"Where is Mrs. Eustace?" he asked.

"She's in her room, Mr. Harding, in her little sitting-room."

It was one of the rooms where he had never been, a tiny chamber at the far end of the passage which she had made into a boudoir. Once he had seen into it through the open door, seen the daintiness with which it was decorated, a daintiness redolent of her as he had known her in the days when, for him, the world held no other woman.

And she had chosen this as the place where they should meet!

He knocked at the door, and heard her voice answer, bidding him to come in. She was sitting in a cane lounge-chair, listless, pale, and weary-eyed.

As he entered she gave him one swift glance and then looked away.

"Do you wish to see me, Mrs. Eustace?" he asked in a cold, formal voice.

She did not reply at once, but sat with her head bowed and her hands loosely clasped in her lap.

"If you will say what you wish to as quickly as you can, I shall be obliged," he said. "Brennan is in the office, and I have some matters to arrange with him."

Her head was raised slowly, steadily, until her face was turned full towards him.

"Will you please arrange them first?" she replied. "I want to say something which may take some time, and I—I would not inconvenience the bank."

"I would rather hear what you have to say first, Mrs. Eustace."

She shook her head.

"It is not a matter I can sum up in a few brief sentences," she replied. "If you cannot arrange things with Brennan and then come to me here, pray forget I mentioned anything about it."

He moved uneasily as she averted her face and sat back in her chair.

"I will see what I can do," he said shortly, and left the room.

When he returned to the office he found Brennan talking to Bessie, who had brought him some supper and a couple of blankets with which to make a bed on the floor. Brennan nodded towards them as Bessie disappeared.

"You know the idea of my being here at all, don't you?" he asked.

"To tell you the truth, I don't," Harding replied.

"The Sub-Inspector fancies someone may try to get back to learn what he can about our doings. You know who will most likely be asked, and so you see what it means when, as soon as I am here, and before I say a word about staying, these things are brought in. As if there is likely to be any sleep for me with the chance of the Sub-Inspector riding up any hour and catching me off duty. But it shows what's in the wind, doesn't it?"

"Mrs. Eustace has asked me to discuss something with her," Harding said quietly. "She knows you are here to-night."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Harding. She knows that, I've no doubt, but how did she or the girl know I was to be on duty here all the night? Don't you see? Supposing the Sub-Inspector is right, and a certain person we know wants to hear all that had happened since he went away, is he likely to come while I am here? It is not difficult to put a lighted lamp in a window, or to leave a blind pulled up or drawn down, is it? Anything of the kind is enough to give him a warning that the coast is clear or that there is danger ahead."

"Oh, but we can easily stop that," Harding exclaimed. "We can easily prevent any signal being used."

"If you know what the signal is," Brennan said. "But if you don't know, what are you to do?"

"We shall have to watch."

"That's it, we shall have to watch and take care nobody knows it," Brennan replied in a low tone. "Have you a revolver?"

"No. The one we kept in the bank was stolen from the drawer with the money."

"Then slip this into your pocket," Brennan said, as he passed a bright nickel-plated "bull-dog" to Harding. "It's loaded in all the chambers and has a snap trigger; but it's no good for a long shot, though it makes as much noise as a service carbine. Don't hesitate to use it if anything happens—the noise will let me know, and there's no danger of hitting anyone with it unless you are a better shot than I am."

"But where are you going?"

Brennan jerked his head towards the door.

"You see me off the premises and then tell the girl to fetch those blankets away again. After that, keep your eyes open and rest assured that as soon as you let off the barker I've given you, I shall not be far off. If there is any arrangement such as I have suggested, my going now will put them off their guard and our gentleman will get the signal to make his call as expected. Bringing in those blankets has given the game away—to me it shows just what is in the wind."

When he had seen Brennan off the premises, Harding told Bessie to remove the blankets from the office, and returned to the little room.

The door was ajar when he reached it, but there was no answer to his rap. He pushed it open and entered. Mrs. Eustace was not there.

He turned, and came face to face with her as he stood in the doorway, though he had not heard her approach.

"I did not hear you coming," he exclaimed.

"No, I am wearing light shoes," she answered. "But won't you sit down? Have you made all your arrangements? I don't want to begin to say what I wish if you will have to go away before I have finished."

"There is nothing to call me away now. Brennan has gone," he said, as he took the chair she indicated.

"Before I begin, I must ask you to forgive me for mentioning the subject at all," she said slowly.

She sat facing him and, up to that moment, had kept her eyes fixed on him; but as she ceased speaking she glanced aside until her head was bowed as it had been previously. He took advantage of the opportunity to give one quick look round. The chair in which he sat was so placed that the profile of the person occupying it was thrown by the light of the lamp directly upon the window-blind. The window faced the bush at the back of the bank.

He moved his chair until his shadow fell on the wall, but then the lamp was between her and himself, and he could not watch her face.

"I will take this chair," he said shortly, as he stepped to the one where she had been sitting when he first came to the room. From it he commanded not only a complete view of her, but also out of the window, for the blind, pulled down to the full extent, was slightly askew, and left a space between it and the window-pane. Through that space he could see across the yard to the fence running round the allotment, and beyond it to the dark line of the bush, rendered the darker at the moment by the soft sheen of the rising moon showing above it.

A silence followed his movement, a silence during which she fidgeted uneasily and impatiently.

"You do not answer," she said presently. "Shall I go on?"

"I am waiting for you to do so," he replied.

"You will forgive me for mentioning this subject?"

"You have not mentioned any subject yet, Mrs. Eustace. I don't know what it is you wish to talk about."

"I am afraid it is very distasteful to you. I am not surprised if it is, but—if you knew everything in connection with it, you might think differently. That is why I want to tell you."

"Yes," he said indifferently, as she paused.

"You do not want to speak of it," she said again. "But I must explain—I ought to have done so directly you came up here. I want to explain my conduct to you when I returned your——"

"There is no need," he interrupted her. "That matter was at an end at once. There is no benefit to be gained by attempting to revive it."

"I do not seek to revive it," she retorted, colouring at his words. "Surely if I wish to set straight what I know is not straight, I am not seeking to revive it? I wish to make one thing clear to you. You have not known Charlie as long as I have. Neither do you know him as well as I do. In the face of the accusations made by that police inspector anything may be said or suspected."

He did not reply, and she went on.

"You, hearing Charlie painted in the blackest colours, are not likely to raise any protest either to yourself or to anyone else. You will rather believe all ill of him and will most likely impute things to him he never did. One thing I do not want blamed on to him. Those letters and things which were sent back to you, I sent—I sent them entirely myself—Charlie did not send them—I sent them."

She looked up at him quickly and then away as though she feared to meet his eyes.

"Is that all you wished to tell me?" he asked.

"I wished to tell you—all about it. I do not want you to blame Charlie. It was not his fault—nothing was his fault. I was a silly, flighty girl and fancied myself in love with everyone, whereas, really, I never cared at all, not until I met him. I don't want you to think he was to blame, because, if you do, you may want to be revenged on him, and now you have this opportunity you may take it. If you believe me and realise he had nothing whatever to do with my changing my mind, more than to come into my life, as he did, then you may sympathise with him in his present trouble and save him all you can."

She did not attempt to look at him again as she spoke. He leaned back in his chair and turned his glance away from her, away to the space between the window and the blind. The first glint of the moon was stealing over the dark line of the bush and spreading over the open country between it and the line of fence. He could see, indistinctly, what seemed to be a heavy shadow moving slowly away from the trees.

"It is a subject on which I would rather say nothing, Mrs. Eustace," he said presently, without removing his eyes from the window. "If you wish to speak about it, and you think it will ease your mind in any way, I will listen to all you wish to say. But do not expect me to reply to you. Do not expect me to express any opinion. I do not wish to appear harsh, but I must tell you that so far as I am concerned, the curtain was rung down upon the last act of my romance when my letters were returned—was rung down to remain down for ever."

"I was afraid it would be a distasteful subject to you," she said; "but I must talk about it—I must. I have wanted to tell you for so long—I wanted to write to you and explain after the things were sent off, but—but it was so difficult. I felt how horrible it was of me, how horrible and how mean, never to say one word, but just throw everything in your face after—after all you had done for me. I deserve to suffer what I am going through now—I deserve everything. It was so contemptible of me to allow myself to be—to do what I did," she added quickly, and he felt rather than saw the way she glanced at him, for he was still staring out through the narrow opening between the window and the blind, away at the curious dark shadowy patch which was slowly moving further and further away from the line of thickly growing trees.

"Won't you say one word? Not even that you forgive me?"

Her voice was soft and gentle—the voice he remembered having heard so often in the bygone days—the days for whose sake she had appealed to him to come to her. He leaned forward in his chair, staring through the little slit of space between the blind and the window, intent upon distinguishing what it was he saw, resenting what he believed to be her efforts to beguile him.

"Do you hate me so much?"

Scarcely above a whisper the words reached him, a whisper with tears in it, and his heart shrank at the sound. He turned quickly towards her.

She started impulsively to her feet and held out her hands to him.

"Fred!" she exclaimed.

He sat unmoved, for the shadow in the distance was growing more and more distinct, and the suspicion with which he regarded her drove away every particle of commiseration, and made him blind to the emotion welling up in her eyes, hostile to the pathos in her voice.

She clasped her hands and let them drop limply in front of her as she sank into her chair again.

"Oh, I am so lonely, so lonely," she murmured, "I don't know what to do. If you would only help me. I know I behaved horribly to you, vilely; but surely—surely you have some pity for me in my misfortune. I have no one to turn to—no one—no one. If you would only help me to understand—if you would only talk the matter over with me, it would be some relief."

