"Hope I haven't said too much, old chap. I forgot. If you've known her for years—well, you know what I mean, don't you? I must get in to my patient. You'll look after the old man? I've given him a draught that'll keep him asleep. But call me if you want me."

He went into the next hut where Durham lay. Harding stood where he left him, staring away into the night, in the direction the buggy had gone. The click-clock of the trotting horses came in a gradually diminishing clearness, beating time to the refrain which was running in his mind, the refrain of the doctor's words.

If Eustace were captured there was little doubt what the sequence would be. A long sentence and his wife branded with the stain of his guilt. Better if he were dead—better if he were killed, rather than that destiny should overtake her.

Harding's jaw set firm as his teeth gritted.

The memory of her white, drawn face as he saw her lying on the ground outside the hut; the memory of her desolate wail for him to take her away from the horror of her surroundings; the memory of her patient care of the two injured men, injured, perhaps, by the "rat" who had ruined her life and his; the memory of her as he had first known her, jostled one another in his brain.

Better, a thousand times better, if Eustace were dead.

The doctor, looking out of the next hut, saw him still standing staring into the night.

"How's the old man? Restless?" he asked as he came over.

The voice brought Harding back from the clouds—the thunder-clouds, towards which he was drifting.

"I'm just going in," he answered.

The doctor followed him to the door. Dudgeon lay breathing peacefully in a deep sleep.

"You can roll up in that blanket and make yourself as comfortable as possible—I don't think he'll awaken till the morning," the doctor said in a low tone when he had crossed to the bunk where Dudgeon lay and looked at him. "I must get back to my man."

He went out of the hut without waiting for a reply and Harding made no attempt to follow him, but spread the blanket on the floor and lay down upon it.

Until that moment he had entirely forgotten the letter the trooper had given him. As he lay back it suddenly recurred to him. He sat up and put his hand in his pocket to make sure it was still there. As he did so the old man stirred, and Harding waited to see whether he was going to wake.

He remained with his hand in his pocket until Dudgeon's breathing showed he was again soundly asleep. Then, momentarily forgetful of the reason why he was holding the letter, he drew it out, took it from the envelope, and opened it.

"No one saw me go, and I am now safe 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."

The writing was only too familiar, even without the peculiarly formed initial which was Eustace's particular sign.

He sat like one paralysed, his eyes reading and rereading the words which changed to mockery all the revived faith in her. His brain grew numb. Like a man upon whose head an unexpected blow had fallen, he was only half conscious of what had happened. Even as he read and re-read the letter he failed to gather all that it meant, all that it revealed. The very simplicity of the situation stunned him.

Then through the darkness of his mind there came, in one lurid flash, clear as a streak of lightning in the night, the full significance of it.

Eustace, having made his escape, had sent the message to her!

The scene in her boudoir the night before; the vision of the horsemen coming from the range; the face of the man with the yellow beard at the window, all passed before him. While he and Brennan were dashing across the yard, she or Bessie had found the note.

So it had come into her possession, and it must have been in her possession while she was talking to him after Wallace told her she must leave the bank; must have been in her possession while she drove with him to Taloona, and, for aught she knew, was in her possession when he found her lying senseless outside the hut.

He sprang to his feet, crushing the damning sheet in his hand.

While she clung to him, and he held her in all the fervour of his re-awakened love, she must have believed the message he had read was still in her keeping.

The sordid duplicity, the rank treachery of it seared and scorched.

Forgetful of the sleeping man whom he was there to watch, forgetful of everything save the bitterness of his betrayal, he paced the floor with rapid, raging steps.

He had been fooled, heartlessly, callously fooled. The bitterest thoughts he had ever had of her were all too gentle in the face of this final revelation. She was false to her finger-tips, a syren in cunning, a viper in venom.

At the door of the hut he stopped to stand staring out into the dark in the direction whither she had gone.

The last echo of the click-clock of Gale's trotting horses had died away; the bush lay mysterious and motionless under the silent veil of night; no sound came to him save the heavy breathing of the wounded man asleep in the hut; but through his brain, with the deadening monotony of numbing drumbeats, there throbbed the mocking, taunting words, "Fooled! Fooled! Fooled!"



CHAPTER XI

MRS. BURKE'S REBUFF

When Harding returned to the bank the next morning, he presented such a careworn appearance that Wallace was genuinely concerned.

"Hullo," he exclaimed, "you look as if you had had enough of acting night-nurse to wounded men. It has been too much for you, my lad."

"It has been an anxious night," Harding replied. "At first both were fairly well, but towards morning old Mr. Dudgeon became very bad. You have heard all about the affair, I suppose?"

"I have had a visit from Mr. Gale. There was only one thing he could talk about. You will guess what that was. The heroism of Mrs. Eustace."

A cloud came over Harding's face at the mention of her name.

"I have a message for her from the doctor. She offered to return to-day if he wanted her help. He asked me to let her know how bad the old man had been, and is, and say he would be glad if she could go out at once. I've had no sleep all night and am fairly tired out. If you don't mind, I'll go and have a few hours' rest."

"Why, of course, my lad, I'll manage the office by myself all right. Go and get all the sleep you can. You have earned it."

"Will you let her know what the doctor said?"

"I'll send word to Mr. Gale—I've no doubt he'll let her know," Wallace said with a short laugh.

"But isn't she here?"

"No. Gale said the place was in darkness when they passed and rather than disturb me she went on to the hotel, where they put her up. Very considerate of her, I must admit. She seems to have made the most of her time on the drive back with Gale, for he knew all about her having to leave the bank premises, and told me he had secured a vacant cottage there is in the township for her. But don't waste time talking, my lad. You look worn out. Go and get to bed for a few hours. I'll see she has the doctor's message."

Harding went to his room with heavy steps. He locked the door and sat down, took the crumpled letter out of his pocket and read it through again.

Then, sitting on the side of the bed with the letter in his hand, he stared at it as he asked himself once more the question which had been haunting him since the first rush of indignation passed.

What should he do with it?

Had the letter come into his possession the night of the scene in the boudoir, he would have had no hesitation. But much had happened since then. He had learned what he believed was the truth about the Eustace marriage; he had learned that the love he had treasured so dearly was still his. It was the latter which made it so hard for him to know what course to follow.

A doubt had come into his mind, a doubt which operated in her favour. To hand the note over to the police was to admit he had no faith left in her, and he had faith. He could not bring himself to regard her as being so absolutely conscienceless as the circumstances suggested. Rather did he lean towards the idea that, after all, despite the evidence of the facts as they stood, she was innocent. And on that point he wanted to be sure rather than sorry.

The opinion of another would be a help to him in coming to the right conclusion, but to whom could he turn?

He dare not consult Wallace, who was already prejudiced against her; Brennan was out of the question. There was only one other—Durham—and he was out of reach, and would be so for some time to come.

So the matter came back to where it started, and Harding, urged one way by his love and another by his reason, ultimately adopted a middle course.

He determined to confront her with the letter, and tear the mask of hypocrisy from her face—if one were there—at the first opportunity. For the present the letter should be placed where no one but himself could find it.

Taking off his coat, he cut through the seam of the lining, placed the letter inside, stitched it to the lining and resewed the seam.

"I will not condemn her unheard," he said. "She shall have the chance of defending herself to me before I denounce her. But, if this is true, then God help her—and me too."

He flung himself on the bed. He was too tired to worry further. The irksome question was shelved—for the moment there was peace, and before that moment passed Harding was sound asleep.

Before he awakened, Mrs. Eustace visited the bank, received the doctor's message and went on her way to Taloona.

She came with Gale.

"Has Mr. Harding returned yet?" she asked, before Wallace could speak. "He was to bring me word whether the doctor wanted me to help to-day."

"He came in about half an hour ago, utterly worn out. I have sent him to bed for a few hours," Wallace replied. "He left a message for you—old Mr. Dudgeon is very bad, and the doctor sent word that if you could go out at once it would be a great help to him."

"Of course I'll go," she exclaimed. "Mr. Gale, you offered to drive me if I were wanted. Will you go for the buggy while I get some things together to take with me?"

She turned to Wallace when Gale had left the office.

"I suppose you have no objection to my going upstairs?"

"None whatever," he answered.

"I will get what things I want. The others can be taken away later to the cottage I am renting. I will give Mr. Gale a list, as he very kindly offered to see to the removal if I had to go out to Taloona again."

He held the door open while she passed into the residence portion of the building, and closed it after her. He was not a lady's man, even under the best of circumstances; with the conviction that Eustace was the culprit, not only in the bank robbery, but also in the outrage at Taloona, he wished to have as little to say to her as possible. The sooner she was out of the place the better he would be pleased.

