Like the panoramic vision said to come to the minds of the drowning, the incidents on which his love had dwelt in cherishing delight passed before him. He saw again the sparkling eyes which had filled him with such gladness when first that love had come to him; saw the picture made by the wonderfully graceful form leaning against the verandah at Waroona Downs, bathed in the soft, romantic light of the new-born moon; saw the pleading face turned to him as the gentle voice spoke endearing words to gain a passing favour; saw once more that fleeting, taunting vision on which he had built so much despite the warning to beware of the vagaries of a delirium-swayed brain.

The visions passed. Before him, crippled and ghastly in the last agony of life, lay the author of this diabolical outrage upon every sensibility of his manhood.

A rage of blind, ungovernable fury swept over him. The primitive instinct of revenge, the savage longing to wreak, while there was yet time, a last fierce vengeance on the one who had betrayed him, filled his being. With a cry which ended in a curse he sprang to where his carbine lay, seized it by the barrel, and swung it round his head as he turned back upon his prisoner.

A gasping sigh came from the prostrate form, and the head rolled lolling to one side.

The carbine fell from Durham's hands and he stood motionless, looking down at the figure from which all signs of life had gone.

As quickly as it had come the paroxysm of rage left him.

The man was dying, if not dead, and the hideous riddle of the mystery still unsolved!

He must not die! He must not pass beyond the reach of human knowledge with the truth of that tragic drama in which he had played the leading part unrevealed.

Durham rushed to the pool, filled his cap with water and came back with it. Lifting up the drooping head, he moistened the nerveless lips and bathed the cold temples and pallid cheeks.

"In the—cave—rum."

The whisper was just loud enough for him to hear. Leaning the head once more against the stone, Durham staggered to the cave. A dark heap lay on the ground in the shadow. He struck a match.

Numbed as his brain was by the revelation that had come to him, he shrank back at what he saw.

A pile of woman's clothes; the skirt and jacket which had been impressed upon his memory only a few hours before under circumstances which form, perhaps, the one occasion when a man heeds and remembers what a woman wears; the jaunty hat which had exerted so great a spell upon the masculine population of the district, and beside it, the most horrible of all, a wig of luxuriant coal-black hair from which the subtle perfume that had so often charmed him still floated.

With hands which shook so that he could scarcely hold it, he took the bottle of rum, bearing Soden's label, from the ground beside the clothes, and hastened to the mouth of the cave.

In the cold moonlight the figure lay to all appearances dead.

Durham tore open the front of the shirt and pushed in his hand to feel if the heart still beat.

With the moaning cry of a heart-broken man he reeled back. Then, in a wild fervour born of his soul's despair, he fell on his knees beside the prostrate form and tenderly drew the lolling head to his breast and moistened the blue lips with the spirit.

"Oh, speak! Speak to me! Nora, speak to me and tell me," he wailed.

He reached to take her hands and remembered how he had bound the arms. Quickly he set them free and chafed the limp fingers.

"Rum—quick—drink," came in a wavering whisper, and he poured some of the potent spirit between the lips.

Holding her in his arms, with her head resting on his shoulder, he waited, listening to her faint breathing.

"A little more and—I——"

She was able to raise her hand to steady the bottle which he held. Then her head fell over again and she lay inert.

He turned his face to watch her. In a momentary fit of remorse and grief he pressed his lips to hers.

One of her arms stole round his neck and held him to her.

"Oh, my darling, my darling, how I have loved you," he heard her whisper. "Why did you come to me so late?"

Like a chill of death the words went through his brain.

"Tell me—everything," he whispered.

"Yes—before I die—if I can."

"Who are you?" he said. "What is your real name?"

"Nora O'Guire. I am Kitty Lambton's youngest daughter. I told you her story."

"And Patsy?"

"He was my father."

"Was?"

"Yes. He is at the house—dead—Dudgeon—shot him."

"Who was it robbed the bank?"

"Dad and I."

"And Eustace?"

"No. He was innocent."