"There can be no benefit in talking over what has passed—the best thing is to forget it ever happened. That is what I have striven to do. If you returned my letters of your own free will, you were merely exercising a right to which you were perfectly entitled. You preferred Eustace to me, that is all."

"All?" she echoed in a tone of amazement. "All? Is that what you thought? Is that what you think?"

"What else can I think?" he retorted. "If you chose for yourself——"

She sprang up and faced him with widely opened, gleaming eyes.

"I did not," she cried. "I did not. There! Now you know. It was a——"

She stopped abruptly, staring with eyes so full of entreaty that he looked away from her lest the emotion roused by her words, by her attitude and her eyes, carried him away at a moment when he required above all things complete self-control. To avoid her eyes he turned once more to the window—the moving shadow had grown clearer—it had split in twain, and he could distinctly see the forms of two horsemen riding swiftly towards the bank.

The sight sent a chill through him; he recoiled from the woman whose pleading a moment before had thrilled him, recoiled from her as from some reptile. While she was appealing to him, pleading with him, the man she was expecting—whom she was even ready to vilify in order to throw dust in the eyes of the one who was a menace to him—was coming in response, probably, to a signal given by the clear, lamp-lit window-blind.

He faced her where she stood, his eyes hard and cold, his mouth set stern.

"I prefer not to hear anything further on the subject," he said in a measured tone. "It is a subject which does not now concern me."

"Fred!"

Despite his anger, despite the resentment the spectacle of those two riders had roused within him, the anguish in her voice cut him. Her eyes, fixed on his, were filled with intense sorrow, her face went ashen.

"Oh, Fred! I——"

She swayed as she stood, staggered, and sank into the chair between the lamp and the window, flinging her arms out over the table and burying her head upon them as she gave vent to a fit of sobbing. But as she moved, her shadow swept across the blind.

He looked out again upon the moonlit scene—the horsemen had passed from the field of vision. He leaned forward to get a wider view, but there was no further sign of them—it was as though the shadow passing across the blind had been a danger signal on which they had acted immediately it was given.

He wondered whether Brennan had seen them, whether he was also on the look out or was waiting hidden somewhere until he heard the warning shot. Harding was to fire in the event of anything happening. Ought he to fire now? Ought he to give the alarm or wait, lest the sound of the shot warned the two horsemen as well as alarmed Brennan?

Leaning forward, with his attention riveted as he gazed through the narrow slit, he scarcely noticed that Mrs. Eustace had ceased to sob—the sudden appearance of her head, in shadow, upon the blind, made him start to his feet.

"Put out that lamp," he exclaimed, but before she could move he was past her and had blown out the flame.

"Fred! What is it?" she asked in an agitated whisper.

"Silence," he said fiercely, as he crept back to the window and stooped to peer into the night.

Along the fence which formed the boundary of the bank's ground, the fence Durham had pointed out as the one over which Eustace must have made his escape, he saw the figure of a man stealthily creeping.

He thrust his hand into the pocket where he had slipped the revolver Brennan had given him.

"Fred! Fred! What do you see?" he heard Mrs. Eustace whisper, and in the dim obscurity he saw her come to his side.

"Quiet," he said harshly.

Both her hands, trembling, touched his arm.

"Tell me," she whispered; "I will be brave. Who is it you see?"

The thin streak of moonlight falling through the narrow space between the blind and the window glinted on the bright barrel of the revolver, as he drew it from his pocket.

She fell on her knees beside him, her arms flung round him, her voice in his ear.

"Oh, Fred—no, not that! Is it Charlie? Oh, don't—don't——"

He pushed her back roughly, his eyes straining to catch another glimpse of the creeping figure which had gone out of sight as he raised his revolver ready to fire.

"Oh, no, no! Don't shoot him! Don't, Fred, don't! He——"

Her words ended in a shriek, for even as she spoke there appeared outside the window, showing clear with the moonlight falling full upon it, the face of a yellow-bearded man. Harding wrested himself free from her clinging arms, leapt to the window, and tore the blind away.

The form of the man, running swiftly, was disappearing amongst the bushes.

Heedless of the glass in front of him, of the terrified woman at his knees, Harding raised his revolver and fired.

As the shivered glass crashed to the ground, the report of other shots, fired in rapid succession, came from outside, and across the patch of grass, firing as he ran, Brennan dashed after the runaway.

Harding scrambled through the broken window and ran after him.

From behind the clustering shrubs which formed a screen in front of the chicken-run, there came the sound of horses galloping. Brennan stopped as he heard it. When Harding caught up to him, he was rapidly reloading his revolver.

"He's slipped us," he cried. "The sub-inspector has my horse, and ordered me not to leave the bank till he came back. And there's that scoundrel riding away from under our noses!"

"Did you see him?" Harding exclaimed.

"See him? Wasn't I crawling on him round the house when she screamed out to him, and you fired? Another two minutes and I had him, yellow beard and all. Now we know who the man was who called at the bank to cash a cheque after hours. Anyhow, I'll have the woman safe before she can do any more mischief. I'll arrest her right away, and the girl as well. They're both in the game, if you ask me."



CHAPTER VII

SNARED

Durham awakened with a sense of oppression.

For the moment he could not recall where he was. It seemed as though some sound had disturbed him, yet before he opened his eyes he realised the utter silence which reigned.

It was the silence which brought back to him where he was. He had fallen asleep as he lay in the hammock chair on the verandah at Waroona Downs.

In his half-awakened state he made an effort to sit up. But he could not move—arms, legs, body were held as though in paralysis. He could only open his eyes.

Before him, in the faint light shed by the down-turned lamp, he saw the figure of a man, leaning slightly forward, clad in the attire of an ordinary bushman—an unbuttoned jacket hanging loosely open over a cotton shirt; tweed trousers secured at the waist by a narrow strap; travel-stained leggings and heavy boots with well-worn spurs dangling at the heels. The head was covered by a soft felt hat pulled forward, shading the upper part of the face, while the lower was hidden by a thick growth of yellow beard. The hair, where it showed under the hat, was fair almost to whiteness and close-cropped. Eyebrows and lashes of the same light hue gave a sinister expression to the eyes.

Durham recognised him at once as the man Eustace had declared called at the bank after office hours.

Mrs. Burke's presentiment had come true! The men from whom he had so lightly offered to protect her had stolen upon him while he slept.

With a frantic plunge he strove to break free, at the same moment opening his mouth to shout a warning. But even as his lips parted, a hand came from behind him and placed a soft muffling substance over his mouth.

"Tie it—tight," the man in front said in a low whisper.

Durham felt the passing of a thong round and round his head. He tried to raise his legs to kick the floor of the verandah, but they were too securely fastened to the sides of the chair. He could move neither hand nor foot. He was as helpless as though he were dead.

The man with the yellow beard bent nearer.

"We'll see you again—later," he whispered. "That's a good horse you were riding—Government property, I think, it was. Well, it has changed owners."

He moved noiselessly away and Durham was left alone. Bracing his muscles, he strained at the cords which bound him, trying to writhe himself free. The chair creaked. In a moment the man with the yellow beard was back.

"If you wriggle for a year you won't get free," he said in a harsh whisper. "But I tell you what you will get; that's a crack on the head to keep you quiet. Do you hear? You lay still, or there'll be an ugly bump on your skull."

He stepped out of sight, and Durham heard the window he had pulled-to quietly pushed open. A rage of mingled anger and jealousy swept over him. Regardless of the threat, he plunged and struggled till the veins in his head were bursting, and he smothered as the muffler over his mouth worked up and covered his nostrils.

Suddenly a sound cut through the night which sent his blood cold.

From within the house there came the wild, terrified shriek of a woman. A hoarse shout blended with it, and then the report of a revolver-shot echoed through the place.

For a few minutes there was silence, deathly, nerve-destroying silence. Durham, trembling with mortification, strained his ears to catch some further sound.

Two shots in quick succession rang out, followed by a rush of scuffling feet, and on the air there came the thud of galloping horses' hoofs.

"They're off, Patsy! The rifle, quick! Quick! Oh, you old fool, be quick! They'll be too far!"

Durham heard the words screamed in a high shrill voice. Thereafter he could only hear the hum of voices dimly.

Presently they came clearer.

"I tell you only two got away, three horses and two men. I saw them. The other's somewhere. Sure I hope I put a bullet through him, and I believed him when he said he was a police inspector. Oh, what a country to come to. To think that the dirty—oh, look out, Patsy! Look out, you old fool!"

The noise of a shot rang through Durham's head as though a pistol had been fired close to his ear. He saw a splinter fly from the verandah post as the bullet glanced off.

"I've hit him! I've hit him! See if he's dead, Patsy. Don't be frightened. I tell you I'll cover him if he moves."

The light spread clear as the lamp was turned up, and Durham heard the slow-moving footsteps of the old man approaching.

"Bedad! It's all tied up he is!"

Quick footsteps came, and as Durham turned his eyes he saw, looking down at him, with her hair flying loose, her cheeks white, and her eyes wild with excitement, Nora Burke.

"What has happened? What does it mean?" she said slowly. "Patsy, get a knife and—no, let me."

She reached and caught hold of the cord tied round Durham's legs.

"Get a knife, Patsy. It is too tight to untie."

Obedient, the old man brought her the table-knife Durham had used at his supper, and with it she cut through some of the cords.

"Can you move now? Oh, it's a gag they put on you!" she exclaimed, as she leaned over him and cut the thong which held the muffler so securely across his mouth.

"Free my arm, and give me the knife," he said, as soon as he could speak. "I will cut quicker."

She placed the knife in his hand when she had slipped the cord twined round his arm. He could scarcely close his fingers on it, so stiff had they become, and he fumbled clumsily before he had cut himself free. Then he rose to his feet and stood unsteadily.

