Now and then a refractory beast breaks away and rushes the ranks, but the horses are on the alert, and they soon round him in, for there is no tugging required—you merely stick to your pigskin. Hil and Susy are doing their share along the line and are about four hundred yards apart. Presently a small mob, led on by a huge black bull, charges right between them, and, followed by others, dashes back towards the mountains. The girls' horses are after them, but do not, as you may suppose, attempt to head them. They are quite content to ride alongside the leader, who, being in good forward condition, begins to blow. A signal is given, and both girls take a fierce grip of their whips, and make direct for the bull; he is nonplussed, seeing two horses coming in opposite directions and gradually slackens down until he comes to a stop, and there he stands pawing the ground, his tail erect, his eyes glistening. Like a stroke of lightning two horses pass him, and before he knows what's up he feels a couple of severe cuts across his head. This is repeated, and very soon he is glad to be allowed to turn back and go on peacefully. The girls meet and begin chatting on some outside topic, without a comment on their smart work. Gradually they draw closer to the ranks, and are once more in the line, having brought back the deserters. The big paddock, where the yards are, now comes in sight. It is recognised by some of the older cattle who have been in before, and they pull up and sniff the air, which means danger ahead, and puts the whole mob on the qui vive. This is about the most anxious time of all—to get a leader who will go easily: but should he turn obstinate they would rush the line, and the whole week's work would have to be repeated. Besides, in a mob like that, numbering close on ten thousand, hundreds would be either killed or seriously injured in their mad career. All seemed to recognise the dangerous situation, and Tyton begins to get anxious, especially as some of the leaders are snorting and shewing fight. Now it happened that that black bull and his party were one of the mobs nearest to the entrance; there was a clear run before them direct, so without consulting any one, the girls galloped into the mob, which separated before them, and got on to that bull again. A couple of smacks were enough. He was only too anxious to get out of their way, and made straight for the run, followed by his mob. The others followed suit, and the whole mob were in the big paddock. While this was going on, Tyton was a picture. He neither spoke nor moved. 'They're mad. They'll ruin all. Why, they've started the mob, the others are following. Oh, it's all right. Hurrah, we are saved! Hurrah, boys! Hurrah!' This is taken up, and even the black boys join in."

It was daring acts of this kind which had made Hilda the heroine of her own and Cattle Downs stations. Many were the tales told by the station hands of her feats of horsemanship and of the incorrigible buck-jumpers she had tamed. Moreover, she could box any man on the station. There was a certain amount of bush-romance attaching to her name, enough to have made her a legendary figure had she lived in mediaeval times. And yet, withal, she was a thorough girl of her century, educated and refined, but endowed with a masculine strength and a rigid uprightness of character. She was a genuine product of the land which gave her birth and she shared with the fullest enthusiasm in the aspirations and ideals of young Australia.



CHAPTER XX.

BRISBANE.

True to her time, the Maranoa reached Moreton Bay, and entered for the mouth of the Brisbane river. Here the scenery was of an uncommon and striking description, but as they neared the town the river dwindled to a mere mud-hole, similar to that at Launceston. After some delay she was made fast alongside the Buninyong, which had maintained, during its voyage, the two hours' start it had had. Hilda had visited Brisbane before, and knew her way about, so the girls had perfected all their plans during the voyage, and on landing, immediately crossed over to the Grand Hotel, and engaged a room.

"We cannot say how long we shall stay, but should we go, our luggage can remain here until we call or send for it," said Hil to the maid who showed them their room, which they entered and locked the door.

"Now then, May, we'll try on our new rig-out."

"Shall we dress now?"

"Rather—you try on that," answered Hil, as she drew from her portmanteau a man's suit of tweed.

Amid a good deal of laughter, they dressed themselves in their new garb. Hil had neglected nothing, and had even provided two pairs of specially-made corsets which enabled the waist to appear even with the hips, instead of tapering. Loose flannel shirts, with collars attached, obviated all differences of appearance about the bust. Padded boots, two sizes too large for them, met the difficulty of small feet.