A shudder of horror passed over him. The woman whom he had loved with such an abandon, this woman whom he held even then in his arms—he shrank away from her, letting her fall against the stone as the grim, sordid horror of the tragedy she was revealing grew plain before him.

"Ah, don't leave me—don't—don't," she moaned. "Let me die in your arms—let me—oh, I love you, love you beyond all else. I will tell you everything—everything—only still hold me."

"How did Eustace die?" His voice rang hard and pitiless.

"Oh! Give me this one last joy on earth. I am not all bad. Don't deny me now. Hold me in your arms, beloved. I had no faith in man or God till I met you, and you were good to me—in the coach—have you forgotten? Don't desert me—now."

Like a jagged claw rending harp-strings the phrases jarred and jangled every chord within his being.

"Oh, why—why——?" he cried. "Why did you come to this?"

"Hold me and I will tell you."

He knelt by her side, taking her head again upon his shoulder while she clutched at his hand.

"My strength is going—more rum—quick."

He held the bottle to her mouth in silence, loving, loathing, pitying, and condemning.

"Now. Don't stop me. Don't interrupt—only listen."

She lay still for a few minutes, gathering the last of her energy. Presently she began.

"Dad, O'Guire that is, was driven to stealing. Mother too. All the other little ones died but me. Dad trained me. Write to the police in London and ask about Nora O'Guire—there are lots of other names, but they know me under all as Nora O'Guire. Then mother died. She made me swear not to rest till we had revenged her on Dudgeon. We came out, Dad and I, came out to find him. I bluffed the bank."

"But the deeds you had with you—were they forgeries?"

"No. I stole them. From a solicitor's office in Dublin—he probably does not know they are missing. Write to him."

"Where are they now?"

"In the cellar under the house—in a stone jar. His name is on them. The bank-notes are there too. The gold is in a——"

"I have found that."

She raised her head.

"You found it? When?"

"Early to-day. Before I met you."

The head fell back. "I am glad," she said. "You are the first man to beat me—but I love you."

"Tell me how you managed to deceive everyone as you did."

"I acted. Once, for a time, when things got too hot for us, I went on the stage. It threw the 'tecks off the scent. I wanted to stay at it, for I liked it, but mother was mad to ruin Dudgeon, and Dad could not keep straight. So we began again. I wore a wig and made up. You'll find it in the cave."

"I have seen it."

"Oh, if I could only have married you," she gasped. "If I had only met you earlier!"

"But about Eustace," he said quietly.

"Yes, I'll tell you. I went to the bank—like this—and saw Eustace. I slipped into the kitchen and drugged the tea. I knew they all took it. Then Dad and I broke in. It was quite easy. I climbed up the verandah, opened the back door, and let Dad in. They were all dead asleep. We took the keys and cleared the safe. Every place was locked up again and left just as we found it. Dad went out, and when I had locked the back door I went over the verandah again."

"How did you get the gold away?"

"The buggy was in the bush. We whitewashed the horses as a blind. We knew they hated the colour up here. It puzzled everyone."

"But when did you discover this place?"

"Dad knew it in the old days. He and mother used to meet here in secret—there is a way across to the ford—the water gets shallow in one place—it was there Dad shot——"

Her voice caught and she turned appealing eyes to him as she struggled for breath.

"Give me—rum," she muttered, and he rested her head on his arm, while he slowly poured some of the spirit between her lips. For a time she lay so still he thought she had gone, till there came a wavering sigh and she moved her head slightly.

"It was—nearly—over——" she whispered.

"About Eustace?" he said. "Can you tell me now?"

"Yes—I'll try," she answered. "Don't leave me—stay with me till the end, won't you? Give me—your word."

"I will stay," he replied.

The head resting on his arm turned until the eyes looked straight into his. They were filled with the gentle light he had seen in them when, through the momentary lifting of the veil of unconsciousness, he had been enabled to catch a glimpse of her real nature.

"Then I'll tell you—everything," she whispered. "We had to fix suspicion on someone. When I saw him he had no nerve. I offered to shelter him. He agreed, and I let him out of the window, and pretended to go on talking to him all the time he was getting away into the bush. You know what happened then."