Patsy had vanished; Mrs. Burke watched him from the shadow at the side of the window.

"You saw them?" he exclaimed. "It was you who fired?"

Before she could answer his eye caught sight of something white lying by the chair. He stooped and picked it up. It was what had been used to muffle his cries, and he saw it was a handkerchief.

Instinctively he opened it out, stepped into the full glare of the light and ran his eyes along the edge. At one corner a name, boldly written, showed clear.

"Charles N. Eustace."

He could not repress an exclamation as he read the name.

"What is it?" she cried, as she came over to him.

She gripped his arm as she also read the name.

"Eustace!" she cried. "Eustace—then it was he who——"

She stopped abruptly, staring at him.

"Did you recognise him?" he asked.

"It was dark—I only saw them against the sky. They had their backs to me as they rode off. I mean it was Eustace who robbed the bank."

"When did you come to that conclusion?"

"I said so at first—I told Brennan. Why did you not arrest him? I told Brennan to go in and arrest him when I left, before you arrived."

"Brennan went to do so, Mrs. Burke."

"Then—how could Eustace be here to-night if Brennan arrested him?"

"Brennan did not arrest him. By the time he reached the dining-room at the bank it was empty. Eustace had disappeared. This handkerchief is the first token of him that has come to light since you saw him."

"Disappeared?"

Her eyes opened to their utmost as she uttered the word. It was as though she could speak nothing more, for she stood staring, her clasped hands pressed to her bosom, her dishevelled hair flowing in great masses and framing her face with its dark folds.

"Disappeared—until to-night," he said. "This handkerchief completes the chain of circumstances which points to Eustace as the person mainly concerned in the robbery."

"How sad, oh, how sad, for his poor wife," she exclaimed. "Why is it, Mr. Durham, that the woman always has to suffer while the man goes free?"

"The man will not go free. There is a net spread for him he cannot possibly escape. Tell me, which way did they ride?"

"You are not going after them? You must not do that—you must not face that risk."

"Risk is the pastime of my life, Mrs. Burke. But in this there is no risk. I shall follow their tracks until I find where they are hiding."

"No, no! You must not go. They will hear you coming; they will see you and then—think! You, who have only just escaped them! What mercy would they show?"

"The mercy I would show them," he answered fiercely. "They have stolen the revolver from my belt. Will you lend me the one you have?"

"It is the only one I have. What shall I do if they come back and I am without it?"

"Then I must go without."

He moved away, but before he had gone two steps she was at his side, her hand on his arm, her face turned appealingly to him.

"No, you must not! Mr. Durham, I ask you. Don't go. You may be throwing your life away. They may come back. Don't leave me alone in the place. Don't, please don't. For my sake, for my sake, stay till it is light."

Gently he took her hand in his and lifted it from his arm.

"You who have been so brave to-night, would not have me show cowardice," he said softly. "These scoundrels must not remain at large a moment longer than we can help. There is more now at stake than the bank's money—I shall not rest till they are captured, for only then shall I feel you are safe."

"But you must not go now."

Her disengaged hand was laid gently, caressingly, on his shoulders; her face, showing white amid the tumbled mass of her tresses, was close to his, so close he could feel the faint fanning of her breath and catch the subtle perfume from her hair. The fingers of the hand he held gripped his in a clinging, lingering clasp; the hand on his shoulder pressed firmer; she leaned against him.

"You must not go—you must not—for my sake," she murmured.

The head drooped till the tumbled tresses met the caressing hand; one pale cheek was so close to his he had but to bend his head to touch it with his lips. His arm slipped round her, drawing her soft, yielding form yet closer to him, and over him there swept a wave of emotion which in another moment had carried him away upon its crest, away from duty, away from the prosaic material world, away from everything but the woman he held.

"You must not say that," he said hoarsely. "You must not. You are the last who should try to turn me from my duty."

"Oh, but I cannot—I cannot let you go—it may be to your death. Wait till day comes," she answered. "There are horses in the paddock. Patsy can fetch you one. If you go now you will only wander aimlessly in the dark while they may turn upon you, if they do not get farther and farther away. Stay till the dawn."

"It will not be dawn for many hours."

"Why, what time do you think it is? It is nearly four."

Nearly four! Then he had slept right through the night so soundly that on waking he thought he had only dozed.

"You will not go? Tell me you will not go?" she whispered, and he felt her hands touch him lightly.

He drew back, fearful lest her fascination again overmastered him.

"Show me which way they went," he said brusquely, as he walked to the steps leading down from the verandah.

As he reached them he turned. Mrs. Burke had drawn back into the shadow beyond the open window.

"Will you show me which way they went?" he repeated.

He saw her hide her face in her hands, and the sound of a choked sob came to him. In a moment he was at her side.

She shrank to the wall as he approached, raising her head and shaking back the loose locks which streamed across her face.

"Go!" she exclaimed. "Go! Leave me! What am I that you should care? Only a poor, weak, sad, and lonely woman. Forget——"

"Do not say that," he answered quickly, his voice vibrating with passion. "You—you do not know—I would give my life——"

"I will not give you cause to say I kept you from your duty, Mr. Durham," she went on. "Forget my weakness. I promise you it shall never occur again."

She slipped past him and stood for a moment at the window, just long enough to flash one look of resentment at him before she passed into the room and extinguished the lamp.



CHAPTER VIII

THE NOTE THAT FAILED

When Durham, having walked in from Waroona Downs, arrived at the bank, he found the township in a state of excitement bordering on panic.

The noise of the firing during the night had brought everyone who was awake at the time rushing to the scene. Men had mounted their horses and raced away in the direction the fugitives were supposed to have taken, returning hours afterwards with the information that no trace of them could be discovered, beyond the prints of their horses' hoofs, here and there, right up to the line of rocky rises which formed the commencement of the range.

Durham brushed aside the volley of questions directed at him as to how it came about that he had returned on foot. Passing into the bank he asked Harding to come with him into the manager's office, and told Brennan to clear everyone else out of the building.

As soon as he had heard Harding's account of what had happened, he produced the handkerchief bearing Eustace's name.

"Can you identify that?" he asked. "It is marked, but I want to know if you can recognise it apart from the name it bears?"

"It is like the handkerchiefs I use," Harding answered, as he pulled one out of his pocket. "Eustace and I ordered some to be sent up, and we divided them, taking half each."

"Did you mark them?"

"Mrs. Eustace did that for us. Is the name on this?"

He turned it round until he saw the name.

"Yes, that is one of Eustace's," he said.

"What time do you think it was when you saw that man's face at the window?" Durham inquired.

"Between half-past nine and ten—nearer ten probably."

"Was the face familiar?"

"It was, but I cannot recall where I have seen it before. It struck me as being a familiar face disguised. It was not Eustace's."

"You feel sure of that?"

"I'm quite sure. I wish you had been here to have seen it."

"I did see it."

"But you were at Waroona Downs."

"So I was. It was there I saw it. That man and his companion stuck the house up. I was asleep on the verandah and they must have crept on me, for when I awakened I was bound hand and foot. The man you describe was standing in front of me. When I attempted to shout to warn Mrs. Burke, a handkerchief was pressed over my mouth and tied by someone who kept behind me. That is the handkerchief which was used. Who would you say tied it?"

"I should suspect Eustace, of course; or do you think the man with the beard was Eustace?"

Durham shook his head.

"No," he said. "The description I have of Eustace does not agree at all with the build and general appearance of that man. If Eustace were there at the time he must have kept behind me. Is Mrs. Burke a woman who talks much?"

"Talks? She does nothing else. She tells everyone everything."

"Then it is no use my trying to keep this episode of the handkerchief quiet?"

"Not if she knows anything about it. She will tell everyone about it directly she comes to the township."

"Oh, she knows about it. She is a plucky woman. She drove them off, firing at them; then she discovered me on the verandah and nearly shot me into the bargain. When I was set free this handkerchief was on the verandah and she saw it as soon as I picked it up."

"Then everyone in the township will hear about it," Harding said. "She is to come in this afternoon to meet Mr. Wallace."

"When is he due?"

"About noon he ought to be here."

"Then I'll ride out and meet him," Durham said shortly. "Is there anyone in particular who was with the crowd last night to whom I can go for further information?"

"Mr. Gale was one."

"I'll see him," Durham said, and left the bank, finding Gale in the street discussing the latest raid with half a dozen other men of the town. He left them at once and came over to the sub-inspector.

"Look here, it's no use wasting more time," he exclaimed warmly. "We all say there is only one thing to be done if those scoundrels are to be caught. We must scour the ranges. I'll volunteer and so will everyone else in the place. The only hope is to ride them down."

"Quite useless," Durham replied curtly.

"It's the only course to adopt," Gale retorted. "We're all bushmen here and know what's the proper thing to do. You can't apply town methods to bush-rangers, you know. You may be the smartest man in the force at catching city burglars and spielers, but you are out of your element in the bush. There's only one thing to be done—track them down."

"How many are there?"

"Well, two for certain—probably more."

"Probably more—exactly. And most probably one or other of the remainder is in the town acting as a spy for the others. If that is so, what will happen when you set out in force? Everyone would volunteer, as you say, and one of the number would give warning of what was being done. What chance would there be then of making a capture? You tried last night. What was the result?"

"We found their tracks."

"Then why didn't you follow them?"

"Because with the crowd riding all over the ground we lost them, and——"

"Just so," Durham interrupted. "It is what would happen again if your suggestion were carried out. This is a one man's job, Mr. Gale. Directly I want assistance I will come to you, but in the meantime I must ask you to keep your fellow-townsmen from interfering."