"Now for the finishing touch," said Hil, as she fixed a small downy moustache on May's upper lip and handed her a pair of eye-glasses. She wore herself a similar appendage, somewhat heavier, and carefully darkened her chin. The result was most satisfactory. Then producing two long macintoshes, which completely enveloped their figures, and fixing veils round the tweed caps they wore, they repacked their portmanteaus, watched a favourable opportunity, and slipped out of the hotel and proceeded to a quiet bye-street near the wharf. Here their macintoshes and veils disappeared into the river, and two spick and span young gentlemen emerged into the main thoroughfare again. The feeling was peculiar at first, but as no one appeared to take particular notice of them, they soon felt complete confidence in their disguise.

"Let's get a smoke, Hil," said May, stopping at a tobacconist's, "it will heighten the illusion." And quite in the regulation manner they strolled along, puffing cigarettes.

Their confidence became so great that they returned to the hotel and enquired if two ladies had arrived. The porter answered in the affirmative, but said they were out at that moment. They continued their way, and entered the saloon of the "Royal."

"What are you drinking?" asked Hil.

"Brandy and soda, please," said May, as she squeezed the barmaid's hand on the sly.

"Let's sit down," said Hil, "and fix on our names. Mine is Percy."

"And mine is Jack," promptly answered her companion.

They sat at the table smoking and sipping the drinks before them, occasionally ogling the barmaid, when both were rather startled at the entrance of Hal and Reg. A covert kick from Hil made both extremely cautious.

"What will you try, Hal?" said Reg, with a casual glance round the room and a critical one at the ladies behind the bar.

"Ale, thanks. I wonder if there is an English boat in."

"That's meant for us: new chums," whispered Hil to May, and picking up the Evening Observer, she glanced over the contents.

"They seem to be pretty friendly," said May, pointing to the boys, who were monopolising the barmaid's time and attention.

"What'll you have, Jack," said Hil, aloud. "I say, miss, when you are at leisure—"

"I beg your pardon, sir," answered the barmaid, coming forward.

"Same again, miss, please."

"Very little brandy," put in May, for she noticed the spittoon by her side was nearly full and would not carry much more.

Reg picked up the paper which Hil had laid down, and looking down the columns gave a start at something that met his eye. Calling Hal aside, he shewed it him. Hal merely nodded his head and, shortly after, they left. As soon as they had gone, Hil took up the paper again, and looking at the column Reg had pointed to, turned to May, and said:

"I was wondering what had startled those two and I believe it must be this."

May looked at the column she indicated and read:

"W—k, come to-morrow. All safe, S—l."

"Nothing in that, Percy," answered May. "That girl's name is Sal, she's in it," she added, in a lower voice.

"They look like detectives, those two," said Hil sharply, out loud, turning round to watch the effect of her announcement.

The lady, who wore her name conspicuously engraved upon her ring, coloured and seemed disconcerted, and shortly after quitted the saloon.

"Come for a stroll as far as the Post Office," said Hil, as she saw Sal return with a letter in her hand.

"Are you gentlemen going to the Post Office?" she asked, sweetly.

"Yes, we're going to try our luck again."

"Would you mind taking this letter, and handing it in to the Telegraph Department. Here is a shilling to pay for it."

"I'll take the letter, my dear, with pleasure, but not the shilling," said Hil, patting the girl affectionately on the cheek.

"You'll see it's sent off at once, for it concerns a young lady whose mother is ill."

"I'll go as fast as I can carry it. Come on, Jack," answered Hil, leaving the saloon hurriedly, followed by May.

Outside, she turned to her companion, and asked:

"Do you know what I have got here?"

"Wyck's address."

"I think so, we'll see," and she tore the letter open hurriedly, as if the action hardly commended itself to her. Taking out the enclosure, she read:

"V. Wyckliffe, Royal Hotel, Toowoomba. Two men enquiring for you. Go to back country.—Sal."