"At the bank? Yes. But what became of Eustace?"

"He was at the house. He was there the night you came. He nearly gave himself up. He was coming when he heard you say who you were. So Dad knocked him on the head and put him in the cellar."

"While I was there?" Durham exclaimed.

"Yes. When you went to see to your horse. Then later we had to trick you. Dad put something in the tea like I did at the bank, only it would have killed you all he put in. He wanted to. He wanted to after, and tried to, but I—I wouldn't let him—because I loved you. But I made you sleep that night—Dad had to make fresh tea, and I put the stuff in. We watched you go off on the verandah while you were smoking, and then tied you up. It was hard to make you wake, but we had to—Dad had taken Eustace's handkerchief—we knew you would be convinced if you found it—after seeing me—and we—we shot your horse, and made the others bolt."

"But afterwards? What happened to Eustace afterwards?" he asked as she stopped.

"We had to keep him there, then, because he knew. He was there in the cellar the night you came from Taloona. You heard him cry out. So Dad brought him here and tied him up. He was here all the time you were at the house. The evening after you saw Brennan, when you talked to me on the verandah, Dad came and found him escaping. Dad killed him. He had to. He shammed drunk next day, so that you should not suspect him. There is a short cut from the house, and Dad took it after you left, and got to the ford before you. That's all."

"When Taloona was stuck up——"

"Dad and I," she said. "We didn't know you were there. You hit me, and I—oh, darling, it broke my heart when I saw you fall, but I had to. That is why I took you away to nurse you. I kissed you when you didn't know."

"The other night—when you rode through the town?"

She lay silent and he repeated the question.

"I was—half drunk. So was Dad. We did it out of devilment. They were all such fools—all but you—and you nearly shot me. The bullet grazed my horse. You will see the cut on the shoulder. You nearly caught Dad. He was in the police-station when you got back. He cracked every crib in the place—I wasn't in that."

"Where did he hide?" Durham asked.

"In the yard—where Eustace was—you never looked there."

A convulsive shudder ran through her.

"But to-night—where were you going to-night when I met you?" he asked.

"To kill Dudgeon. Dad only just got home. I could die happy if I only had."

Again her frame quivered, and she was racked with a fierce struggle to get her breath. She lay against him, her head resting in the hollow of his arm, her eyes closed, and her mouth twitching.

"Tell him," she whispered between her panting gasps. "Tell him—I—tried——"

He touched her hands lying limply in her lap; they were icy cold. Her head was growing heavy on his arm and her lips were turning blue. He moistened them once more with rum as her breathing became almost imperceptible.

For a moment her eyes opened and looked into his with an expression of wonderful tenderness.

"Dudgeon is already dead," he whispered gently.

She started and tried to sit up, but could only raise her head.

"Dead," she whispered. "Dead!"

Then, as though the news galvanised her waning strength into one last tumultuous effort, she flung out her arms and sat up, with wide-open eyes staring fixedly into space.

"Dad! Dad!" she cried. "You did—you did, Dad. Oh, thank——"

Her arms fell, her head lolled forward, and her body lurched against Durham as, with a broken, gasping sigh, she collapsed into a nerveless, jointless thing.

He bent his head and placed his ear to her breast above her heart. There was not the faintest throb, and he took his arm from around her. As he did so she rolled over, her face upturned towards the moon, at which her wide-open eyes stared and her mouth gaped.

The Rider of Waroona was dead!

With bowed head and aching heart Durham bent over her.

All the love of his nature which had lain dormant for so long had gone out to this woman, enfolding her, idealising her, until she became to him the completement of his being, the one incentive for all which was noble within him, the mainspring of his life, the lode-stone of his ambitions. To have won her would have been his dearest and proudest achievement; to have had her love would have made existence for him a never-ending stream of happiness and joy.

As a sun new risen from the night she had come into his life, bringing light and warmth and peace where there had been only coldness and unrest. So he had dreamed of her only that morning; so she had appeared to him only a few hours since when, at her bidding, trusting her, believing in her, loving her, he had turned his back on his duty—betrayed.