He went on to the police-station, leaving Gale to convey his refusal of assistance to the men who were keen on taking the matter into their own hands. The refusal was received with open resentment and the group moved towards the station to argue the matter out with the sub-inspector, but before they reached it Durham rode out of the yard and set his horse to a gallop along the road leading to the railway.

"It's all right, boys, he's got a clue," one of the men exclaimed scornfully. "He's going to catch them at the junction!"

"Give him a cheer for luck," another cried, and the ironical shout reached Durham as he galloped. But he paid no heed to it, riding on steadily till he was away from the town and some miles along the road when he saw, coming towards him, a pair-horse buggy accompanied by a couple of mounted troopers. As they came nearer he recognised Wallace in the buggy. The troopers drew to the side of the track as he reined in beside the vehicle.

"Come back along the road a bit," he exclaimed, as he got off his horse and gave the bridle to one of the troopers.

"Why are these troopers with you?" he asked when he and Wallace had walked out of hearing.

"I have close on thirty thousand pounds in the buggy. I have had to bring with me not only sufficient funds to enable the bank to carry on its ordinary business, but a further twenty-five thousand in gold to carry through the purchase of Waroona Downs from Mr. Dudgeon."

"Why is it necessary for all this gold to be used? I did not care to ask Mr. Harding, but if it is not a bank secret——"

"Oh, it is no secret," Wallace exclaimed. "Mr. Dudgeon had a quarrel with the bank some time since, and, in addition to giving himself a great deal of unnecessary trouble, he delights in making everything we have to do with him as unpleasant and difficult as possible. Any payments we have to make to him have to be made in gold. He is legally entitled to demand it, and he avails himself of his right to the utmost. That is why I have had to push through with the amount so as to be able to complete Mrs. Burke's purchase to-day. As we were not anxious to lose another twenty-five thousand, we obtained an escort from head-quarters, but I fancy the men have to return to-night."

"Eustace would know this second amount would have to be sent up?"

"Of course he would."

"And the presence of your escort would announce to him or his spies, assuming that he is concerned in the robbery, that you have it with you?"

"Naturally; but the risk was more than the general manager would allow for me to travel with it unless I had police protection."

"You expect to pay it out this afternoon?"

"I anticipate Dudgeon will be at the bank clamouring for it, under threat of crying off the sale, by the time I get there. The first thing I shall most probably do is to pay it over."

"So that it will soon be out of the bank, and the bank's interest in it will have ceased."

"Exactly," Wallace replied. "Mr. Dudgeon, who refuses to act through the bank, will have the pleasure of providing his own strong-room for its safe keeping."

"Eustace would know that too?"

"Certainly."

"Then you will have to send one or both of those troopers with Mr. Dudgeon; otherwise he will be robbed to-night. It would certainly be the last thing necessary to identify Eustace with the robbery at the bank, but there is already enough to prove that, to my mind. Your duty ceases when you have handed this sum over, but there mine begins."

"I intend to suggest to Mr. Dudgeon the advisability of his having police protection while the gold is in his possession, in view of what has already occurred. But I am quite sure that the suggestion will be treated with contempt."

"Tell me where Mr. Dudgeon lives."

"He has another station on the opposite side of the township to Waroona Downs, about ten miles out. He wants to sell that, too, and I don't mind saying we all hope he will soon find a purchaser."

"How many men has he there?"

"Oh, he sold off all his stock from both places and discharged his hands some months ago. He might have a couple of men about the place, but not any more, I should say."

"Well, try and persuade him to take the escort. If he will not, send the men out to the station to-night. I shall probably be there by the time they arrive, but you need not mention this to them. Give the impression, if you can, that I am on my way to Wyalla, and don't be surprised if I take you unawares any time between this and noon to-morrow."

"I'm never surprised at anything you do, Durham," Wallace retorted grimly. "We're quite satisfied the money will be recovered if head-quarters leave you alone."

"I hope so—I can't say more," Durham said.

"But I can," Wallace continued. "It's in confidence, of course, but the directors have decided that in the event of your recovering this money they will present you with five thousand. I don't suppose that will make you work any harder, but it may interest you to know it."

Durham rode at a slower pace when he had parted with Wallace than when he came out of the township. The news that a fifth of the missing money would be his when he recovered it gave him a far greater incentive than Wallace anticipated. With five thousand pounds behind him he knew his prospects of winning the woman who had fascinated him would be much greater than if he had only his official salary as a financial backing to his suit. Further, if he succeeded in recovering the gold he would also recover the stolen documents. He had little doubt but what he would be able to woo her successfully, were he able to return to her the papers which had been stolen and go to her with his freshly won laurels of victory.

A mile down the road he turned his horse into the bush and rode straight for the range which rose between the township and Waroona Downs. Skirting the flanking spurs, he followed on until he caught sight of the tracks left by the horsemen who had ridden after the fugitives the night before. In their haste and lack of system, he saw how they had crossed and recrossed the marks left by the riders they were chasing. He walked his horse to and fro until he came upon the tracks of the two horses showing clear beyond the jumbled confusion of hoof-prints the amateur trackers had made.

The two had ridden direct to the range. As he followed the track, bending down in his saddle to note the marks, he laughed aloud. The men were the veriest fools at bush-craft. There were instances by the dozen which revealed to him the fact that neither had had any experience in tracking, and so had failed to avail themselves of the chances the ground they had ridden over offered to render their track difficult to follow. Where the ground was soft, they had not swerved to avoid it, but had left the prints of their horses' hoofs showing so clearly that to the skilled bushman it was as an open book he could read as he rode. Where low-growing shrubs stood in their way they had crashed through, sometimes setting their horses to jump what should have been ridden round. Everywhere the same thing was manifest. The riders were not bushmen; they were in a great hurry; they were in country with which they were not acquainted, and were hastening towards some landmark that would bring them to a locality where they would be more at their ease.

As he followed the track, he sat back in his saddle. There was no need to study the ground when he could see the hoof-prints showing right ahead. So it was that he saw what those other riders had failed to distinguish in the half light of the moon. There was a sudden dip in the surface, a shallow depression sloping down to a little stream. Riding, as they must have been riding, at a full gallop, it was a trap for an unsteady horse and one of the horses was unsteady, for it had propped at the brow of the slope, slipped, and come down on its knees, pitching its rider clear over its head.

The spot where he fell was still distinguishable by the bent and broken herbage and his heels had scored the ground as he scrambled to his feet, caught his horse, and hastily remounted. He had been in a great hurry and so had his companion, for there was no break in the tracks of the second horse—the other man had ridden on without a moment's halt, had ridden past his fallen companion and left him to do the best he could for himself. All this was plain at one glance. Again Durham laughed aloud at the folly of the pair, as he reined in his horse and sprang from the saddle.

In his fall the fugitive rider had dropped something. It lay white on the ground just beyond the mark he had made in falling. Durham picked it up—a closed, unaddressed envelope bearing the bank's impress on the flap.

He tore it open. Inside was a sheet of paper with the bank's heading, but undated.

"No one saw me go, and I am safe now where they will never find me. Stay there till you hear from me again. A friend will bring you word. Ask no questions, but send your answer as directed. You must do everything as arranged, or all is lost. Whatever you do, don't leave till I send you word. I am safe till the storm blows over.—C."

As Durham read the words, written in pencil and obviously in haste, he was satisfied that his suspicion not only of Eustace, but of Mrs. Eustace, was correct. The man with the yellow beard whom he himself had seen, was possibly the "friend," through whom communication was to be maintained between husband and wife. He and Eustace had evidently ridden in during the evening with the intention of advising Mrs. Eustace of the successful flight of her husband. Hesitating to approach the bank, until he was certain the way was clear, Eustace had given the note to his companion to deliver. Harding's vision of the face at the window completed the picture. The man had crept up to the window of the room where it was probably arranged Mrs. Eustace was to wait. So long as any other person who might have been in the room occupied the chair Mrs. Eustace placed, the shadow on the blind would warn the visitor that the coast was not clear. It was due to the fact that Harding had noticed the shadow and had moved to another chair that the man had so nearly been captured.

What had followed was equally clear to Durham's mind.

Directly he found he was discovered the man had run to his horse and, together with his companion, had galloped off, too quickly to allow him either to explain how he had failed to deliver the message or to hand it back to Eustace. It was most probably he who had come down with his horse at the edge of the depression, by which time the letter would have passed completely from his mind and so he would not notice its loss. Under the circumstances it was very unlikely he would tell the truth to his companion, but would rather leave Eustace under the impression that the letter had been put where Mrs. Eustace would find it. Sooner or later, therefore, Eustace would make another attempt to communicate with his wife. If he were not captured otherwise there would be every hope of securing him by keeping a close watch upon her.

With the letter in his pocket Durham remounted his horse and continued to follow the track. It led him into the broken country which formed the outlying spurs of the range, and continued along a narrow depression lying between two ridges. The trees grew closer together in the shelter of the little valley, and the track turned at right angles and continued up the side of one of the ridges.

The surface became more rocky and Durham had to watch closely for the hoof-prints as he gradually ascended to the top. For a time the track ran along the summit and then turned down the other slope, following the course of what, in the rainy season, would be a small rivulet. This again turned where it met the bed of a larger stream and Durham set his horse at a canter as he saw, distinct as a road, the marks left by the runaways right along the bed of the stream.

As he went he worked out the direction in which he was travelling; the stream he was following was evidently one which fed the watercourse crossing the road in the range. It turned and twisted in and out small flanking spurs, down the sides of which other streams had cut narrow scars, now as dry as the stream-bed along which he was riding, but which, in the time of the rains, would be roaring little torrents adding their quota to that great pool dammed back by the mountain road.