As he returned to his work, which, at the moment, was a lengthy report he was preparing for despatch to the head office in condemnation of Eustace, she went through to the kitchen, where she found Bessie.

"I am leaving the bank to-day, Bessie, and all my things are going away. I have taken Smart's cottage and am going to live there. Although I engaged you, if you think you will do better for yourself by staying here, don't let me prevent you."

"Stay on here, Mrs. Eustace? What, after you've gone? No, ma'am, no! If you don't want me any longer, there may be someone else in Waroona who does, but if this is the only place where I can stay, I'm off to Wyalla," Bessie exclaimed.

"I would not like them to think I took you away, Bessie."

"I'm not the Bank's servant; I'm yours. Shall I help you get the furniture ready now?"

"No, not just at once. I am going out to Taloona to help the doctor nurse Mr. Dudgeon. I only want to take enough with me for a few days. Mr. Gale will arrange for removing the rest, but I would like you to see they are all taken."

"I'll see that they're taken, and go with them, too, Mrs. Eustace. I don't want to stay in a place where everything I do is spied on and made bad of. Let me come and help you now."

By the time they had packed a small box, Gale drove up in front of the bank.

"I'll take this down," Bessie exclaimed. "It's not heavy."

Mrs. Eustace followed her out of the room.

At the door she stopped. On the other side of the landing was Harding's room. She glanced at the closed door.

Stepping over to it, she tapped. There was no response. She turned the handle; the door was locked.

She did not want to go without a word for him. She opened her bag to see if she had a scrap of paper or a card on which she could scribble a line. As she did so, Bessie came up the stairs to ask if there was anything else she could do.

"No, that is all, Bessie. You might tell Mr. Harding I have gone. He is asleep at present."

Bessie sniffed, with her nose in the air, as she followed her mistress down the stairs. Tell Mr. Harding? Tell the man who was, in Bessie's mind, the person solely responsible for the indignity placed upon her and Mrs. Eustace of being locked in their own rooms by Constable Brennan! All the message he would ever receive through her would do him good, she told herself.

In the office Wallace heard the buggy drive away and caught a glimpse of it as it passed the door. Mrs. Eustace was sitting beside Gale, looking up at him and smiling.

The sound of another vehicle driving up to the door interrupted him. He looked up from his work as Mrs. Burke came into the office.

"Good morning, Mr. Wallace," she exclaimed, "I've looked in as I was passing, to inquire what is the latest news about the scoundrels. Have they got them yet? Is there any word of my papers?"

"Have you not heard? Has no one——"

"Heard? Heard what? Heavens about us, man, you're not going to tell me my papers have been destroyed?"

"Oh, no, I'm not going to tell you that, Mrs. Burke. As the news is all over the place, I fancied you must have heard it also. I forgot you were away in the bush. Taloona was stuck up last night and burnt to the ground; old Mr. Dudgeon was shot and is lying dangerously ill, while Mr. Durham had his skull fractured and is at death's door."

Mrs. Burke reeled.

"Oh, my God!" she gasped.

Before Wallace could reach her she lurched heavily forward and fell, striking her face against the edge of the counter.

Rushing to the door leading to the house, Wallace called to Bessie.

"Come quickly," he cried, "Mrs. Burke has fainted."

He was raising her from the floor as Bessie came.

"Help me to get her into the dining-room," he exclaimed. "What a silly woman! I'm afraid she has hurt her face rather badly. She struck it against the counter."

Bessie lent a somewhat unwilling aid. She disliked Mrs. Burke as cordially as she disliked Wallace, but she helped to support the semi-conscious woman, and undertook to revive her as soon as they had placed her on the sofa.

Wallace returned to the office, leaving the two together. Presently Mrs. Burke came back, pale and agitated, and with a pronounced discolouration on her face where it had come in contact with the counter.

"I must apologise, Mr. Wallace," she began, as soon as she entered the office. "Sure it's only us poor weak women who know the cruel pain of an unexpected blow. You'll not believe me, but when I heard the terrible news, it just turned my heart to stone, it did. Poor Mr. Durham! A fine, brave, clever gentleman if ever there was one, Mr. Wallace, and to think of him with all his brains scattered. It's no wonder I fainted."

"But I did not tell you that, Mrs. Burke. I said his skull was fractured, and that he is at death's door."

"Well, isn't that what I was saying?"

"No. I did not say his brains were knocked out. As a matter of fact, they are all in his head where I hope they will always remain, so that he can complete his task of catching your friends who were so considerate as to carry off your papers."

"My friends, do you call them, Mr. Wallace? Sure I'd teach them a new form of friendship if I had my hands on them for a few minutes. But tell me now, what's being done with those poor wounded creatures? The girl told me the old man had had his leg blown off. Well, well! He won't refuse a chair next time he comes to see you, I'll wager. Or maybe he'll have his twenty-five thousand sovereigns made into a special wooden leg to take the place of the other live one he's lost."

"His leg was not blown off—he was shot."

"It's all the same. He won't be able to walk about any more, and sure that's bad enough for any man to have to put up with, isn't it, Mr. Wallace? How would you like to have it happen to you now? Having to go about on a wooden stump or just sit about in the same place from morning to night and never a chance of stretching a leg or crossing the road."

"But it's not that at all, Mrs. Burke," Wallace exclaimed impatiently. "What I said was——"

"Oh, I know, I know," she interrupted. "Well now, don't you think it a terrible thing for them to be lying out there without a single woman's hand to soothe them in their agony? Only a doctor to look after them and maybe a bushman or so to boil a billy and make some tea between whiles. It's more than I can bear to think of, Mr. Wallace."

"You don't feel faint again, do you?" he asked.

"Oh, no, not at all, Mr. Wallace. Bessie was very good to me. She would be better out there helping to relieve those poor wounded creatures instead of idling away her time here, I think; but still, she does her best, poor thing, such as it is. But do you know what I thought of doing? As soon as I heard the news I said to myself, there was only one thing I could do unless I were just a mere bloodless image of a woman. I'm going to drive straight away now to Taloona and soothe the pain of those poor unfortunates. It's the sound of a woman's voice that is cheering to a lonely man when he's in pain, Mr. Wallace."

"Is it?" Wallace said curtly. "I hope you are right, Mrs. Burke, for you see Mrs. Eustace is there already."

"Mrs. Eustace! Out at Taloona? Mr. Wallace, it's enough to bring down the wrath of Heaven to think of that woman—that—well, I'll not say it; but there's her husband robbing me of my papers and the bank of its money and maybe robbing and murdering that poor old gentleman as well, and she—she of all women on the face of the earth—nursing his victims back for him to slay a second time. Sure, I'd—oh, I'd—I don't know what I wouldn't do, Mr. Wallace, to a woman like that."

"It will be an interesting meeting between you," Wallace observed drily. "I am sorry I cannot come to see it."

"But it's not the old gentleman she's after, Mr. Wallace. I suppose they robbed him of his gold?"

"I don't know, Mrs. Burke."

"Oh, you may be sure they did. So there's no more to be had out of him; but what would it be worth to that villain of a husband of hers if Sub-Inspector Durham were below ground? The only chance I have of ever seeing my papers again, Mr. Wallace, is with him. I'll go and drive him out to Waroona Downs and nurse him myself. I'll not let it be said that Nora Burke forgot a friend in his hour of need."

"I am afraid the doctor will not let him be moved. I suggested bringing them in here, but Mr. Gale tells me the doctor said it would be fatal to move either at present."

"Then I'll stay and nurse him there. Sure it's that woman I'll watch. I'll go away at once."

He did not detain her. He did not even suggest she was going on a useless journey. But he sighed deeply as she left the office.

"Little wonder she is a widow," he murmured to himself. "I wonder how long the late Mr. Burke managed to survive it? I hope they keep her at Taloona for a month."

But she did not reach there that day.

On the way she met Gale returning.

"And what's the news of the poor injured creatures?" she cried as she reined in.

Gale shook his head.

"You were not thinking of going out there, were you?" he asked.

"I'm going out to do what I can to soothe the suffering of the unfortunates," she answered. "Mr. Wallace was telling me. What a frightful thing to happen to them, Mr. Gale. Sure the awful news was too much for me to bear, and I just fell like one dead at the sound of it. You'll see the mark on my face. They tell me I fell against the counter in the bank and might have killed myself entirely with the terrible smash I came against the wretched sharp edge, only that I struck it with my face instead of the back of my head, though it's little thanks to the bank, seeing the way they made the clumsy thing."