Resentment at the treachery warred with his love and tinged his sorrow with bitterness. How she had played with him, tricking him, fooling him, outwitting him—and yet loving him.

The memory of the last fond look of lingering tenderness which had been in her eyes ere he told her Dudgeon was dead came to him. Why had he told her that? Why had he not let her die as she was then, with the gentle side of her nature dominating her, filled with the one soft impulse she perhaps had ever known?

The words had slipped from his tongue almost before he knew, and on the instant there had come back to her the overshadowing influence which had warped her life for evil even before she was born.

By his hand she had died; by his words her last moments had been filled with the blackness of insensate hate.

Before the mute condemnation of that self-accusing thought the bitterness which had been in his mind against her dissipated. Whatever ills she had done to him, he had done greater to her. Whatever ills she had done to humanity were the outcome not of her own nature, but of the circumstances and conditions which had governed her from the moment she was born. All that she had said during the last evening he spent at her house recurred to him and a new significance dawned into the words.

She had spoken of herself, pleaded for herself, striven to rouse his sympathy and compassion, so that, within the sombre barrenness of her ill-starred life, one spot there might be where the loving kindness of human charity had fallen and made it bright. He remembered how he had answered her—coldly, sternly, crushing down her awakening soul with the same callous indifference which had always met her. With the pitiless weight of a loveless life, what wonder she was warped, distorted, marred? More sinned against than sinning, he had no right nor will to blame her—only the love she had inspired in him remained, to fill his heart with sadness and drag it down with the hopeless desolation of vain regrets.

For she had gone from him even as she revealed the love she bore him, gone into the darkness by his own act, gone—his throat grew hard until he choked as the thought came to him—gone from a greater degradation he, by the merciless irony of fate, would have had to fasten upon her.

Better, a thousand times better for her, that she should be as she was than that she should have lived to face the doom awaiting her—better for her—and better for him.

It was nothing to him now that the story she had told showed her, by all the laws of humanity, to be unworthy. Black as she had painted herself, the love she had inspired shone through the blackness, revealing only that which lay beyond, the radiant purpose, unmeasurable by human standards, transcending human ken.

He knelt again by her side, taking her cold hands in his and placing them upon her breast, closing the staring eyes, composing the wry-drooped mouth, straightening the twisted limbs.

"Oh, my love, my love," he wailed. "Sleep on in peace. Sleep on till I shall come to you. Wait for me, for I must stay awhile yet to shield and shelter you so that none may know the secret of your life."



CHAPTER XIX

THE ASHES OF SILENCE

Wallace and Harding were seeing all was secure in the bank before retiring for the night when a sharp rap sounded at the front door.

"Hullo, what's this?" Wallace exclaimed. "Will you see who it is?"

Harding went to the door and opened it. On the step Durham was standing.

"Oh, it's you, Durham. Come in," he said. "We've been discussing things or we should have been in bed an hour or more ago. What's the news?"

Without a word Durham stepped in and walked to the room where Wallace was waiting at the door. Directly he came into the light both Harding and Wallace uttered exclamations of surprise.

"Why, what has happened?" the latter cried. "My dear fellow—you look thoroughly done up—you are as haggard as a man of sixty. You've overdone it. Let me get you a whisky."

Durham shook his head and sat down, resting one hand on the table at his side, the other on his knee. His uniform was soiled and torn, his face lined and grey, and his eyes heavy as with a great weariness. The quick alertness he had shown when he was with them earlier in the day had gone; he looked, as Wallace had expressed it, an old, haggard man, listless, without vitality, lacking even the energy to talk.

The two stood watching him in silence, the same question in each one's mind—what could have happened to produce so great a change in a man in so short a time?

"Are you sure you won't let me get you something?" Wallace said presently as Durham neither moved nor spoke. "You are quite worn out. Won't you take——"

Durham raised his hand as he shook his head again.

"I only want you to send away a telegram at once to your head office," he said in a voice so dull and hollow that it caused even a greater shock to his companions than his appearance had done.