"Where's Toowoomba, Hil?"

"It's on the overland road to Sydney, about five hours' journey. Have you a guide?"

"Yes, here we are. Express leaves at 6.30."

"Good! Come, we will have to change our rig. He'll strike off for the back country, the wire shews that. We shall want moleskin trousers and rougher clothes."

"Why? Won't these do?" asked May, not liking the idea.

"Not for the bush, May. Of course, we will go in these and take the others with us in case of emergency. Come on, time is precious," and she led the way to an outfitter's.

The boys left the hotel for the purpose of consulting freely together outside. As they paced the street, Reg said:

"That certainly seems strange. W—k may stand for Wyck, and S—l for Sal, for that is the barmaid's name. If it is so, he is still in Brisbane."

"Yes, I suppose so," answered Hal, thoughtfully.

"Would it not be as well to question that girl about it?"

"Why, of course, of course. What are we thinking of?" and Hal turned back and once more entered the hotel.

"Do you know where Wyck is now, miss?" he asked in a familiar manner.

"No, I don't," answered she in a flurried way, blushing to the roots of her hair.

"Yes you do, miss," said Reg, laughing. "He is a friend of ours and we want to see him badly."

"I don't know who you mean," she answered, becoming very red and angry. And the boys seeing there was no chance of finding out anything went out again.

As they passed the Post Office they called in on the chance of finding something, and were gratified at having a telegram handed to them, which read as follows:

"Morris and Winter, Brisbane. Wyck at Toowoomba. Saw wire Dick. Says going bush. Terence O'Flynn."

"What's the guide say, Reg?"

"Express 6.30. It's now 4.30."

"What's he making for the bush for? He thinks he will escape us that way. If he does he's mistaken, for he's tumbling right into my arms," remarked Hal with a grim smile.

"I must say he is a bit smarter than I gave him credit for," said Reg.

"This is not a bad place, Reg, is it?"

"No. It's a bit warm. What are the people like—same as down South?"

"No, my boy. They are like the climate—warm—and they make it so if anything displeases them. They are the most independent and democratic lot in the colonies and, when the great smash comes, I shall be much mistaken if the voice of Queensland is not the first to cry 'Australia for the Australians.' But now to business. If we are going in for bush work we must have a bush outfit, so come on," and they walked towards the same outfitter's at which ten minutes previously the girls had rigged themselves out.

They were hardly out of sight of the Post Office when a hansom-cab drew up at the door, and a young man, looking furtively round, hastily alit and hurried into the office to enquire for letters. One was handed to him with the letters O.H.M.S. upon it, which he opened, signed the certificate enclosed and received from the savings-bank clerk a sum of money in gold. Pocketing the money, he hurried into his cab and drove away. The man was Villiers Wyckliffe, and there was anything but a pleasant look on his face, for at heart he was an arrant coward. "Confound those fellows," he muttered to himself, "they may get here at any time. I had to come back here for money, but I'll go back to Toowoomba again, as it is a handy place to make for the open country at a moment's notice. Who in the deuce would have thought that a fellow would make so much fuss over a girl as that fellow Morris is doing. He and his friend mean mischief, for Dick told me of their carryings-on at Melbourne. If they track me I'll shoot them down like the dogs they are. If I could only get away I'd go back to England, for people are not so particular there. Damn Australia, I say! I wish I had never seen it." His face had grown black with anger, and falling back, he fell to commiserating his lot. "There are so many pretty girls here," he murmured. "And these confounded fellows are spoiling all my fun." Here any further reflections were disturbed by his arrival at the "George."

"Call for me in time to catch the 6.30 express," he shouted to the cabby, as he hurried inside.

"Let's come in here for a drink," said Hal, leading the way into the saloon of the "George," some ten minutes later.

Calling for drinks, they were surprised to see the two new chums that they had noticed before, sitting there.

"We meet again," whispered Hil to May.

"Well, here's luck, old chap," said Hal to Reg. "I wonder how old Goody and his daughter are getting on."