Suddenly the creek took a sharp turn round a jutting bluff, and as he passed beyond it he reined in his horse. Scarce twenty yards in front was a sheet of water, its surface, without a ripple, reflecting the tree-clad slopes that encompassed it. In the sand of the stream-bed the track was so strong it might have been made only a few hours ago.

He rode warily to the water's edge. The pool stretched on both sides away into the hills, but it was not that which made him rein in his horse and sit motionless.

Along the margin of the pool there was a strip of sandy soil. It extended to the right and to the left of the creek-mouth. Upon it the marks both of wheels and hoof-prints showed.

The tracks he had been following swung sharp to the right; the wheel-marks came from the left, crossed the creek-bed and continued to the right.

His first impulse was to spur his horse along the track to the right, see where it led, and then return along it to the left, but the twenty-five thousand pounds to be paid to Dudgeon would be at the mercy of the marauders, if, as Wallace anticipated, the old man refused police protection.

Great as the temptation was to learn where the track led and whence it came, Durham set his face against it.

He had stumbled on a clue, but the following it up was not for that day. Later he would return and complete his discovery. For the present he must leave it.

There was a long ride before him if he were to reach Dudgeon's homestead at Taloona by sunset. That Eustace was one of the two men concerned in the robbery of the bank he had now no doubt. The question he had to consider was who the other man was. At the back of his mind there was a lurking suspicion that the owner of Taloona might possess information on the subject if he could be induced or inveigled to reveal it.

He glanced regretfully in the direction the tracks led. He would have preferred to follow them to the end, but after all he might get nearer the solution of the problem by a visit to Taloona.



CHAPTER IX

DUDGEON'S HOSPITALITY

Within half an hour of Wallace's arrival at the bank Dudgeon drove up.

He scrambled out of his rackety old buggy and stamped into the place, passing direct into the little room Eustace had used as a private office, where, by the chance of circumstances, he came face to face with Mrs. Burke.

His keen, grey, hawk-like eyes flashed an envenomed look at her, and were met by a glance not one whit less steadfast. For a moment he stood, his shaggy white brows meeting in a scowl as he found himself confronted by one who even to his distorted vision possessed a charm of face and figure such as he had not seen since the days of Kitty Lambton.

Something in the eyes which met his touched a chord of memory long suppressed. So Kitty had looked when he met her for the first time after her flight with O'Guire; so she had looked the last time he had seen her when she had pleaded for mercy to her dying parents and he had taunted her and mocked her till she turned and left him with curses as deep-voiced as any he himself could have uttered.

"This is Mrs. Burke, the purchaser of Waroona Downs, Mr. Dudgeon," he heard, and faced round on the speaker, turning his back upon her.

"Who are you?" he blurted out.

"I am the officer in charge of the bank for the time being," Wallace replied suavely.

"Where's Eustace? He's the only man I know in the matter."

"He is not here at present, Mr. Dudgeon. But that need not concern you. I assume you have come to complete the sale of——"

"I only know Eustace. I'm prepared to deal with him—I don't know you and don't want to."

"Unfortunately Mr. Eustace cannot be present. But I am in his place. I arrived from the head office this morning with the gold you demand as payment for the sale of Waroona Downs. You may have noticed it as you came in—the bags are on the counter in charge of the police escort."

"But where's Eustace? That's what I want to know."

He looked from Wallace to Harding savagely.

"If you are prepared to sign the transfer, Mr. Dudgeon, we can proceed with the business," Wallace replied. "Mrs. Burke is waiting."

Dudgeon glanced at her covertly.

She was standing, as she stood throughout the subsequent proceedings, a silent spectator, irritating him by the mere fact that she was so absolutely impassive. When the time came for her to sign the formal documents which made Waroona Downs hers, Wallace placed a chair at the table; but she ignored it, bending down gracefully as she signed her name in beautifully flowing characters.

Old Dudgeon's hands, knotted and stiff with many a day's toil, were not familiar with the pen. As he laboured with the coarse, splodgy strokes which ranked as his signature, the sight of the delicate curves of the letters she had made fanned the flame of his wrath still higher. He also stood to sign, not because she had done so, but because he scorned to use a chair which belonged to his enemies. When he drew back from the table he saw how she had been standing almost behind him, looking over his shoulder as he wrote. A smile which he read as a sign of derision was on her lips and in her eyes.

He kicked the chair viciously towards her.

"Why don't you sit down, woman?" he exclaimed.

"Because I prefer to stand—man," she replied.

It was the first time he had heard her voice, and he started at the sound, wincing as, with one quick, furtive glance, he met her eyes again.

"Is that all you want?" he asked Wallace abruptly.

"Thank you, Mr. Dudgeon, that is all. Will you take the gold with you, or leave it for safety in the bank?"

"Leave it at the bank, eh?" he sneered. "No, thank you, Mr. Wallace, I trust you as far as I trust your bank, and you know how far that is without my telling you."

"Very good, Mr. Dudgeon. Will you watch it while it is being carried to your buggy? There are two troopers here who have acted as my escort from the head office. If you care to take them with you as a protection——"

"I want neither you nor your troopers," Dudgeon snarled. "I can take care of myself and my money, too, without anyone's help."

He watched, with undisguised suspicion, while the counted piles of sovereigns were replaced in the bags, while the bags were carried away and stacked in the rackety old vehicle. Then, when the tally was complete, he walked out of the bank, climbed into the buggy, gathered up the reins and drove away without a word or a glance for anyone.

The bitterness of defeat was rankling in him, the defeat of his lifelong determination that never, while he was on the earth to prevent it, should a woman live where his faith in the sex had been wrecked. It was bitter to think how he had been foiled after all by a woman, but still more so when the woman was of such a type as the one who had outwitted him. It was a new experience for him to be beaten at his own game, still a newer experience to find himself remembering the one by whom he was beaten as he was remembering the woman whose voice, despite his surly antagonism, rang in his ears with a melody which was as the song of a syren. Each time he had measured swords with her she had triumphed—just as, in the far-off days, Kitty Lambton had triumphed.

Kitty Lambton!

He pulled himself up short as the name passed through his mind. Why should he recall her now as Kitty Lambton when she had ceased to be that the day she left Waroona Downs with O'Guire? Why should this resolute woman recall her as Kitty Lambton and not as Kitty O'Guire?

As he drove along the lonely bush track which led to Taloona, his mind drifted across the years to the time when first he had come to the district, to the time when Kitty Lambton stood for him for all that was noble and generous and pure in life; when he was content to work the livelong day with a light heart and happy mind, satisfied with the reward of her presence when his day's work was done. For a mile or so of the journey he strove to nurse his resentment against this clear-eyed woman whose raven black hair was in such absolute contrast to the flaxen locks of the vanished Kitty, but whose voice had caused the intrusion of these bygone memories into his waking thoughts. But gradually, unconsciously, the long-suppressed recollections of the girl who had charmed his youthful fancies took possession of him.

Hitherto, whenever he had remembered her, it was with bitterness and anger; but now his mind was as free from anger as though the cause for it had never existed. It was the time when Kitty was the charmer which had come to him, the time when the gnawing anguish of betrayal was unknown, and slowly there obtruded itself upon him a dim, shadowy, speculating wonder as to all which might have been had she never changed for him from the charmer to the betrayer.

But he was not used to introspective analysis, and the efforts to grapple with the subtleties of his own subconscious memories brought a tendency to his mind to lose the clear-cut edge of a fact in a blur of misty vision. No longer did the memory of Nora Burke irritate him. Had he associated her with Kitty the betrayer, the irritation would never have passed; but as it was Kitty the charmer her voice brought to him, he drifted, in the sere and yellow age, down the stream of fantasy upon which he had turned his back in scorn when the blood of youth ran in his veins.

For miles the road slipped by unnoticed and unheeded as the old horse stumbled on at his own pace, unguided by the hand that held the reins. The breath of life had sought to fan the withered soul, but only one small spark, deep-smothered by the dead mass of loveless years, smouldered weakly where the record of a long life filled with human sympathy should have blazed in answer. The gold for which he had striven lay forgotten at his feet; the hate which he had nurtured passed, a vapid filmy shade, as the withered soul shrank shivering, chilled at the void the one poor spark revealed.

The sight of his solitary hut, glowing in the warm mellow light of the evening sun, broke in upon a reverie so deep he could never recall all that it had contained.

A horse hitched to one of the verandah posts, against which a man in uniform was leaning, brought him back to the world of reality with a shock. The hawk-like eyes gleamed as suspicion flashed through his brain. Had Wallace, despite his refusal, sent the troopers after him? The whip-lash fell viciously across the horse's back and the old rackety buggy rattled as Dudgeon finished his drive at a canter.

"Well, what do you want?" he cried, as he pulled up opposite his door.

Durham glanced from the stern, hard face of the man to the pile of money-bags clustered round his feet on the floor of the buggy, and over which he had not even taken the trouble to throw a rug.

"I am a sub-inspector of police—Durham is my name——"

"Durham?" the old man exclaimed. "Are you the man who rode down Parker, the cattle thief, when he was making off with a mob of imported prize stock?"

"I arrested Parker—a couple of years ago."

Dudgeon leant forward and held out his hand.

"I'm proud to meet you, my lad. That mob of cattle belonged to me. You saved me a few thousands over that job of yours. I'm much obliged to you. I hoped to meet you some day so as to thank you."

"I don't remember your name in the case," Durham said.

"No, my lad, there was no need for me to appear. It was a Government affair to prosecute Parker. Why should I pay money away for the Government? Look at the anxiety and loss of time I had to put up with. Nobody offered to make that good."

"But you got your cattle?"