"There would not be anyone to receive it at this time of night," Wallace replied. "But it shall go the first thing in the morning."

"If you will write it now, I will leave it at the post office," Durham said in the same lifeless tone.

Wallace rose, forcing a smile.

"It is already written, Durham," he said pleasantly. "It states you have succeeded in recovering the stolen gold, and asks for authority to pay you the reward at once and in public."

"You must not send that."

The forced smile faded as Wallace stood staring; the expression both in Durham's voice and on his face was so hopelessly despondent, that into Wallace's mind there came a fear lest the recovered gold had again disappeared.

"Not send that?" he asked wonderingly. "Why? You said——"

"I know. But you must not send it—now. Write another."

"The gold is lost?" Wallace exclaimed.

"No. The gold is safe; it is on its way here now—Brennan is bringing it. What you must report at once is that Eustace was innocent."

"Eustace innocent?"

Wallace and Harding uttered the exclamation simultaneously.

"Innocent. Absolutely innocent. Tell Mrs. Eustace too. It may bring her a grain of comfort in her distress."

Without raising his head or lifting his eyes, Durham spoke in the voice of a man upon whom the weight of desolation has fallen. To his hearers it suggested failure, defeat, and the consequent loss of professional prestige. To Wallace, whose concern was mostly for the recovery of the Bank's money, the suggestion did not convey so much as it did to Harding. He knew more of Durham's views, had heard him express time and again his absolute conviction as to the guilt of Eustace. The case, as Durham had put it, was so entirely clear against the late manager that to hear him now declared innocent, and by the man who had accumulated evidence against him, reduced Harding's mind to a blank.

"What are you saying, Durham?" he heard Wallace exclaim with impatience. "What do you mean? Eustace innocent? Why—great Heavens, man, if he were innocent——"

"He was absolutely innocent, Mr. Wallace. As innocent as Mr. Harding."

"But——" Harding passed his hand across his forehead.

"It is true," Durham said in a subdued tone. "I was entirely misled, entirely."

"But—then—well, how was the bank robbed?" Harding cried.

"I know how it was robbed; by whom it was robbed; everything," Durham replied.

"Who was it?" Wallace asked.

Durham remained silent, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"The Rider?" Harding said.

"That name will do. The Rider and another. They are both dead. I saw one die—from a bullet in the back. I fired it. I have seen the other dead from a bullet Mr. Dudgeon fired. The missing notes I have recovered. I have them here."

He put his hand inside his tunic and drew out a closely tied bundle which he laid on the table.

"Will you check them and see if the total is correct?"

"Now?" Wallace asked.

"If you please."

"But will not to-morrow morning do? It is enough to have as many as these back without going through them so late at night."

"I shall not be here to-morrow."

"You are surely not going away—not until——"

"I shall not be here to-morrow," Durham repeated.

The tone in which he spoke stopped further discussion.

"We can check them in here—I will fetch the register," Harding said, as he rose and went to the office, returning in a few moments with the book.

While he and Wallace checked the notes with the list of those stolen, Durham sat at the end of the table in the same position he had first assumed.

"They are all here," Wallace said in a subdued voice, when the checking was complete. The presence of this grey-faced, silent, sad-eyed man was getting on his nerves.

"The gold and the things stolen from the bank will be here in a few minutes; Brennan is bringing them."

"And the deeds—Mrs. Burke's deeds? Have you no trace of them?"

"They are returned to the owner."

"But they ought to be here. The Bank advanced money on them."

"I am sorry. I cannot help it now. You will have to hold the deeds of Waroona Downs instead."

"We have those," Harding said quietly.

"Oh, well then, it does not matter so much, though it is still very irregular, you know," Wallace replied.

Durham stood up and turned to Harding. "You will tell Mrs. Eustace? Tell her I am more than sorry for her in her trouble, but she can console herself that she was right. Her husband was innocent. Good-bye."

With bent head and slow steps he passed from the room and from the bank, closing the door after him.

"But what does it mean? What does it all mean?" Wallace cried as the front door slammed.