"It's no use your going out to Taloona," Gale exclaimed. "No one is allowed near the huts where they are. The doctor and Mrs. Eustace are the only persons allowed to see the patients."

"And by what right is that woman there?"

"The best right of all, Mrs. Burke. Had it not been for her splendid courage, they would both have been dead long before the doctor could reach them. She is the only one Mr. Dudgeon will bear near him."

"Oh."

For once the voluble Irish tongue was reduced to the use of a simple monosyllable, but into the word there was thrown as much venom as would have taken a hundred of the snakes St. Patrick banished from the island to supply.

"So it is fortunate I met you, otherwise you would have had a drive for nothing," Gale added.

"And how's the sub-inspector?"

"The doctor tells me he is doing as well as one can expect."

"I was going to see if I could not take one of them out to Waroona Downs—it's good nursing they'll want, and that they'll get if they're in a place where they are properly looked after."

"They are getting that now," Gale retorted shortly.

"I'll go and see for myself."

"If you want to tire your horse, do so, but that is all which will happen."

"And why am I to be shut out when that woman is allowed to be there, with her husband probably hanging about the place all the time to see who else there is to shoot and maim?"

"You have no right to say that," Gale cried angrily. "There is only suspicion against her husband, and even if there were more, it would not affect her. A noble-hearted woman such as she is should have sympathy, not unjust accusation."

"Sure Mr. Eustace would be pleased to know how well his deserted wife is getting on with all the admirers she has in the place traipsing after her wherever she goes," she retorted.

"You cannot go on even if you wish to," Gale exclaimed. "One of the troopers will stop you before you reach the huts."

"Oh, the troopers are there too, are they? It's well to be a miserly old skinflint to have the State providing troopers at the ratepayers' expense to watch over one. Or maybe they're also giving sympathy to the poor distressed lady. Well, I'll interrupt them."

"You will do nothing of the kind, Mrs. Burke. I tell you the doctor sent to stop me from driving up to the huts where they are. You would do no good by going there; you may do a great deal of harm."

"Oh, indeed. And pray what is there about me that is likely to do harm to any man?"

"You know Mr. Dudgeon's character. The doctor says he is in a most critical condition. For him to see you now would probably mean his death. You remember how bitterly he resented the sale of Waroona Downs to you—your presence now would only irritate him and then——" he shrugged his shoulders.

"My presence? And what of the presence of the woman whose husband——"

"You must not say that," Gale exclaimed quickly. "It is unjust—unwomanly——"

The grey eyes flashed like steel.

"Unwomanly?" she cried. "Me unwomanly?"

She snatched up the buggy whip and in her anger cut at him, but the lash fell short, striking one of the horses. The animal plunged at the sting and its companion also started.

By the time Gale had them under control, Mrs. Burke was vanishing down the road in a cloud of dust.

Where the track to the station branched off the main road one of the troopers met and stopped her. The man recognised her from the previous day.

"Very sorry, Mrs. Burke," he said, "but I've been sent to stop anyone going near the place."

"Why can't I go? I want to know how they are and whether I can't help to nurse them," she said.

"They're both pretty bad, I believe," the trooper answered. "I don't think you could do anything now, because there's the doctor and Mrs. Eustace and my mate looking after them. But I'll tell the doctor, and maybe to-morrow——"

Mrs. Burke slowly wheeled her horse.

"I shall not come to-morrow," she said. "It is evident I'm not wanted. But I shall come in a few days and take one of them away with me to my house. I'm sure Mr. Durham would be much better away from here. Tell the doctor I say so. Who is taking Mr. Durham's place?"

"Taking up his work do you mean?"

"Yes—who is looking for the man who stole my deeds from the bank? Why aren't you doing it, instead of wasting your time here?"

"Oh, that'll be all right, Mrs. Burke. We've got a clue—don't you be uneasy."

"I shall be uneasy until Mr. Durham is able to look after it again. He is the only hope I have of ever seeing my papers again."

"You're right," the trooper exclaimed. "He's the smartest man for the job there is. That's why he's lying there now—we know for certain he was on their track when he got here, and as soon as they saw who it was after them, they went for him. It wasn't the fault of the chap who tried to brain him that the sub-inspector is alive to-day."

"He is very badly hurt?" Mrs. Burke asked.

"The chap who hit him saw to that—I'd just like to have my hands on him for a few minutes, the mean hound. There was probably more than one, and while the sub-inspector was facing the others, this one must have crept up behind him and tried to brain him from the back. But we'll get him, and then he will know something."

"You think you will catch them?"

"Catch them? Of course we shall. But it's the chap who knocked the sub-inspector on the head we want mostly."

"You'll punish him when you do catch him?" she asked, with a gleam in her eyes.

"Ah!" he exclaimed.

She leaned forward.

"I hope you do," she said. "I would—if I were a man—even if they had not stolen my papers."



CHAPTER XII

AS THROUGH A MIST

Wallace had scarcely completed his report when once more he was interrupted by Gale entering the office.

"Mrs. Eustace has given me this order to remove all her belongings at once," he said, as he entered the office and handed the order to Wallace.

"Very good. I'll tell the girl to bring them downstairs. Will you be at the front door?"

"Tell the girl?" Gale remarked. "You don't think it's a girl's job, do you, to move a houseful of furniture?"

"There's no furniture; there is nothing here belonging to Mrs. Eustace beyond her clothing, and some few odds and ends, I suppose?"

"Then you know very little about the matter, Mr. Wallace. Everything beyond that door belongs to Mrs. Eustace; everything in the residence portion of this building is hers absolutely, her own personal private property. Even that lamp on your table is hers. I have it down on my list."

"Oh, that is nonsense, utter nonsense," Wallace exclaimed pompously. "The furniture is the property of the Bank."

"The furniture is not the property of the Bank. Ask Mr. Harding."

"He is asleep at present, but——"

"Then he had better get up, because I am about to remove the bed on which he is sleeping. It belongs to Mrs. Eustace; so do the blankets, the sheets, the coverlet, everything, in fact, even to the towels in his room."

"What absolute preposterous nonsense!" Wallace replied. "I never heard of such a thing. The Bank always provides furniture for its branches."

"And does the Bank always allow the wife of a branch manager so much a year for the use of that furniture, napery, linen, cutlery, and the rest?"

"Why ask such a ridiculous question?"

"Because Mrs. Eustace has been paid such an allowance since she has been in Waroona. Refer to the office records. They will show you whether it is so or not."

Wallace turned to the book-racks, and pulled down the ledger. Running his eye down the index, he saw the item "Furniture Account." Opening the book at the page indicated, he read enough to prove to him that Gale's statement was correct.

"Then all I have to say is, that it is extremely unusual," he said, as he slammed the book, and returned it to its place.

"I am not concerned in that, Mr. Wallace. All I know are the facts. Now that you are also satisfied, you will see the work is hardly what a girl can carry out. I'll send half a dozen men down at once."

"But," Wallace exclaimed, looking up aghast, "you don't mean to say you are going to remove everything?"

"Mrs. Eustace has given me her order to remove all her belongings. That, I understand, includes everything in the living portion of the premises, and the lamp now standing on your table."

"But what am I to do? What is Harding to do? We cannot sleep on the bare boards and eat our meals raw."

"I don't see what concern that is of mine. You requested Mrs. Eustace to vacate these premises at once, and she is doing as you asked. It is not for you to complain, surely?"

"It is, under the circumstances, most decidedly it is. Someone must always be on the premises after what has occurred; but if there is nothing on which to sleep, what can be done? Mrs. Eustace knew the furniture belonged to her and should have said so."

"I am afraid I cannot agree with you," Gale replied. "You should have known the furniture was hers. Your one desire, it seems to me, was to vent on her head the wrath of the Bank at what may, or may not have been, her husband's fault. Whether it added to the trouble she already had did not matter to you in the slightest. But directly you find that your spite recoils on yourself and entails some inconvenience for you, there is a very different tale to tell. Personally I am very glad to think you can be inconvenienced. You had better have Harding called, as I shall be back in half an hour with my men. Oh, by the by, the servant is engaged by Mrs. Eustace, not by the Bank. She will leave with the furniture."

He enjoyed the look of consternation on Wallace's face. The banker could not deceive himself. Gale held him in a cleft stick.

"But this cannot go on," he exclaimed. "Mrs. Eustace must see how unreasonable it is. The Bank is entitled to at least a month's notice, before the things can be removed."

"It is the Bank that gave the notice. Mrs. Eustace was told to go at once. Well, she waived her right to demand time and said she would go at once. Now you blame her!"