"Well, they were mine—I paid for them. But that's all right. I'm much obliged to you for the trouble you took to catch the scoundrel—ten years I think he got? He ought to have been hanged. I'd have hanged him if I had been the judge. What are you after now? After more cattle-stealers?"

"Not this time. I'm on my way to Waroona; but I've been travelling all day and my horse is a bit knocked up. Can I turn him into one of your paddocks for the night?"

"Grass is worth money these times," the old man said slowly. "I suppose the Government will pay me for the use of the paddock, won't they?"

"You can demand it, of course, if you care to," Durham replied.

"And where are you going to camp? You'll want a feed, I suppose?"

"I reckoned I could get one here."

"Oh, you can get one here all right. There's no luxury about the place. I'm a poor man and just carry enough stores to keep me going. There's only me about the place now, so you'll have to do your own cooking; but you'll find it as comfortable as any bush pub, and cheaper, for there's no drink to be had, and half a crown for your supper and bed won't hurt you. You can take it or leave it—I'm not particular."

He climbed out of the buggy and began unharnessing the horse.

"You have heard of the robbery at the bank, I suppose, Mr. Dudgeon?" Durham asked.

"Heard of what?"

He stood up with his hand still on the buckle he was unfastening.

"The robbery at the bank. I thought everyone in the district had heard of it."

The old man remained without moving, his eyes fixed on Durham.

"Haven't heard a word. What's the yarn?"

"The bank was robbed yesterday—all the money taken, including the gold which had been sent up to pay you for Waroona Downs. Soon after the robbery, Eustace, the manager, disappeared."

"Then who's Wallace?"

"He is one of the officials from the head office."

"But he had the money ready to pay me. How could that be if——"

"He arrived with it to-day—he was expected about noon, I believe."

Dudgeon let go the buckle and took two slow, deliberate steps nearer Durham.

"Brought it with him?" he exclaimed. "And only arrived about noon?"

"About that, I believe," Durham replied.

The old man snatched the hat from his head and flung it on the ground.

"Sold! by God! Sold!" he yelled. "If I'd been there before that chap arrived, I'd have beaten them—they couldn't have paid, and I'd have cried off the deal. Why didn't you come and tell me earlier? What's the good of your coming here now?"

"Don't you think it rather risky to drive through the bush with a pile of money like that in your buggy while those bank robbers are still at liberty?" Durham said quietly.

Dudgeon stood back and looked at him quizzically.

"Oh, you're on it too, are you? That's your game, is it? Well, see here, my lad, anyone who can take this money without my knowing it is welcome to it. Do you understand?"

He resumed his work of unharnessing the horse, leading it away, as soon as it was clear of the shafts, to a lean-to shed at the side of the hut where he hung up the harness and turned the horse free.

"Well, how about that half-crown? Are you going to stay, or aren't you? Government won't pay that, you know. You find your own tucker, my lad."

"I wish to stay here to-night," Durham answered.

"Then chuck over the cash."

It was obvious that if Durham wished to stay, he would have to pay, so without further demur he passed over the amount Dudgeon demanded for his supper and bed.

"Now we start fair," the old man said, as he put the money in his pocket. "I'm under no obligation to you and you're under no obligation to me. That is what I call trading square."

He unlocked the door and flung it open.

"You'll find some cold meat and bread on the shelf, and there's tea in the canister over the fire-place. You'll have to fetch what water you want from the tank."

As Durham entered the hut, Dudgeon went to the buggy and lifted one of the bags of gold in his arms, carrying it inside.

The hut was a small and unpretentious structure. The door opened directly into the living-room, to which there was only one small window looking out on the verandah. A second door led into a small kitchen, off which opened another small room used by Dudgeon for sleeping.

With the bag of gold in his arms he stood in the doorway.

"You'll have to sleep on that stretcher over there," he said, nodding to a rough framework of untrimmed saplings with a length of coarse canvas fastened across. "You won't be cold. Keep a good fire on. You'll find an axe in the harness shed if you want to get any wood."

He passed on through the second door and Durham set about lighting the fire. As he did so, Dudgeon made journeys to and fro, coming from the back of the hut empty-handed and returning from the buggy with a bag of gold in his arms until he had carried all the twenty-five thousand pounds in. By that time the fire was alight, and Durham went out to turn his horse loose. He returned by way of the harness shed, took the axe and went to the back of the hut to cut some wood for the night. As he turned the corner, he saw old Dudgeon with a spade in his hand, entering the hut by the back door.

"Ah, that's good," the old man exclaimed, when Durham entered the living-room with an armful of cut wood. "That'll last the night through. I see you made the tea, so I had mine as I was wanting a feed. You'll have to boil some more water—there was only enough for one in the first lot you made."

"I made that tea for myself, Mr. Dudgeon," Durham exclaimed.

"Well, make some more. There's plenty of water in the tank—I won't charge you any more for using the can twice, though every time it's put on the fire means so much less life for it."

Durham swung round in heat.

"You're the meanest man on the face of the earth," he cried.

Dudgeon looked at him with his shaggy brows almost obscuring the cold, hawk-like eyes.

"If you hadn't paid me for your grub and a camp, I'd turn you out of the place," he snarled. "You've no more gratitude for kindness than a black fellow."

Durham bit back the angry retort which rose to his lips. Little wonder the bank people were so indifferent to the old man's safety; little wonder no one had troubled to bring him news of the incident which formed the main item of gossip from end to end of the district. If this was the way he treated a visitor who paid, and paid dearly, for his board and bed, how, Durham asked himself, would he treat an ordinary guest?

But he held his peace, refilled the can with water and set it to boil, Dudgeon sitting in the one chair the room contained, as he stolidly cut a pipeful of tobacco.

When the water boiled, Durham made a second brew of tea and took his seat on a stool which was by the table. He helped himself to bread and meat and commenced his meal, but never a word did Dudgeon speak. He sat placidly smoking, his eyes on the smouldering embers of the fire, without as much as a glance in the direction of his visitor.

The sun went down and the interior of the hut grew gloomy.

"Haven't you a lamp?" Durham asked. "I cannot see what I am eating."

"Make the fire up—that's good enough for me," Dudgeon replied without raising his head.

On the shelf over the fire-place Durham had noticed a kerosene lamp, a cheap, rickety article with a clear-glass bowl half-full of oil. He rose from the stool, reached for the lamp, put it on the table and lit it.

"Here, that oil costs money," Dudgeon snarled as he looked round. "Half a crown won't cover luxuries—you'll pass over another bob if you're going to waste my oil."

Durham resumed his seat without heeding.

"Do you hear?" Dudgeon exclaimed. "If you ain't going to pay, you ain't going——"

He stood up as he spoke, stood up and took a step towards the table with one hand outstretched to lift away the lamp.

Durham, looking round as he moved, saw his eyes suddenly open wide and stare fixedly at the door.

At the same moment a voice rang through the room.

"Hands up, or you're dead men!"

Springing to his feet Durham faced towards the door.

Standing in it were two figures, one the yellow-bearded man he had seen at Waroona Downs, the other a man of slighter build whose face was entirely concealed by a handkerchief hanging from under his hat and gathered in at the throat, with two holes burned for the eyes. Each man held a revolver, the masked man covering Durham, the bearded man covering Dudgeon.

"Hands up!"

There was the sharp ring in the voice which betokens the strain of a deadly determination. The eyes which glanced along the sights of the levelled weapon, aimed direct at Durham's head, were merciless and hard. Unless they were the last words he was ever to hear, Durham realised there was only one course open. He raised his hands above his head. A side glance showed him Dudgeon standing with his arms up.

"Turn your back, and put your hands behind you," he heard the bearded man say, and Dudgeon shuffled round.

A double click followed, a familiar sound to Durham—the click of snapping handcuffs.

"Now, Mr. Detective, it's your turn," he heard the man say. "Put your hands behind you."

The eyes behind the mask wandered for an instant from their aim to glance at the shackled Dudgeon.

On that instant Durham acted.

Straight at the face of the man beside him he hit, and as his clenched fist came in contact with the bearded face, he ducked.

A shrill cry came from the man he had struck, almost simultaneously with the report of a revolver-shot.

Durham heard a scream of pain from Dudgeon, but before he could know more there was a crashing blow on his head, and he fell senseless to the floor.



CHAPTER X

"FOOLED"

In the dining-room of the bank Wallace, Harding, and Mrs. Eustace sat.

"I have no alternative," Wallace said. "My instructions are peremptory on the subject. If, after investigation, I considered the suspicion against your husband as well founded, I was to request you to leave the bank premises without delay."

"You believe my husband stole that money?"

"I believe your husband stole that money, Mrs. Eustace."

"You may live to change your opinion, Mr. Wallace. My husband is as innocent as I am. He has acted precipitately, I admit, and more than foolishly in going away as he has done; but that does not prove him guilty."

"I am afraid I cannot discuss the question with you," Wallace replied evenly. "I can only carry out my instructions. I have told you what they are, and what my opinion is. I am sorry to inconvenience you, but I have no alternative."

"Do you wish me to leave at once?"

"Scarcely to-night; but I must ask you to get away as soon as you can."

For a space there was silence.

"I would like to speak to Mr. Harding, if you don't mind," she said presently.

"Then I will leave you, for I have been steadily travelling all last night and to-day till I arrived here, and shall be glad to get to bed," Wallace answered. "Any arrangement you can make, Harding, to assist Mrs. Eustace, I shall be pleased to hear about. You will quite understand, Mrs. Eustace, that in asking you to vacate the premises the bank is merely actuated by ordinary considerations and is in no way acting vindictively or harshly."

She inclined her head slightly in response, but otherwise made no sign as Wallace left the room.