"We may know to-morrow," Harding replied. "There must be something horribly tragic to have affected Durham so much. Better leave it as it stands, I think. He would have spoken had there been anything more he could have said."

"Did he mean the gold was coming here to-night?"

"I gathered so. Shall I walk up to the station and ask Brennan?"

But before he could do so Brennan arrived at the bank.

"Where will you have it put?" he asked. "I've got it out at the back by the fence."

"We'll both give you a hand with it," Wallace replied.

They went out at the back door. A light cart was standing beyond the fence, with something in it covered by a tarpaulin. Brennan pulled the cover away and revealed the pile of bags.

"There is hardly anything missing," Wallace exclaimed when everything had been carried into the bank and the amount checked. "It is one of the smartest things I have ever encountered. The way your sub-inspector has traced and recovered this is nothing short of marvellous."

"He told me to say, sir, that it seemed to him only a right thing for you to do to let Mr. Eustace be brought here so that the funeral could be from the bank."

"Well, of course we must consult Mrs. Eustace about that," Wallace answered. "I'll see Mr. Durham in the morning——"

"Sorry to say you won't, sir," Brennan interrupted. "He's on his way now to the junction. He told me that what he had discovered he would have to report personally to the chief. Just what it is I haven't the faintest idea, but it's something pretty hot, if you ask me. I've never seen the sub-inspector curled up over anything like he is over this."

"He told us he had shot the Rider," Harding said.

"Oh, yes, sir, he told me that too. What I'm inclined to think is that he discovered him to be a member of some big family in the south, and is anxious for their sake to keep the name secret. It's just the sort of thing some young blood might do if he were in an awkward hole—a chance of lifting a big sum such as this is a pretty strong temptation to anyone in a hole."

"That may be it. One never knows. He may even have been a friend of Durham's," Wallace said musingly. "Certainly something has upset him very much. You don't know what became of the papers he found, do you? The papers Mrs. Burke left with the Bank?" he added.

"I know nothing about them, sir; but he told me to ride out to Waroona Downs the first thing in the morning and tell Mrs. Burke to come in and see you. Perhaps she may know something about them."

"Ah, very likely," Wallace said. "He told us he had returned them to the owner. I expect that is it, Harding. He has sent or given them to her. She will be able to put the matter straight, however, when she comes in."

"I should have liked to let Mrs. Eustace know to-night, but it is too late now," Harding remarked. "It's long after midnight."

"Go over directly after breakfast in the morning. I'll see to the office until you return. It will be necessary to wire to the general manager about Durham's suggestion, but we must have her opinion first."

"I suppose she has heard about Mr. Dudgeon," Harding said. "It's a bad business all through."

"There is his will, Harding; don't forget that. Not many people would be inclined to call that a bad business if they were in Mrs. Eustace's place."

It was the one grain of comfort Harding felt he was carrying with him when, on the following morning, he walked through the town to Smart's cottage.

Already the news of the Rider's end was common property. When Mrs. Eustace came to him in the little sitting-room, it was of that she spoke.

"Oh, who was he, Fred? Bessie heard that Mr. Durham had refused to tell anyone but you. Is that so? Surely I may know. Surely I am entitled to so small a satisfaction as that?"

"I do not know who he was," Harding replied. "Durham came to us late last night, too late for me to come and tell you, but he mentioned no name. He said something I would have liked to have been able to repeat to you at once, but it was too late. So I have come as early as this. Durham asked me specially to come. He said—he hoped you——"

She drew herself up as he paused, clasped her hands, and pressed them to her breast.

"What is it, Fred? You have some—something terrible—to say," she said in a whisper.

"Not terrible, Jess, but it is sad. Durham said he hoped you would find some consolation in it. So do I. So do we all. The Rider, whoever he may have been, confessed. He said Eustace was innocent."

She remained quite still, without a sound, staring at him.

"The bank was robbed by the Rider and another, Durham said, but Eustace was not one of the two. He was absolutely innocent. We have wired to the general manager to say so."