"Will she sell the furniture?"

"No, she will not."

"I shall go to Taloona and see about it."

"It will not assist you if you do. In the first place, you will not be able to see her, and, in the second, even if you did see her, you would only learn that the matter has been placed in my hands."

"Then, if it is in your hands, deal with it as a reasonable business man. While Mrs. Eustace remains at Taloona she will not require the furniture; it will be at least a couple of weeks before we can have any sent up to serve us. How much does Mrs. Eustace want for the hire of what is in the house at present?"

"Twenty pounds a week," Gale replied, without moving a muscle, even when Wallace flared up at the proposal.

"Utterly preposterous," he cried. "Ten shillings a week was what was allowed her. That amount is ample."

"You are the buyer, not the seller, Mr. Wallace. You pay twenty pounds a week, or the furniture goes. Even at that sum I consider that Mrs. Eustace is placing the Bank under a distinct obligation to her."

There was no escape; reluctantly Wallace admitted it, and agreed to the terms, humiliating though they were. But it was still more humiliating for him to learn the following day that Mrs. Eustace declined to accept anything whatever, but allowed the Bank to use the furniture and retain the services of Bessie until other arrangements could be made.

"What is the game she is playing?" he said to Harding. "Is it all part of some elaborate scheme between herself and her husband, or is she really sincere?"

The letter sewn into the lining of his coat seemed to burn itself into Harding's back. Was it all part of an elaborate scheme, part of the "everything" she had to do "as arranged"? If he could only be sure!

"I don't know what to make of it," he answered. "I don't know." But while they were speculating at the bank as to the sincerity or insincerity of Mrs. Eustace, she was driving her own troubles from her mind by the constant and unremitting care of a taciturn and exacting patient.

For the first two or three days after the bullet was extracted from his leg, Dudgeon was in a high state of fever. In his semi-delirium he babbled incessantly of Kitty, grew dangerously excited whenever the doctor came near him, and would only be pacified by the presence of Mrs. Eustace. In his lucid intervals he told her over and over again the story of his betrayal; when his mind wandered, he regarded her as the Kitty he had known before the shattering of his life's romance. It was difficult for her to decide which experience was the more trying.

Later, when the fever left him, he was as a child in her hands, listening while she read or talked to him, taking anything she brought him without demur, and only showing signs of impatience when she left the hut for a while.

Consequently, she was unable to give any attention to Durham, and as the days slipped by the doctor began to chafe, for there were patients scattered through the bush whom he was anxious to visit, but he could not go away and leave both men to Mrs. Eustace to nurse.

It was at this juncture that Mrs. Burke put her threat into execution, and drove over to Taloona in a big old-fashioned waggonette with Patsy perched on the box and a store of blankets inside.

"I've come to do my share of the work," she told the doctor. "They stopped me from coming before—I was turned back by a trooper a mile from the house. But I'm tired of waiting for word how the poor fellows are, and have just come to take one of them away with me."

She had driven right up to the huts, and the sound of her voice penetrated both. Old Dudgeon, striving to sit up, stared at Mrs. Eustace with gleaming eyes.

"That devil," he muttered. "It's her voice. I'd know it in a million. Keep her away! Don't let her come near me, or I'll——"

"Hush, you must not get excited," Mrs. Eustace said, as she gently pushed him back. "No one is coming in here. I'll see to that. I'll shut the door and bolt them out."

In the other hut the patient's eyes also gleamed, but with a different light. The forced inaction, the solitude, the wearying monotony of lying still, to one accustomed to a life full of incident and action, was more than trying; but when, as was the case with Durham, there was urgent and engrossing work to be done, the compulsory delay aggravated the evils of the injury he had sustained.

Through the long hours he chafed against the helplessness which prevented him from following up the clue he had already obtained, but still more did he chafe against his inability to renew his acquaintance with the woman who had fascinated him.

He was anxious to make headway in her estimation so that he would have some understanding, however slight, with her when the recovery of her papers and the winning of the reward gave him the opportunity of offering her marriage. His impatience bred many fancies in his mind. Daily he pictured to himself the danger of someone else becoming his rival in her affections.

Were he free to see her he did not fear defeat; but while he was lying helpless at Taloona anything might be happening at Waroona Downs.

That morning the doctor had told him it would be weeks before he would be well enough to resume work if he did not make more rapid progress. He had poured out professional platitudes against the folly of fretting and worrying against the inevitable, but neither his platitudes nor the soundness of his reasoning could still the eager longing which was at the root of the patient's retarded convalescence.

If he could only see her the days would not be so blank; even to hear of or from her would be something; but this complete separation, this seemingly hopeless isolation racked him with impatience. Wherefore the sound of her voice breaking in upon his mournful reveries, of which she was the central figure, made his heart leap with delight.

Come to take one of them away with her! Saving that his head swam so much when he moved he would have crawled out of his bunk and appealed to her that he should be the one, lest the other should be before him.

He strove to catch something more of the conversation carried on between her and the doctor, but their voices were not sufficiently loud for him to hear more than the sound of them. The creaking of the door as it opened made him turn his eyes as the doctor came in.

"I've a visitor to see you. Do you think you can stand it?" he asked.

Over the doctor's shoulder Durham caught a glimpse of Mrs. Burke, and the smile that rippled over his face was all the answer he had time to give before she stood beside him.

"Oh, the poor, poor fellow," she exclaimed softly. "Sure he's just pining for a change of air and a sight of the bush once more. It's Waroona Downs that's the place where he can get what he wants and recover so as to catch those villains that have done him so much harm. I've come to fetch you, Mr. Durham. I've a waggonette outside and a storeful of blankets, and Patsy to drive—sure he can't go faster than a funeral at the best, so there's no fear of any jolting on the way. If you want to come, the doctor says you may, and he'll ride along later and see you are all fixed up before he goes after his other patients who are all dying, poor things, without his help one way or the other."

Would he go? His pale cheeks flushed at the chance of escape from the deadly solitude of the past few days. Anywhere would be better than inside that bare, cheerless hut, anything preferable to lying on the hard wooden bunk with only a blanket over him, and only an occasional flying visit from Mrs. Eustace and the periodical dosing by the doctor. But Waroona Downs with the woman he was beginning to idolise daily with him!

"Will you come?" she asked softly, as he did not speak.

"If I only could," he answered.

"There, doctor, you heard him? I'll tell Patsy to spread the blankets on the floor of the waggonette, and sure he'll never know he's moving till he's there."

"It may shake you up a bit," the doctor said, as Mrs. Burke left the hut. "But I must get away to a case to-morrow, and the old man is as much as any woman can look after. Do you think you can stand the drive?"

"I'd stand anything to get out of this place," Durham answered. "If you think I can stand it, I'm satisfied."

"Oh, you're tough enough to stand anything," the doctor replied. "You could not be alive to-day if you had not the constitution of a steam-engine. They'd charge me with manslaughter down in one of the cities, moving a man who had barely had a week's rest after a crack in his skull; but we have to take things as they come in the bush, my lad, and it's mostly rough at the best."

New life seemed already to have come to him, and when they had placed him in the waggonette, lying comfortably on the pile of blankets Mrs. Burke had spread, the wan weariness had gone and Durham smiled up into the face that looked down on him with so much softness in the dark-lashed eyes.

Overhead the sky was blue as turquoise, and the clear sunlit air fanned him with a faint breeze redolent with the aromatic perfumes which float through the atmosphere of the bush. The horses moved along at the slowest pace they could manage beyond a walk, and the gentle sway of the waggonette on its easy, old-fashioned springs lulled Durham into a delightful sense of restfulness and content. Gradually his eyelids grew heavy and drooped; peaceful, restful, he floated away into slumber as easily as though he had been a child rocked in a cradle.

The sunlight had given place to the shade of evening when he opened his eyes. The rhythmic beat of the horses' hoofs blended harmoniously with the sway of the vehicle in which he was travelling, and the cool air was filled with a delicious fragrance. He awakened with so keen a sense of vitality that for the moment he forgot he was an invalid, and made an effort to rise. But the strength he felt in his muscles was only the trick of his imagination; he could barely lift his head.

But that was sufficient to show him that he was in the waggonette alone. The seat where Mrs. Burke had been when his eyes closed was unoccupied. He turned sufficiently to look at the box-seat. A figure loomed through the dusk, but it seemed more sturdy than the withered frame of old Patsy.

He made another effort to sit up. It was not entirely successful, but it enabled him to see out of the vehicle. Away behind them the dark shadow of the range between the township and Waroona Downs rose against the sky.