For some time after he had gone she remained silent, Harding waiting for her to speak. Raising her head, she looked him steadily in the face.

"I suppose I ought to call you Mr. Harding now," she began, "but I can't, Fred, I can't."

"As you wish," he said.

There came another silence, the woman unable to trust herself to continue, the man fearing to begin.

"How life mocks one," she said, half to herself. "Surely it is punishment enough that I should have to turn to you in my distress, humiliating enough even to satisfy your desire for retribution. I do not blame you, Fred. I deserve it all. I treated you vilely."

"Is there any necessity to refer to that now?" he asked. "I told you the curtain had been rung down for ever upon that. I have no wish either to punish or humiliate you. I don't think that I have given you reason to believe that I do. If you think there has been any reason, I can only say you are mistaken."

She started impulsively to her feet and stood in front of him, holding her hands to him.

"Fred, I must say it. I cannot bear this longer. It may make you hate me—detest and despise me, but I must say it. If you had only shown resentment or anger or spite for the way in which I treated you, it would not have been so hard to bear. Oh, don't you see? Don't you understand? Oh, isn't there one scrap of pity left in you for me? I was trapped into marriage, Fred. I never loved him, never, never! He—oh, have some pity on me, Fred, some pity."

She sank into a chair and buried her face on her arms on the table as she gave way to a storm of weeping.

To the man it was agony to see her, anguish to hear her, more bitter after the confession she had made and while the grip of suspicion still held him. Scarcely knowing what he did, he stepped to her side and laid his hand gently upon her head.

"I have pity, more than pity for you, Jess," he whispered. "Don't think——" He caught his breath to check the quiver in his voice, and so remembered. "I beg your pardon—Mrs. Eustace I should have said," he added as he drew back.

With hands close clenched behind him he stood. The love he fancied he had stifled had burst through the restraint he had placed upon it; the injury she had inflicted upon him, the wrong she had done, the cause for resentment she had given him were alike forgotten. The lingering suspicion alone prevented him from taking her in his arms to soothe and comfort her in her distress. Fighting against himself he stood silent, and the woman, aching for someone on whom to lean, shivered.

"What am I to do?" she moaned. "What am I to do?"

He, thinking only of her, took the words to refer to her present difficulty.

"I think it would be better if you went away," he said gently. "I do not think it will be easier for you to bear if you are here when—should anything else come to light."

"You mean if—if he is arrested?"

"Yes."

She lifted up her head and turned a tear-stained face towards him.

"Have they found him? Have they? Is that why—why I am asked to leave the house?"

"No, Mrs. Eustace. A new manager will be appointed, and the house is wanted for him."

"But I will not leave Waroona," she exclaimed, as she stood up. "I dare not leave it—till I know. If he—suppose he did do it—and wants to find me?"

"I should advise you to go right away," Harding said, still speaking gently. "You will do no good by remaining here where everybody knows what has happened, whereas if you go away you will be able to put all the worry of it away from you."

"I will not go."

She spoke with a fierce emphasis, the more pronounced because she felt that the course he suggested was the one she ought to follow, and resenting it because, by following it, she would pass out of his sight, and perchance out of his life for all time.

"I can only advise you," he said. "The new manager may be here in a day or two, and the bank will——"

"Oh, I'm not going to stay in this house," she interrupted. "I will be out of here to-morrow; but I will not leave Waroona."

"You will make a mistake if you do not, I think, but it is for you to decide."

She sat down again, clasping and unclasping her hands in her lap.

"If I go—will you—will you write to me?"

"No, I cannot do that," he answered at once.

"May I—write to you?"

"I should be sorry if you did."

She raised her eyes and again looked at him steadily in silence, looked until he turned away.

"How hard you make it, how hard!" she said at length. "How am I to know what is happening if I go away? I am sure you are expecting his arrest. Why did those two troopers go off so mysteriously this afternoon? They did not go to the railway. I watched them from upstairs. They rode the other way."

He did not reply.

"Will you answer me this one question? Do you believe I know he is the thief?"

"If there is anything that I can do to help or assist you in your present difficulty, Mrs. Eustace, I shall be only too pleased to do it. But I cannot discuss the robbery with you."

For the first time there was a tone of sternness in his voice.

"Then I take it that you do," she said. "I only want to tell you this. I still do not believe he did it. I know he is—he is not as you are. I have tried to shield this from you. I did not want you to know—then. Now I have told you. I did not know he was going to run away. I did not know he had gone until Brennan came to arrest him. But I can understand why he went. He knew the bank would suspect him at once, knew that there was a black record against him. It was cowardly of him, cowardly to leave me here alone. But he has gone, and I do not think I shall ever hear from him or see him again. That is why I want to remain here. If I go away, I may never know; if I am here, I shall be able to find out. But don't think that I know either that he intended to run away or where he has gone. At least have that much faith in me."

"I did think so," he said quickly. "Now I do not."

"Thank you," she said softly. "I know how difficult it is for you to say even that. You cannot discuss the matter, but—don't think harder of me, Fred, than you can help."

She turned quickly and hurried from the room. She had scarcely closed the door when she reopened it.

"Constable Brennan is asking for you," she said. "Will you go in?"

She pushed the door wide open and Brennan came forward.

"Is Mr. Wallace here?" he asked, as soon as he had seen the door close.

"He has gone to bed—he is rather tired out after his journey. Is it anything particular?"

"One of the troopers has just ridden back. When they reached Taloona they found the place on fire. The sub-inspector was outside with his head smashed, and Mr. Dudgeon, with a bullet through him and his hands handcuffed behind his back, lying on the floor of the hut. They saw the glare of the fire through the trees and only galloped up just in time to get the old man out. He's in a bad way, Conlon said, and so is the sub-inspector."

"Wait till I tell Mr. Wallace," Harding exclaimed, as he rushed from the room.

Outside in the passage, Mrs. Eustace faced him.

"Fred, what is it? I heard—who is killed?"

"Nobody, I hope. I'll be back in a moment."

He dashed up to Wallace's room and hammered at the door.

"Hullo, what's the matter now?" Wallace cried, as he answered the knock.

"Come down to the dining-room. Brennan is there. One of the troopers has come back. Taloona is burnt and both Dudgeon and Durham injured."

When they reached the dining-room they found Mrs. Eustace with Brennan.

"I can be of use. I know how to nurse. I've learned how to give first aid. Let me go out and attend to them till the doctor comes. He is twenty miles away, and they may bleed to death before he can get there. I've got some bandages. I'll fetch them," Mrs. Eustace was saying.

She turned as Wallace and Harding entered.

"Tell them, Brennan, while I get the things," she added as she ran out and upstairs.

"It's wicked to think of her wasted on a scoundrel like that," Brennan exclaimed. "You heard what she said, sir? I know she's the only one in the township who understands what to do till the doctor comes. We've sent a man off for him, and they're getting a party together to go out and fetch the sub-inspector and the old man in. She's offered to go too. It may save their lives, for, from what Conlon said, they're badly hurt, both of them."

"Has the gold gone?" Wallace asked.

"I reckon so, though there's no saying until we hear what has happened. But it looks like a bad case of sticking the place up and trying to murder the inmates. Hullo, there's Mr. Gale calling. He's got his buggy. There's a seat to spare if either of you like to go."

"You'd be of more use than I should, Harding," Wallace said.

"Yes, I'll go," the younger man replied.

Mrs. Eustace came running into the room, her arms full of bottles and bandages.

"I haven't stopped to sort them out—I'll take all I've got," she exclaimed breathlessly.

"I will put them in the buggy while you get a cloak. I am coming with you," Harding said, as he took the articles from her and carried them out to Gale's buggy, which was drawn up outside the bank.

"You had better bring them here; it's quieter and more roomy than any other place in the town," Wallace said to Brennan when they were alone.

"If they can stand the journey," Brennan said under his breath. "I've told Conlon to ride back and let us know; I'll have to stay here."

"Then I'll tell Harding."

He reached the front door as Harding was returning, after having packed the things Mrs. Eustace had given him in the buggy. At the same moment Mrs. Eustace tripped down the stairs and ran across the hall.

"You had better bring them here," he began when she turned quickly towards him.

"Bring them here? Mr. Wallace, do you want to kill them? If they are badly injured it would be fatal to move them this distance. I will send word back at once, but if the doctor comes before you hear, send him on. Now, I'm ready."

She went out with Harding at her side.

"I am so glad to have you with me," she said softly. "It is good of you to come."

He helped her into the buggy without speaking, though the clinging touch of her hand thrilled him. He had known her as a light-hearted girl, full of frolicsome impulses and mischievous tricks, and had loved her with a passion that kept her ever before him. He had seen her when that love-lit image had been veiled by the gloom of seeming disillusion. He had seen her striving to sacrifice herself in order to shield the man who had blighted her life, and he had seen her as a man loves best to see the woman he reveres, throw aside the conventional reserve for him to learn the innermost secret of her heart. But never had he seen her as she appeared to him at that moment and later, when they arrived at the scene of the outrage, cool, clear-headed, capable, thinking only of the sufferings of others, cheering them with tactful sympathy, tending them with gentle care, the while her own soul was down-weighted with care and sorrow.

Throughout the ten-mile drive little was said, each one of the three instinctively refraining from all reference to the subject which was uppermost in their minds, and failing to maintain even a desultory conversation on more commonplace topics. Gale drove his pair at a hand gallop all the way till the road swerved from the straight and through the dim mystery of the starlit bush an angry red glow showed among the trees.