A kick passed between the new chums, who sat as if they noticed nothing.

"Yes, I wonder. She and her cousin are going on the detective business as well, eh? That's a good joke; but she's a jolly girl," answered Reg.

"I'd like to meet that cousin of hers," replied Hal. "From all accounts, she is a bit of a star."

"I think we ought to wire them that we have left Sydney. They'll be wondering what has come to us."

"Yes, I should like to let them know. To tell the truth, I thought they wanted to join us, or something of that kind, and, much as I like women, I could not stand that," said Hal, smiling.

"It's time to go, old chap. Ta-ta, miss," and they left to get ready for their journey.

As soon as they were gone, the two new chums looked at each other and burst out laughing.

"So, you're a jolly girl, May!"

"And you're a bit of a star."

"Come, let's get ahead of them at any rate. We'll see if girls are so much in the way, Mr. Hal. I consider it a gross piece of impertinence," said Hil, leading the way with an air of injured dignity.

"A nobbler of brandy please, miss, and let me have a flask too," said Wyck, hurriedly entering the saloon, for his cab was waiting to take him to the station.

The 6.30 express started for Toowoomba, taking five people, divided into three parties, each party quite unaware of the presence of the others. A lady had shadowed the boys to the station, and seeing them enter the train, left hastily for the Post Office, whence she despatched the following telegram:

Wyckliffe, Toowoomba. They left by to-night's express for Toowoomba. Danger. Sal.



CHAPTER XXI.

TOOWOOMBA.

Toowoomba being the junction of the Western Line and the chief town on the Darling Downs, the station was a larger one than ordinary. As the express steamed in all was life and bustle, for the down-train had arrived at the same time on the opposite side. Wyck having only a rug to look after, and knowing the run of the place, jumped out directly the train stopped and, calling a cab, drove to the Royal Hotel. Arriving there, he looked at the rack, and saw two telegrams addressed to himself, which he opened eagerly.

"By Jove, they're here!" he said to himself, and to the barman he cried, "Brandy!"

"You'll take the same room, sir," said the barman, handing him the drink, and wondering at his hurried manner.

"Say, George, if anyone calls for me I am not in," said he, laying half-a-crown in close proximity to George's hand.

"I'm fly, governor," said that worthy, pocketing the half-crown.

Wyck hurried upstairs to his room. Locking the door he sat down on the bed to think matters over. His limbs were trembling with nervous apprehension. Every step that passed his door made him start, and several times he had recourse to his flask to calm himself. The liquor had the desired effect, and lighting a cigar, he smoked on in silence. The smoke grew less, the cigar went out, but still he was gazing into space. A step passing his door woke him from his reverie. He took another long pull at his brandy-flask and shaking himself together walked to the looking-glass, and addressed his own image thus:

"Now, Wyck, my boy, you'll have to get out of this, and there is only one way of doing it, and that is to disguise yourself. Your moustache must come off first," and he gave that handsome appendage an affectionate farewell twist. "We must part, so here goes," and opening his dressing-case he set to work, and five minutes later was a clean-shaven man. Then he began to make elaborate preparations for his character in the bush by ripping his trousers and blackening them here and there. After a considerable amount of destruction had been done he considered his disguise satisfactory, and prepared for bed. To guard against over-sleeping himself he tied a string to the boots outside his door, and fixed the other end round his wrist. Then, taking a final sip from his flask, he jumped into bed and was soon fast asleep. He seemed scarcely to have dropped off before he was dreaming that Morris had him by the wrist and was sitting on his chest.

"Mercy!" he gurgled, at the same time rising in bed and wrenching his arm free, a process which brought forth the expression of a loud oath from outside the door.

"What's your game?" called out the owner of the voice, and Wyck woke fully and remembered. Springing out of bed he called the boots into his room.

"What's your game, young fellow?" repeated that worthy.

"I wanted you to wake me. Come, have a nip."

"Don't mind if I do, boss."

"What's your name?"

"Bill Adams. Here's luck, boss."