"Where is Mrs. Burke?" he called, turning his face towards the form of the driver.

The horses stopped, and the figure on the box leaned back as a merry laugh came down to him.

"Oh, are you awake then? Sure I thought you were asleep for good and all the way you never moved all the journey. And did you think I had vanished and left you to the tender mercies of that old fool? Well, now, that's a poor compliment to yourself surely, to think I'd run away from you as soon as I saw your eyes were closed. No, no, I've got charge of you till you are well and strong again, though maybe I'll have hard work to shunt you at all then, you'll be so used to being nursed. But I had to come and drive while I sent the old man on ahead to get the door open and a fire alight so as to give you something hot to cheer you as soon as you reached the house."

"But he cannot walk quicker than we are going?"

"Going? Why, we're standing still. So we were at the top of the hill where the horses, poor beasts, wanted a long rest to get their wind again, seeing how they had come all the way without as much as a five minutes' break since we started. You were sleeping through it all so peacefully I had not the heart to disturb you, but sent the old man on ahead while I climbed up here. Sure we're nearly there; I can see the light of the lamp shining out of the window. Just keep quiet and rest now till we're there."

She started the horses again, and Durham lay back on his blankets till he felt the waggonette turn off the main road and drive slowly up to the house.

As it stopped, he managed to raise himself into a sitting position. There was a momentary humming in his head, and he gripped the seats to steady himself. The cessation of the noise made by the moving wheels and trotting horses accentuated to his ears the still silence of the night. So quiet was it that as the humming passed from him the creaking of the springs when Mrs. Burke swung herself down from the box-seat seemed an actual noise.

Patsy's heavy tread echoed on the bare boards of the verandah. For a second they stopped, and through Durham's brain there rang a curious stifled sound, something like a cry coming from afar, a cry indistinct and choked as if it were muffled.

The loud tones of Mrs. Burke's voice, speaking quickly and decisively, drowned it before the dulled brain could either locate whence it came or decide whether it was anything more than a variation of the humming in his ears.

"Come along now, Patsy. Hasten, you slow old fool. Don't you know Mr. Durham will be tired?"

The old man stumbled and blundered down the steps, and Mrs. Burke came to the end of the waggonette.

"Oh, now, now! Sure is it wise to do that?" she exclaimed, as she saw Durham sitting up. "Why didn't you wait till we could help you?"

She leaned in and took hold of his arm.

"If you back the waggonette against the steps, I can get out easier," he said.

"Of course, of course. Now then, Patsy, why didn't you think of that?" she exclaimed. "Turn the horses round while I stay with Mr. Durham."

She sat on the floor of the vehicle, still holding Durham's arm.

The touch of her hands, the sound of her voice as she maintained a steady stream of directions to Patsy, the fact of being so near to her, filled Durham with a gentle soothing. The dreaminess which had been upon him when the journey began, and before he sank into the contented slumber, returned. Her voice reached him as from a distance; his grip of the seats loosened, and as the waggonette turned he swayed until his head drooped upon the shoulder of the woman by his side.

Thereafter all was vague and misty until he came to himself and knew he was ascending the short flight of steps leading to the verandah, with Mrs. Burke supporting him on one side and Patsy the other.

As he reached the verandah his legs trembled beneath him, and he stood for a moment, leaning heavily upon the arms which supported him.

Again there came to his dulled brain the sound like a distant stifled cry.

"What's that?" he muttered. "What's that?"

"Oh, lean on me. Don't fall now. Oh, keep up, keep up. Sure what will the doctor say when he comes if you've hurt yourself?" the voice of Mrs. Burke said in his ear.

"But that—that cry," he gasped. A cold shiver ran through him.

"There's no cry; there's nothing but me and old Patsy. Keep up, now. If you're worse, oh, what will the doctor say?"

The glare from the lamp shining through the open window grew dim; the floor of the verandah rose and fell; his arms dropped nerveless to his sides and, with the faint muffled cry still ringing in his ears, Durham went down into oblivion.

Once the veil partly lifted, and he saw, as through a mist, Mrs. Burke standing defiantly before a man who slunk away out of the room while she turned quickly and came to the couch where he was lying and bent over him. As in a dream he felt her cool hand touch his brow and her face come close to him.

"Oh, why? Why?" he heard her whisper. "Why have you come into my life—now—to bring love to me? Better if I were dead; but I cannot let you go, I cannot! Oh, my love, why have you come so late to me?"

Her lips were pressed to his, her arms encircled his neck, and as he thrilled at her touch, at her voice, at her presence, he essayed to answer her. But he had no strength even to move his lips in response to her kiss, no power to raise a hand. It was as though his will no longer had control over his muscles, as though his consciousness were something apart from his body, something floating in space, voiceless, nerveless, motionless, apart from himself, apart from all save the love she had for him, and the love he had for her.

And in the glamour of that love, the bare knowledge that he existed at all faded away, until he was as one enveloped in a mist through which neither sight nor sound could penetrate.

The sunlight was streaming around him when next he remembered. He was lying in a bed in an unfamiliar room. By his side the doctor was standing. His first memory was of the stifled cry which had come to him as he stepped on to the verandah.

"Ah, you're awake again, are you?" the doctor said cheerily. "Well, how do you feel now?"

"Where am I?" Durham asked weakly.

"Oh, you're where you're all right, if you feel all right. Do you?"

"I'm—this isn't the hut."

He glanced round the room which was at once strange and familiar to him.

"Don't you remember leaving there? You ought to. Don't you remember how we got you into the waggonette? When we put you on the blankets? Just think. You're at Waroona Downs. Mrs. Burke brought you."

"But I—how did I get here?" Durham repeated, glancing again round the room. Then it was that the memory of the cry forced itself to the front.

"Who was it?" he asked. "Who was it?"

Another figure joined the doctor, and Mrs. Burke looked down at him.

"Who was what?" the doctor asked.

"That cry—the cry I heard," Durham replied.

"There was no cry," the doctor said. "You've been dreaming."

Durham looked from one to the other. As his eyes rested on Mrs. Burke's, vaguely there came to him the visionary recollection of her kneeling beside him with her arms around him and her lips pressed to his.

"Dreaming?" he said slowly. "Dreaming? Was it all dreaming?"

He was looking straight into her eyes, as he spoke, forgetful of the doctor's presence, watching for the return of the soft love-light which had filled her eyes in that memoried scene. But no love-light shone from them. They were unmoved, cold in their grey-blue depths almost to hardness.

"Listen to me, my lad," the doctor said briskly. "The drive in from Taloona shook you up a bit, they tell me. Made you delirious, so that they had to keep you on the sofa all night watching you. That's where I found you when I got here at dawn. But you'll be all right now, I fancy, if you keep quiet and don't think about things that never happened. You're at Waroona Downs in bed, and Mrs. Burke and that old idiot of a doddering Irishman are looking after you. That's all you've got to remember."

"Except to get well," Mrs. Burke added.

"Yes, except to get well; and I reckon your nurse will see to that. I'll call in again to-morrow or the next day. But remember—no more dreams."



CHAPTER XIII

REVENGE IS SWEET

As the days wore on and Durham won his way back to health, he waited in vain for a token from Mrs. Burke that the memory which persisted so clearly was other than the figment of a dream.

Although she gave him every attention a sick man required, there was neither look nor word from her to justify him in believing that the memory was of an actual scene. For hours she would be with him, reading to him, talking to him, meeting his glance freely and frankly; but never was there the veriest hint of the emotion he had seen in her eyes on that occasion.

Nor did he hear again the curious stifled cry which had seemed to ring in his ears the night he arrived. He was constantly on the alert for it, both by night and day, while he was confined to his room and later when he was able to get out on to the verandah. But there was no repetition of it, until at last he had perforce to accept the doctor's view and regard it, as well as the other memory, as merely the vagaries of delirium.

But if she gave him nothing whereon to feed the love he had for her, that love did not diminish as the days passed. It took a deeper and firmer hold upon him until he lived in a veritable Fool's Paradise, giving no thought of the morrow, saving that it would be spent with her, and forgetting even the task which had brought him to the district. The outside world did not obtrude itself upon him, till the doctor declared that only once more would he visit him. Then it came with a rush.

A dozen questions forced themselves upon his mind.

Since his arrival at Waroona Downs, no word had reached him from Brennan, no mention had been made of the robberies. When, once or twice, he had attempted to speak of them, Mrs. Burke told him the doctor's orders were that he was not to be allowed to dwell upon anything likely to disturb him, and she insisted on carrying out those orders. He had always yielded, lest she put into execution the threat she made, to leave him to the tender mercies of old Patsy for a whole day. But now the injunction was removed, for the doctor himself had asked whether he should tell Brennan to come out.