The last of the homestead, now an irregular heap of smouldering ashes over which stray lambent flames flickered and danced, served to shed sufficient light to show where two still figures lay under the shelter of Dudgeon's rackety old buggy, thrown over on its side. The trooper's horse, tethered to a tree, pawed the ground impatiently as it champed its bit, while its master, with a carbine on his arm, paced slowly to and fro. As the galloping pair swung into sight he faced round sharply and brought his carbine to the ready, till he recognised Harding.

"Are you the doctor? You're badly wanted," he exclaimed as Gale reined up beside him.

"Quick. Help me out," Mrs. Eustace said as Harding leaped to the ground. She ran lightly over to the two figures. Through the rough bandage the troopers had tied round Durham's head a red stain was spreading. Dudgeon lay with glittering eyes staring vacantly. His right leg was bandaged, but more than a stain showed upon it.

She knelt down beside the old man, and as with deft, quick fingers she untied the bandage, she looked up at Harding.

"Bring me that packet of cotton-wool, the little leather case, all the bandages, and the bottle with the red label, at once. Tell the trooper to fetch the others."

By the time he returned she had the handkerchief the trooper had bound round the old man's leg loosened.

"Open the case and give me the scissors," she said without a trace of excitement or nervousness in her voice.

She slipped a rent in the trouser and held the edges back, revealing a punctured wound out of which a red stream gushed. In a moment she had a wad of cotton-wool rolled and moistened it from the bottle with the red label, placing it with a firm light touch on the wound.

"While I hold this, cut the trouser leg right down," she said, and Harding, his own nerves steadied by the calmness of hers, did as she bid.

The trooper came over with the rest of the articles, and while she watched what Harding was doing she told him, quietly, how to prepare a lotion and bring it to her.

Gale came over as soon as he had secured his horses.

"Will you go down to the men's huts and see if there is a bunk where we can put him?" she said, looking quickly at Gale.

"Why didn't you think of that?" Gale exclaimed as he glanced at the trooper. "You ought to have taken them there at once."

"You had better go too," she added to the trooper. "Bring something back with you, a door or a table or anything that will do to carry him on."

Left alone with Harding, she never ceased until she had the wound stanched, cleansed, and properly bound up.

"There is brandy in that flask, Fred. Mix about a tablespoonful in three times as much water."

He brought her the stuff in a pannikin, believing it was for herself.

"Raise his head gently," she said, and slowly poured the mixture between the old man's nerveless lips.

Without a pause she turned to Durham and had the ugly wound on his scalp laid bare. Snipping the hair away from it, she lightly touched the bruised skin surrounding the jagged cut.

"I'm afraid the skull is fractured—I hope the doctor will soon be here," she whispered, as she busied herself with the cotton-wool and red-labelled bottle.

By the time she had Durham's head bandaged, Gale and the trooper returned, carrying the door from one of the huts.

"There are two huts with a single bunk in each, and one with four," Gale said.

"Use the two with the single bunks," she said. "When are the others coming from the township?"

"They're coming along the road now," the trooper answered.

"Run and see if they have any blankets with them. If not, send someone back at once for some."

But there was more than blankets in the buggy that came up at breakneck speed. By the veriest chance the doctor had been within a mile or so of Waroona and had come away at once, bringing with him such articles as he knew would be wanted. He hastened over to the two wounded men just as Dudgeon gave utterance to the first sound he had made since the troopers had dragged him out of the burning homestead.

The doctor bent over him, rapidly examining the bandage round the leg. He stood up and turned to Durham.

"Who put on those bandages?" he asked sharply, as he looked up.

"I did, doctor. I plugged the bullet-hole with an iodoform wad and stopped the bleeding. I put a pad on Mr. Durham's wound, but I fancy his skull is injured."

"Where were you going to send them?"

"There are two single-bunk huts at the men's quarters. I was going to have them taken there on that door until you came."

"We will take them there at once."

Under his directions the two were lifted and carried away to the huts and made as comfortable as was possible in the rough timber bunks. With Mrs. Eustace and Harding to assist him, he found and removed the bullet from the old man's leg and quickly operated on Durham.

"I don't know what they would say in some of the swagger hospitals, if they were asked to trepan a man's skull under these conditions," he said as the operation was finished. "But he'll pull through, and thank you, as the old man will when he knows, for saving his life. Aren't you Mrs. Eustace?"

"Yes," she answered.

"I hardly had time to notice who you were before. You're a brave woman. For your sake I hope your husband gets away."

The blood surged to her face, and then left it pallid. The shadow of her sorrow had been forgotten during the strenuous moments she had gone through; the tactless remark brought it back upon her with cruel emphasis. She turned aside and slipped through the door at the back of the hut while the doctor, oblivious to his blunder, went out at the other.

Harding was about to follow her, when one of the troopers appeared at the door through which the doctor had gone. He held a letter in his hand.

"I found this where the lady knelt when she tied up the sub-inspector's head—I fancy it's either hers or yours."

On the flap of the envelope Harding saw the bank's impress.

"It probably is hers," he answered as he took it. "I will give it to her at once."

There was no sign of her as he passed out of the little door at the back of the hut and, believing she had gone round to the other, he turned to go back when, in a limp and dishevelled heap, he saw her lying on the ground against the wall of the hut.

Her upturned face was white and drawn as he stooped over her.

"Jess!" he whispered. "Jess! Are you ill?"

She made no response, and he placed his arms gently round her and lifted her till she lay in his clasp, her head drooped on his shoulder.

The movement revived her sufficiently for her to know what was happening.

A long-drawn sigh escaped her lips and she essayed to stand alone.

"No, Jess, no. Lean on me. You must get back home and rest. You have overdone it," he whispered.

"Fred! You!"

The arms that had hung lifeless wreathed round his neck, the head that had dropped on his shoulder nestled close and the white face upturned.

"Oh, take me away, Fred, take me away from this horror—anywhere, anywhere, so that I may be with you."

"Hush, Jess, hush. You must not talk like that," he whispered, the strength of the grip with which he held her and the soft tremor of his voice giving her the lie to his words.

"Darling, I must," she answered. "Give me freedom from the misery that man has brought into my life. Oh, you do not know what it has been and is still. You heard what the doctor said."

She shuddered as she recalled the words.

"The tactless fool," he muttered, resentment rising against the man who had not hesitated to add another twelve hours' work to an already arduous day when the call of suffering reached him.

"No, he only said what others think. I know, Fred. I can feel it. Mr. Gale was the same. They all are."

"You must not think that—you must not," he said. "And you must not stay in Waroona. You must go away."

Her arms held tighter.

"I will never go, never, while you remain. Don't despise me, Fred, don't think ill of me. I know what I am saying. I am on the edge of a precipice. If I go over, I go down, down, down, an outcast, and a—a——"

"Don't," he whispered hoarsely. "Don't talk like that."

"Who would care?" she added bitterly, "even if I did?"

It was no longer merely support that his encircling arms gave her as they strained her to him.

"It would break my heart," he whispered simply. "I am one who would care."

Unconsciously he bent his head, unconsciously she raised hers, until their lips met, and in one passionate embrace the intervening years since they had been heart to heart before passed as a dream, and only did they know that despite all the barriers which had been raised between them they were bound by a tie beyond the reach of custom, circumstance, or force.

With that knowledge uplifting and upholding them, they drew apart.

"You must go and rest now, Jess. You have need of all your strength to face what lies before you," he said gently.

"I don't mind what it is—now," she answered.

"Then I will go and ask Gale to drive you back. I will give you all the news when I return in the morning."

"Are you staying?" Gale exclaimed directly he saw him. "I've harnessed up, so if you and Mrs. Eustace——"

"I'm staying, but she will come back with you—the experience has been rather trying for her."

"Trying?" Gale exclaimed. "She's the noblest woman I've ever met. I don't care what's the truth about the bank affair, but there's not a man in Waroona who won't reverence that woman when he hears what she has done to-night."

"I'll tell her you are ready," Harding answered.

"Where is she? Down at the huts? I'll drive down for her."

She was standing talking to the doctor when Harding returned.

"I'm more anxious about the old man," the doctor was saying as Harding came up. "He'll want very careful nursing, so if you could undertake it, you'll lift a weight off my shoulders."

"I will be ready to come out to-morrow if you want me," she answered. "Send word by Mr. Harding when he comes in—he is going to stay here to-night. You will bring me word, won't you?" she added, turning to Harding. "Is Mr. Gale driving back?"

"He is coming now to pick you up—here he is," Harding replied as Gale's buggy and pair swung into sight.

He helped her in and wrapped a rug round her.

"Don't be late in the morning—I shall be anxious to hear if the doctor wants me," she said as Gale turned his horses and drove off.

"She's a splendid woman that," the doctor said as he stood looking after the buggy disappearing in the dusk. "Pity she's tied to such a rat as that chap Eustace. I suppose you know him?"

"I am in the bank," Harding answered.

"Oh, are you? Then perhaps I've put my foot in it?"

"I don't think so."

"Have you known him long?"

"Eustace? No, only since I've been in the branch—about three weeks."

"I should have judged you had known her for years."

"I have, but I have only known her husband since I have been here."

"Knew her before she was married?"

"That is so."

"Then tell me, why did she want to marry that rat? I've only seen him once, but that was more than enough. Smoke! Women are regular conundrums. There's that one, as true and big-hearted a creature as ever breathed—look at the pluck she showed to-night—and yet she goes and throws herself away on a miserable crawler who can't even respect the trust his employers placed in him. What does it mean to her? Just think of it—the wife of a common thief, worse than a common thief to my mind. What'll become of her? He'll be caught and sent to gaol for years. What's she going to do then? It's a pity someone doesn't shoot him—it would save her from degradation."

The buggy had vanished in the dusk. He turned to his companion. The dim light from the hut fell full on Harding's face. The doctor whistled.