"Say, Bill, can you hold your tongue?"

"All depends."

"Here's a sovereign," said Wyck, handing him one.

"I can hold it as tight as wax, boss."

"Then listen. I got into a bit of a mess over a girl, and there are some chaps after me. They came by the express last night, and if I'm here they'll find me."

"Then you'd better get out of here."

"That's just what I want to do. How is it to be done? See I have shaved my moustache and altered my clothes."

"What did yer cut them for?"

"I want to be a tramp."

"Let me fix yer up. Just yer stay here," said Bill, disappearing to return a few minutes later with a swag, which he laid on the floor and opened.

"Now then, just you put on these breeches, shirt and boots."

Five minutes later Wyck did not recognise himself, as he looked in the glass.

"Now then, boss, if you're smart, there's a goods train leaves for the West at six, you can catch that."

"Will you take charge of these things?" asked Wyck, strapping up his portmanteau, flurried with the success of his scheme.

"Yes, I'll watch 'em for you."

"Which way do I go?"

"This way," said Bill, leading him to a back entrance, opening on a lane leading to Ruthven Street.

"Here's another for you, Bill, and if you look after my things I'll give you a couple more when I come back," said Wyck, handing him another sovereign.

"Right you are, boss!" and as he closed the door upon him, a grin spread over his face, and he said to himself:

"Two yellow boys for old Joe's swag, eh? Wonder what old Joe'll say when he comes to look for 'em?"

Wyck reached the station safely, and asking how far the train went, was told "Roma."

"First, Rome," said he to the porter, without thinking.

"Roma, you mean, boss. Besides there ain't no first class on a goods train," said the porter, with a grin.

"You know what I mean," replied Wyck, annoyed.

"All right, here you are, boss," he answered, handing him a ticket, and noting his white hands and the chink of gold in his pocket.

"Hullo, mate! how far are you going?" asked a genuine tramp, as he joined him in the van.

"I beg your pardon," said Wyck, forgetting his character and disgusted with the fellow's familiarity.

"Hoity toity! here's a joke," said the old tramp, much to the porter's amusement, as the train moved slowly off, bearing Wyck to the bush.

The boys were not long in following Wyck out of their train, but as they thought he might get in at Toowoomba they kept a close watch on all passengers travelling North and South. Reg tipped the conductors of both boudoir cars, in order to look through them, and when both trains started again, they felt satisfied he must be still in Toowoomba, unless he had left previous to their arrival. Off they went to the nearest hotel, and engaged a double-bedded room, in which they locked themselves.

"What's the programme now, Hal?" said Reg.

"If he's here we must nab him. When does the first train start to-morrow?"

"The guide says, 10.30 South, and 1.50 West."

"We'd better get up early and go round the town. You can put on your rig and appear as a stranger looking round, while I'll put on my bush rig and go amongst the swaggies and loafers in the bars. They generally have their eyes open and my idea is that our man will have got hold of one of them for information," said Hal, pulling out his bush togs.

"What shall I do, then?"

"Just knock around and keep your eyes open. He may drive away. Of course he may have got away by now, but it's our only chance."

The next morning by half-past six both had left their room to commence their search. Hal did not need any coaching in the manners or ways of a bushman. He had seen too many of that fraternity during his travels. With a slouch hat, a grisly beard, a crimson shirt, a clean pair of moles with straps fastened below the knees, and a rough pair of boots, he looked the typical bushman in search of work. His hands were stained and looked sunburnt and dirty. He walked with a slow, long stride, first into one public-house, then another, calling invariably for a quid of tobacco in preference to liquor. He struck into conversation with several of his own kidney, and interviewed boots and barmen, without finding out anything of service to him, but still he kept on patiently until he came to the "Royal," where he found an old man sweeping the bar.

"Good-day, boss," said the sweeper.

"Good-day. Have a drink?"

"Don't mind if I do have a pint," said he, readily.

"I'll have rum," said Hal.