Durham awaited his arrival with impatience. Now that he allowed his mind to revert to more prosaic matters than the object of his adoration, he concluded that, as he had not been troubled with official detail, someone else had been sent up to continue the investigation into the mystery.

He ran over the names of the men most likely to be entrusted with the work, speculating which one it was, and what course he had followed. He hunted for the letter he had found the day he discovered the track leading to the lake among the hills, and when he could not find it, he inferred that after he had been struck down at Taloona, the two marauders had searched him and had recovered what would have been invaluable evidence against Eustace.

The excuse Mrs. Burke had put forward for refusing to discuss the matter with him suggested she knew he had been superseded; the belief grew in his mind that his successor had succeeded in either tracing the stolen gold or securing the arrest of Eustace, and perhaps his companion also. Mrs. Burke, knowing this, had declined to talk lest she revealed the secret and gave him, as she would consider, cause for mental anxiety and distress.

It was therefore a great surprise for him to learn from Brennan, as soon as he came out, that no one had been sent up to take charge of the case; that no arrest had been made, nor clue discovered; but that everything had been allowed to remain as it was until such time as he was sufficiently recovered to resume duty.

"They should not have done that," he exclaimed. "Look at the time wasted."

"I understand the Bank wished it, sir," Brennan answered. "Mr. Wallace told me as much. He said he and his directors were satisfied no one could solve the riddle as you could, and head-quarters had been asked not to put anyone else in charge, but to leave you with an absolutely free hand."

"It is very good of them," Durham said. "But still—look at the chance it has given the thieves to get away with the gold."

"They haven't gone, sir," Brennan said quietly.

"How do you know?"

"One of them was seen only last night," Brennan continued in a low tone. "He was seen on the Taloona road, riding the white horse. That is what puzzles me. How does he hide that horse? It's never been seen in any of the paddocks for miles round, for everyone is on the watch for it. And a man can't hide a white horse in a hollow log—it must run somewhere some time."

"Where is Mrs. Eustace?"

"She's at Smart's cottage. She came in from Taloona yesterday. That's what makes it strange, to my mind, this white horse and rider being seen on the Taloona road the day she leaves the place."

"Where are the troopers—Conlon and his mate?"

"Went away three days ago, sir, on orders from head-quarters."

"And Mr. Dudgeon?"

"Oh, he's still at Taloona. They say he's pretty well right again, except that he limps with a stick."

"I suppose his gold was taken?"

"Every atom of it, sir. We found the spot where it had been dug up under the ashes of the house. But that doesn't seem to trouble him very much. All he wants is to have the men who stuck up the place caught and hanged."

"How did Mrs. Eustace come in?"

"Mr. Gale drove her in, sir. He's been to and fro most every day."

"But he didn't meet the man on the white horse?"

"Yes, sir. It was Mr. Gale who brought me word of it. He said he thought it must be Eustace, and asked if he would be justified in shooting him if he met him face to face. Mr. Harding asked the same thing."

"Of course, you told them no."

"Well, sir, to tell you the truth, I said it might be the best thing for Mrs. Eustace, seeing what the conviction of her husband meant for her, but that it might mean a charge of murder if it were done."

Durham sat silent for a time.

"Come out for me to-morrow, will you, Brennan?" he said presently. "I can't wait for the doctor. This has got to be dealt with promptly, unless we are to lose the game."

When Brennan had gone, Durham sat on the verandah alone. Now that he had taken hold of the case again, all the fascination his work had for him returned. He became so engrossed in the contemplation of the problem that unnoticed the sun went down to leave the young crescent moon shedding a fitful light over the silent bush. Unnoticed, also, were the sound of footfalls as Mrs. Burke came out on to the verandah.

For a time she stood watching him. Had he turned quickly he might have seen in her eyes something of the expression for which he had looked so often. But reading the riddle of the robberies was too enthralling a subject, and so he missed his opportunity, for when she crossed to the hand-rail against which he was sitting, every suggestion of the expression had gone from her face.

Standing where the moonlight fell upon her, she leaned against one of the verandah posts without speaking. It was then he saw her, and from within the shadow he feasted his eyes upon the beauty of her face and form so clearly outlined against the soft-toned evening sky.

"Brennan has gone?" she asked, suddenly turning towards him.

"Yes. Brennan has gone. And this—this is my last evening here," he answered in a low voice. "To-morrow I resume duty."

He waited for the remark he hoped she would make, but she merely looked away over the silvery haze of the bush apparently unmoved, nay, even uninterested in the announcement he had made.

"Don't you ever feel compassion for the poor creatures you are chasing to their doom?" she asked presently.

"Why should there be compassion for them?" he asked in reply.

"Don't you ever feel it? Don't you ever stop to wonder if only they are to blame?"

"I am merely concerned in what they have done. Until they have placed themselves in antagonism to the laws of society, I have nothing to do with them. When they violate the law, then I am bidden to track them down so that they may be made to answer for the wrongs they may have done. It would assist neither them nor myself were I to lose myself in compassionate consideration of things I know nothing about."

"But surely—you must sometimes feel sorry for them—must pity them in their misfortune?"

"There are too many who deserve pity, Mrs. Burke, for me to waste any of mine on people who only injure others. All my pity and sympathy go to the victimised, not to the victimisers."

"It seems so hard, so merciless, so hopeless," she said after a few minutes' silence.

"Have you any compassion for those who stole your papers? Would you have them escape capture and punishment, and so lose for ever all hopes of recovering those papers?"

"I don't know."

There was a note of sadness in her voice, a note almost as unfamiliar as the brevity of her reply.

"To what compassion is the man entitled who struck me down?"

"You don't know—you don't know what made him do it. He may have been forced to do it for the sake of his companion, to save both of them."

"Save himself and his companion from what? From capture while committing an outrage and a robbery. I do not see where any reason for compassion comes in, Mrs. Burke."

"And you would show him none?"

"None," he answered fiercely. "I look upon that man, whoever and wherever he may be, as a menace to mankind. He is unfit to be at large."

"If you saw him, you would shoot him?"

"If I saw him I should try and capture him and hand him over for trial."

"But if you could not capture him? If he were escaping from you?"

"Then I would shoot him—shoot him like a dog, and be satisfied I had done my duty."

He stood up as he spoke and came into the moonlight, his face hard set, his eyes gleaming.

She raised her hands and held them out towards him with so impetuous a gesture that he drew back.

"I hope that you may never meet him—never—never," she said in a low voice which vibrated with emotion.

"Why?"

Durham rapped out the question in a savage staccato.

"Because I—oh!" she exclaimed, as she shuddered. "It is so horrible to think of, to think that you who—when you were delirious, Mr. Durham, you used to talk—you used to say things so full of tenderness and sympathy that I wondered—wondered whether you were then your real self or whether your real self was the man you are now—hard, stern, pitiless, relentless. It was because of that I asked you if you ever felt compassion for those you chase to their doom. I would rather remember you as the man I learned to know when you unconsciously revealed to me your other nature. It is only as that I care to remember you. But if you met that man and killed him—oh, how could I bear to think of you as a murderer? It would kill me!"

"I should not be a murderer. I should be carrying out my duty—a duty I hope I may never be called upon to perform, but one which I should not shrink from performing if I were called on by circumstances to perform it."

For a space there was another silence between them, until he remembered she was standing.

"Will you not sit down?" he said quietly. "Let me bring you a chair. This is my last night here," he said, when she had taken the chair he brought. "Do not let us talk about that wretched side of life. I want, before I go, to thank you for all the goodness and kindness you have shown to me. You have been——"

She made an exclamation of impatience.

"You have nothing to thank me for, Mr. Durham. Surely there is nothing deserving of thanks in doing what one could to relieve unmerited suffering. I only had—compassion."

"It was more than compassion. It was the——"

"Now, please. You will only annoy me if you say any more about it. If you had had a skilful nurse, you would have been cured long ago; it was my foolish blundering which delayed you so long."

"Your blundering? If everybody would only blunder as you have, Mrs. Burke, then there would——"

"You must not say that, Mr. Durham," she interrupted.

"But indeed I must," he answered softly. "You have not only brought me back to health, but you have given me new life—something I never had before—not until I met you. I want to tell you. I want——"

"No, no," she exclaimed, as she rose to her feet. "You must not talk like that. You must not, really. I will not listen to you, I must not."

He lay back in his chair and she resumed her seat in silence.