"Fred, I don't believe it. I can't believe it. Why did he run away if he were innocent? I will never rest until I know who the man Mr. Durham shot really was. Where is Mr. Durham?"

"He has left Waroona, Jess. He told Brennan he could only report personally to his chief the truth about the man. Brennan thinks he was someone connected with one of the big families, and that is why the name is not made known."

"But I insist on knowing. Was he shot? Is it true, or is it some hideous blind? I will know, Fred, I will know!"

"Durham was too much cut up when he came to us last night, Jess, for it to be a blind. A tragedy it may be, but not a blind."

"But who was the man? Whoever he was he killed Charlie, killed him, Fred. They have no right to hide his name. Besides—how do we know he was shot? Durham said so, but where is the body?"

He shook his head.

"Jess," he said, "it is sad enough. What the mystery is I cannot say, but if it has cleared Charlie's name——"

She sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands.

"Oh, that will not bring him back!" she sobbed. "What will that do now?"

He bent over her, with his hand on her shoulder.

"I know," he said, "I know how bitter it is, how hard."

"I said they would find him innocent when—when he had gone," she exclaimed.

"The Bank wants to make what amends it can," he said softly. "Will you let——"

"Oh, don't ask me," she moaned. "I know what you would say. Do as you think best."

"Then I will arrange it?"

She bent her head in answer.

"I should have gone away," she said as she rose and walked across the room. "You were right. I should never have stayed, never, never!"

"Don't think me cruel, Jess," he said; "but there is something more I must tell you. Have you heard about Mr. Dudgeon?"

She nodded.

"Oh, yes," she answered. "Poor old man. He was here yesterday. He——"

"He came to the bank," he said, as she was silent. "He left something in my charge, Jess, and made me promise you should have it at once if anything happened to him. It was his will. He has left everything to you."

She turned quickly.

"Fred—Fred——" she gasped as she held out her hands and groped in the air.

He caught her as she swayed.

For a time she lay in his arms, finding a woman's relief in a flood of tears. Not until she grew calm did he speak.

"You must go away to-morrow," he said softly. "Go away and rest where you will not be harassed by all the memories which cling around this place. Promise me you will."

She raised her head and looked him in the face through her tears.

"Fred, you know why I cannot leave. Even now, with all this tragedy over me, with him—lying over there—he whom I suspected and blamed—don't think ill of me; but my heart would have been broken but for you."

He drew her to him again, held her close to him, kissed her upturned lips.

"I will leave too," he whispered. "I will come after. Will you promise now?"

"Yes," she answered simply.

When he returned to the bank, Brennan rode up at a gallop.

"Oh, a terrible thing has happened!" he cried as he came into the office. "Waroona Downs has been burned to the ground in the night and both Mrs. Burke and old Patsy burned to death in their beds. I warned her that one of these days that drunken old man would do some damage, but she wouldn't listen to me. Now there's the place in ruins and ashes. It must have burned out hours ago, for there's not a spark left, only the remains of the two lying charred to cinders."

Coming on top of the other news circulating amongst the townsfolk, the destruction of Waroona Downs, with its two inmates, exhausted the local capacity for wonder.

The whole township followed Eustace from the bank, forgetting their earlier condemnation of him now that his innocence had been declared, and being only anxious to testify their sympathy with the woman who had suffered so much in their midst. They would have turned out en masse and escorted her some miles on her way to the junction when she set out from Waroona for the south, but word was passed round that she wanted to go away in silence, unobserved.

Three months later Harding followed her. There was no staying the township then. He was the last of the active participants in the tragic mystery to leave the place, and it was an open secret he was going to join the one for whom they all felt deeply. So they made up in his send-off for the restraint they had exercised upon themselves when she bade the town a silent farewell.

The memory of that festivity still lives in the local annals, and ever, as a stranger asks for the story of the Rider, the send-off of the banker is the conclusion of the tale. In vain the stranger may ask for particulars as to who the Rider was.

The charred ashes of Waroona Downs had no tongue wherewith to tell what happened the night fire came to wipe the homestead from the earth.

WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD PRINTERS PLYMOUTH