After a little desultory conversation and the drinks had disappeared the sweeper, whom the barman addressed as Bill, returned the compliment, and put down a sovereign in payment.

"Hallo, Bill, where did you make this?" called out the barman, considerably astonished to find Bill with a sovereign in his possession.

"Never you mind. Give us a drink and have one yourself," he answered.

The drinks were served and Bill received his change, but still the barman seemed curious.

"Where did you get it, Bill?" he asked again, coming from behind the bar, which gave Hal an opportunity of getting rid of his rum.

"Never mind," said Bill, huffily. "Can't a fellow have a sovereign without you troubling yourself?"

Hal now became decidedly interested, and ordered another round of drinks, this time including the barman. The barman returned the compliment, and Bill, having four pints of beer inside him, began to talk volubly on his strong point—thoroughbreds. Still the barman seemed to think he ought to have a share of that sovereign, and again plied Bill with questions.

"Tell us, Bill. Did you prig it?"

"Prig it! You go to the devil. Come on, mate, let's have another drink," and Bill began to show signs of intoxication.

"Rather, Bill," answered Hal, pretending to be similarly affected. So far, he had succeeded in throwing his liquor down a hole in the floor.

The landlord now appeared on the scene and began to rate Bill for neglecting his work.

"I ain't a-going to chop your wood, I ain't; eh, mate? We ain't a-going to chop wood."

"No, that we ain't," said Hal, with a lurch.

The barman stopped the retort rising to the landlord's lips by whispering, "plenty of stuff," in his ear. Thereupon the latter asked where Mr. Wyckliffe had gone.

"Who?" said Bill. "He's No. 5, ain't he?"

"Yes."

"Well, he give me two bob, and went away early."

"Where did he go to, Bill?" asked the barman.

"Don't know, and don't care. Give us another drink." After which he staggered away, followed by Hal, to the back, in the direction of the stables.

"I'm going to sleep," he said, entering a small house attached to the coach-house, where a lot of bags were strewn about.

Hal staggered after him, and noticed a portmanteau and a rug in the corner. Bill tottered to a rude bunk, on which he fell, and was soon fast asleep and snoring loudly.

Hal hearing him mutter, leant over him and managed to make out the following:

"Get up—six o'clock train West—Go to 'ell—two yellow boys," from which he drew his own deductions. Then he proceeded to examine the portmanteau, which he found unlocked. He could hardly restrain his joy when he found lying underneath the things Wyck's famous ebony stick. It was beautifully mounted and polished and its numerous notches were carefully cut. The temptation was too great to resist and Hal calmly appropriated it, slipping it down the leg of his trousers, then he staggered out of the yard down a lane towards the creek. When he was well out of sight he carefully pulled off his old coat, and took from the pocket a silk coat and pair of overalls. These were quickly donned, the wig and beard disappeared, and he straightened himself out and walked back through the yard into the street, looking like an ordinary tradesman.

Reg was waiting for him when he got back.

"He left by this morning's train for West," said Hal.

"I thought so. I enquired at the station, and they told me a goods train ran twice a week at that hour, and one had gone this morning, but the man who was on duty then had gone home."

"What's the next train, Reg?"

"1.50."

"Well, we'll go by that. But, come here, I have something to show you," said Hal, leading the way to their room, and producing the stick.

"My God! the stick," cried Reg, and taking it in his hands, looked as if he could have smashed it to a thousand pieces.

Hal left him, thinking it was better for him to be alone with the bitter reflections the sight of the stick had caused.

When the girls left the train they did not go to a hotel, but to a boarding-house near the station. Several rough-looking men were loitering about the door and on the step sat a dirty, fat woman.

"Good-evening, missus. Got any beds?" said Hil.

"Yes, come in, gentlemen. What price do you want. I've got 'em from sixpence to eighteen-pence."

"Let's see the eighteenpennys, then."

"This way," said she, leading them along a long passage. "Here you are, a fine double-bed fit for a hemperor," and she flung open a door on which "Privit" was marked.