"What news had Brennan?" she asked presently. "You see, I have not been in the town since you came here," she went on. "One likes to know what is going, especially when one is isolated. Has the new manager arrived at the bank yet?"

"I think not, but I did not ask. Brennan would probably have mentioned it though, if it were so."

"I must come in and see about engaging someone to get the place ready for stock," she said. "The old man is not a scrap of use. In fact, I wish he were back in Ireland. He has the usual Irish failing, Mr. Durham. You know what that is. I'm always afraid that he will break out if ever he gets into the town by himself."

"Drink?" Durham asked.

"Oh, something terrible. I don't think he has had any since you have been up here, but one never knows. Any time I may find him helpless. It makes me uneasy until I have someone else about the place. Sure you can never say what a man like that will do. He might set the whole place on fire over my head, and I should never know it till I was burned to death perhaps."

"May I make inquiries for you to-morrow, when I get into town? Mr. Gale may know——"

"Mr. Gale? Oh, he's a likely man to bother himself about my affairs now. It was Mr. Gale stopped me from going to Taloona when I heard first about your—accident. All he could talk about was the good Mrs. Eustace was doing, and I said it was as well perhaps that Mr. Eustace was not at home, seeing the interest all the men in the place were taking in his lady. Sure now, is there any news of the creature—Mr. Eustace, I mean—there's no need to ask about Mrs. Eustace. Has any trace at all been found of the scoundrel?"

"I can't say, really," he answered slowly. "I shall know to-morrow. We did not go into everything to-day. Brennan only reported certain matters of official routine."

"Well, well. I should have thought he would have given you all the news seeing how long you have been away, and knowing how anxious you would be to have the latest tidings. Did he say at all how the old curmudgeon was? Is Mrs. Eustace still dancing attendance on him, and making herself a public martyr to cover up the tracks of her levanting husband?"

"I believe Mr. Dudgeon is practically well again—the doctor could have told you about that."

"Oh, he did, but I wondered whether you had other news. Sure it's not always a doctor's word that is worth considering. They lie almost as well as lawyers—or the police."

"To whom you come for verification."

"Now, that's just like me, giving away my own private opinion of you without the asking. But there! Did you ever hear the reason why the old man hated so much to let me buy this place? The doctor was telling me. He said the old man was never done telling him and Mrs. Eustace all about it. It's the funniest story ever you heard. Do you know it?

"Sure I'll tell it to you," she went on, without heeding the absence of any reply to her question. "The old man was once in love. You'd hardly believe that, would you? But you never know. It's the most unlikely people on this earth who are the most like to make fools of themselves in that way. You and me and the rest of us, sure we're none of us safe, though I will say I'd like to see the woman who could get the blind side of one man I've met in these parts. Who he may be is no matter. But about old Dudgeon. It's long since he was in love, you must know, but when he was it was with a girl who was the daughter of the people who owned this station, years and years ago, before you and I were born, indeed. Well, the girl wouldn't have him, or preferred someone else, which is about the same thing. Kitty Lambton was her name when he was after her; it was a man named O'Guire she married to get away from the old soured rascal, though he was young at the time, and mayhap a sour young man at that. Would you say she was wrong? Would you?"

"I suppose every woman has a right to please herself in such a matter," he replied evasively.

"That's what I say, and it's what poor Kitty did, rest her soul, for she is dead now, poor thing."

Her voice dropped to a softer tone suddenly, and she was silent for a few seconds; but when she resumed her story the shrill tone, the tone which irritated and hurt him, he knew not why, rang out again.

"But the old man would have none of it. He swore all the vengeance he could think of against her and hers. He swore no woman should ever set foot in this place again. He hounded the father and mother of that unfortunate girl to their graves; he chased her and her husband from pillar to post, robbing them, swindling them, betraying them until there was no place on the face of the earth they could call their own, no, not even a stick nor a shred. The devil was good to him—sure he always is good to his own. Money came to him by the waggon-load, and ever did he use it to hound those two unfortunates down, lower and lower until there was no hope nor peace for them, and they wandered outcasts in the sight of man and woman. And that's the man, that old double-dyed, heartless scoundrel that you police flock to preserve and protect, while the likes of Kitty and her husband are forced down and down and down to the lowest dregs of life. Is that justice? Is that law? Is that right? Answer me that now."

"Probably Mr. Dudgeon coloured his story a good deal when he told it: old men usually do when they recount their youthful doings," he said quietly. "But, in any case——"

She held out her hand impulsively.

"Wait a moment," she said. "Supposing he did. Supposing the tale is only half true; but supposing that he did drive Kitty and her husband to the gutter, and suppose they had children—do you think if those children knew what that old scoundrel had done they would not be right to pay him back in his own coin? Sure I'm glad I was able to make the old vagabond eat his own words when I bought the place over his head. He's met one woman in the world who has defied him. And do you know what? If I knew where any of Kitty Lambton's children were at this moment—or her husband, seeing she is dead, poor thing—at least, so the doctor said—I'd go to them and say they could have the place free if only they would go and taunt that old fiend and fling it in his face and hound him down as he hounded down their parents."

"What good would that do either you or them?" he asked.

"Good?"

She sprang out of her chair and stood facing him.

"Don't you know what it is to hate?" she cried. "Is it only Irish blood that can boil at rank injustice? Is it only Irish hearts which burn to aid the oppressed and torture the oppressors as they tortured their poor unfortunate victims? You said you would shoot the man who struck you down, shoot him like a dog, if he were escaping your clutches. Don't you think Kitty Lambton's children have as great, if not a greater right to shoot that bloodless, heartless monster like a dog or a cat or any other vermin, if they met him on this earth? I'd tell them to do it; I'd tell them to do it if there were no other way to make his last hours more full of misery and agony. That's what I'd do, the dirty old traitorous villain that he is. Pah!"

She uttered the words with a tigerish pant as she swung on her heels and strode away to the end of the verandah, where she stood for a moment staring up at the sky, before she returned.

"It's the curse of the Irish to feel the wounds of others as keenly as though they were one's own," she said, as she sat down again. "What concern is it of mine whether the old fool hoards his money and drives lost souls to perdition? I've no right to worry about other people's troubles. Sure I have enough of my own. But it just maddened me to think of it. Oh, it's the Irish hearts that suffer!"

The harsh vibrant tones had gone; the voice he heard was that of the woman who had pleaded earlier in the evening for compassion for the men who had injured her.

Impulsively he reached out his hand and touched hers.

"You must not," he said. "You must not heed such tales. You are too warm-hearted. The sordid side of life is not for you. We who have to come in contact with it, and know it in all its wretched squalor, know only too well that rarely, if ever, can one of the high-pitched stories of personal wrong be justified. The greater the criminal, the greater the protestations of innocence and injustice. Do not be deceived. You, who are so full of sympathy and gentleness, you who would not, by your own hand, hurt the hair of a man's head, you——"

She sprang up.

"Don't!" she cried. "Don't! You must not—never—never—I told you I would not have you speak to me of—I must not hear such things. I——"

He was by her side, his two hands clasping hers.

"Nora, I must. Darling, I love you. I cannot bear to see——"

She pushed him back, flinging her hands free from his grasp, to clasp and press them to her bosom as though to still the great heaving gasps which made it rise and fall in tumultuous spasms.

"Mr. Durham! You forget!"

Her voice fell like a whip-lash, cold, haughty, stern.

"I forbid you ever to speak to me so again. Good night."

She swept past him and entered the house, closing the door after her.

Hours passed before he could obtain control over his thoughts, before he could face the blackness her rejection of his declaration had brought upon him. Then he rose and stood staring blankly out over the sombre mystery of the bush, long since bereft of the faint glimmer of the new-born moon, veiled in shade, silent as the thin wisps of filmy mist which floated in the still air along the course of Waroona Creek.

In the morning Mrs. Burke met him without a trace in her voice, face, or manner of the resentful indignation she had shown on the previous night. She talked, as she had talked on many a morning at the breakfast-table, with an uninterrupted flow of chatter, inconsequential, airy, frivolous. She met his eyes openly, frankly, without a glimmer to show she noticed the lines which furrowed his face. Yet they were so marked that when Brennan drove out for him later, he glanced at his superior officer with apprehension.

"Do you think you are well enough to return to duty, sir?" he asked. "You don't look half so well as you did yesterday, and you were not looking too well then. If a few more days' rest——"

"Oh, I'm very fit, Brennan," Durham interrupted. "You had better turn the horses out for an hour or so; Mrs. Burke insists on my waiting to have lunch before I go."

Mrs. Burke came out to them as they stood talking.

"Oh, Brennan, did you see old Patsy in the town?" she exclaimed.

"Why, he was here this morning," Durham said.

"Excuse me, Mr. Durham, he was not. You remember what I told you last night. I did not care to say then, but the old man was very strange in his manner before dinner, and I believed he had had drink. I spoke to him about it, and I have not seen him since."

"But—who got breakfast ready?" Durham asked sharply.

"I did myself, Mr. Durham."

"Oh, Mrs. Burke; why did you not tell me? I could have——"

"An Irish lady, Mr. Durham, does not ask her guests to do her housework."

Durham turned away at the sting of her words and voice.

"Did you see the old man in the town, Brennan?" she asked.

"No, Mrs. Burke, he was not in town last night. I should have seen him."

"Oh, dear, then what can have happened to the creature? Sure I wish I had left him behind me in Ireland."

"He may be about the place somewhere. Will I look for him?" Brennan said.

"He's not about the house; I've looked everywhere," she answered.

"He might be in one of the outhouses or stables."

"I never thought of that," she exclaimed. "Maybe that's where he is. Oh, the trouble of the wretched old fool! I'll pack him off back to Ireland."

She went into the house and Durham turned to Brennan.

"Have you ever seen him in the town?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, sir. He comes in at night mostly and buys drink, but he never stays. Soden told me yesterday the last time he came in he took away half a gallon of rum with him. Maybe that's the cause of his disappearance."

"We'll look for him," Durham said shortly.

In an outlying tool-shed they found him, stretched out on a tumbled heap of old sacks and rubbish, the place reeking with the scent of rum and a half-gallon jar lying on its side near him, empty.

"He's dead to the world for a day," Brennan said as he stood up after bending over the old man and trying to rouse him. "He must have been drinking steadily for days to get through that quantity and into this state. What are we to do with him, sir?"

"If Mrs. Burke will give him in charge we will take him to the station and lock him up, but we cannot take him otherwise. He's on her private property."

"That settles it then," Brennan replied. "She's Irish, sir. You know what that means."

His anticipation was correct. Mrs. Burke refused point-blank to allow her helpless retainer to be touched. He could remain where he was, she said, and she hoped the snakes and the lizards and the mosquitoes and all the other fearsome things she could mention would come and devour him—but the police were not going to touch him.

She was equally hostile when Durham suggested they should start off for the town without giving her the trouble of preparing anything for them to eat. In fact, he could not now open his lips to her that she did not snap some biting retort at him.

"She'd set the dogs on you if she were in her own country, sir," Brennan remarked, when at last they drove away from the house with a final envenomed shaft ringing in their ears. "I don't think the old man is the only one who has a taste for the drink, if you ask me, sir."



CHAPTER XIV

THE LAST STRAW

Since Mrs. Eustace returned to the township Harding had never once been to see her nor, when passing the house, had he glanced at it.

His attitude was inexplicable to her. That she had not had even a word from him while she was at Taloona perplexed her, for it did not occur to her to question whether he had received the message she left with Bessie for him. Yet there were several reasons which might account for that omission. But his failure either to see or to communicate with her after her return to Waroona was entirely another matter.

When the third day came without a sign or word from him she took the bull by the horns and sent a note asking him to see her that evening.

She was waiting for him in her sitting-room when she heard him come to the door, heard him ask Bessie if she were at home, heard him approach the room. As he opened the door she rose to greet him. He stopped on the threshold.

"I received your note—you wish to see me?" he said stiffly.

"Fred!" she exclaimed, looking at him in amazement. "Why, what has happened? Why do you speak so? What is it?"

He remained where he was, silent.

"Don't you wish to see me?" she asked, still regarding him with a look of wondering amazement. "Has anything happened? Is that the reason you have never been to see me since I came back—why you never sent a word to me at Taloona? Have they—have they found out anything more about Charlie?"

He closed the door and walked across to the table by the side of which she was standing.

"Mrs. Eustace," he began, but before he could say more she interrupted him.

"You have something unpleasant to say. What is it? At least be frank. Whatever it is I am prepared to hear it."

He took the letter from his pocket.

"This came into my possession the night we were at Taloona," he said slowly. "I should have returned it to you at once, but it slipped my memory until after you had gone. Then, accidentally, unthinkingly, I came to read it. I—I wish to hear what you have to say about it. I wish to know——" The sentences he had so carefully thought out fled from his brain before the calm, steadfast look with which she was regarding him. "Do you recognise it?" he asked abruptly.

He held out the cover to her, turning it over so that she could see both sides.

"It is one of the Bank envelopes; I don't recognise anything else," she replied.

Taking the letter from the cover, he spread it open and held it out.

"Now do you know it?"

"Charlie's writing!"

Her eyes, after one rapid glance at it, were raised to his.

"You recognise it?"

"I recognise the writing, yes. It is his. Do you wish me to read it?"

"If you have not already done so."

She took the letter from him. As she read the first sentence she raised her eyes, filled with piteous anguish, to his.

"Oh, Fred!" she exclaimed. "Oh, what is this? Where did you get it?"

Without waiting for an answer she looked at it again. Her face went as white as the paper, a violent fit of trembling seized her, and she sank to her knees beside the table, burying her head on her arms.

"Oh, Fred! Fred! Why—why did you let me see it?" she moaned.

"Is it not yours?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

"Mine?"

She was on her feet, facing him, with eyes that blazed through the tears which filled them.

"You believed that? You believed I had this when—that I had read it when we were at Taloona? You believed that?"

"It was given to me by one of the troopers, who picked it up where you had been kneeling when you attended to Durham's wound. The man said it was either yours or mine. I knew it was not mine, so I took it to give it to you. I should have given it at once, but I forgot it at the moment. When I read it——"

"Go on," she said in a hard voice as he paused.

"When I read it I——"

Her eyes disconcerted him; he could not bring himself to say to her face he suspected her.

"When you read it—you believed it was mine," she said steadily.

"For the moment, yes; I had no alternative. Then—later—I was uncertain."

"Uncertain of what?"

"Uncertain whether it was yours. At first I intended to hand it over to Brennan, as Durham was too ill to understand. Of course, that would have made it public, and you—well, you would have been suspected, at the least, of complicity in the robbery. I could not believe that of you—could not, even with this in my possession. I came back to Waroona in the morning intending to see you and hear what explanation you had to offer before taking any further steps. But you were not at the bank, and when I got there I was done up."

The steady look in her eyes never changed.

"Go on," she repeated.

"I ask you now—what explanation have you to offer?"

"Please finish your story first," she replied. "Then I will tell you mine."

"I have little to add. I could not bring myself to give up the letter until I was sure it was really yours. Lest anyone else should see it, I hid it where no one could find it. But when I came down from my room again, Mr. Wallace told me you had been in and had gone back to Taloona. So I kept it until I could be sure."

"Sure of what?"

"Whether—you had had it."

She laid it on the table in front of him.

"Take it," she said. "Do what you will with it. I am sorry you showed it to me. I would rather not have seen it. How it came where it was found I do not know. Until to-night I did not know it existed."

She met his glance openly, frankly, proudly.

"And you believed it was mine!" she added.

"I had no alternative—until I saw you," he answered.

"You have had that letter for weeks; I have been here three days. Yet you only come to me now—when I have asked you to come."

"I dared not see you—lest——"

"Lest you discovered me to be even a greater traitress than you had already learned me to be," she said in measured tones. "I cannot blame you. The fault was mine. I have given you ample reason why your faith in me should have ended."

"That is not true," he exclaimed. "I could not bring myself to believe you had acted so. But it was horrible enough as it was. It was because I had not lost faith in you that I hid the letter so as to prevent anyone else seeing it. By doing so I was not acting as I should have acted towards the Bank."

"I never had it, never. I wish I had not seen it, for it"—her voice lost its hardness as she spoke—"it is the last straw. Whatever else I knew my husband to be, I held him innocent of that crime. When you and all the others suspected him, I would not, could not bring myself to believe it. But now——"

Her voice caught and she turned aside, sinking into a chair where she sat with averted face and bowed head.

"No wonder you did not wish to see me again," she added presently, as he did not speak. "What am I now? The wife of a thief, an outlaw, one who was almost a murderer. Oh, leave me! I should not have sent to you. Leave me. There is nothing for me now but death or degradation."

"You must not say that, Jess, you must not say that," he said in a strained voice as he came and stood beside her. "Whatever he may have done, you are not affected by it. Appearances cannot well be blacker against him than they are at present, but you must still remember you are not responsible for his ill-deeds. No one here, least of all myself, blames you. Besides, he has not yet been convicted."