Durham heard a scream of pain from Dudgeon, but before he could know more there was a crashing blow on his head, and he fell senseless to the floor.
In the dining-room of the bank Wallace, Harding, and Mrs. Eustace sat.
"I have no alternative," Wallace said. "My instructions are peremptory on the subject. If, after investigation, I considered the suspicion against your husband as well founded, I was to request you to leave the bank premises without delay."
"You believe my husband stole that money?"
"I believe your husband stole that money, Mrs. Eustace."
"You may live to change your opinion, Mr. Wallace. My husband is as innocent as I am. He has acted precipitately, I admit, and more than foolishly in going away as he has done; but that does not prove him guilty."
"I am afraid I cannot discuss the question with you," Wallace replied evenly. "I can only carry out my instructions. I have told you what they are, and what my opinion is. I am sorry to inconvenience you, but I have no alternative."
"Do you wish me to leave at once?"
"Scarcely to-night; but I must ask you to get away as soon as you can."
For a space there was silence.
"I would like to speak to Mr. Harding, if you don't mind," she said presently.
"Then I will leave you, for I have been steadily travelling all last night and to-day till I arrived here, and shall be glad to get to bed," Wallace answered. "Any arrangement you can make, Harding, to assist Mrs. Eustace, I shall be pleased to hear about. You will quite understand, Mrs. Eustace, that in asking you to vacate the premises the bank is merely actuated by ordinary considerations and is in no way acting vindictively or harshly."
She inclined her head slightly in response, but otherwise made no sign as Wallace left the room.
For some time after he had gone she remained silent, Harding waiting for her to speak. Raising her head, she looked him steadily in the face.
"I suppose I ought to call you Mr. Harding now," she began, "but I can't, Fred, I can't."
"As you wish," he said.
There came another silence, the woman unable to trust herself to continue, the man fearing to begin.
"How life mocks one," she said, half to herself. "Surely it is punishment enough that I should have to turn to you in my distress, humiliating enough even to satisfy your desire for retribution. I do not blame you, Fred. I deserve it all. I treated you vilely."
"Is there any necessity to refer to that now?" he asked. "I told you the curtain had been rung down for ever upon that. I have no wish either to punish or humiliate you. I don't think that I have givenyou reason to believe that I do. If you think there has been any reason, I can only say you are mistaken."
She started impulsively to her feet and stood in front of him, holding her hands to him.
"Fred, I must say it. I cannot bear this longer. It may make you hate me—detest and despise me, but I must say it. If you had only shown resentment or anger or spite for the way in which I treated you, it would not have been so hard to bear. Oh, don't you see? Don't you understand? Oh, isn't there one scrap of pity left in you for me? I was trapped into marriage, Fred. I never loved him, never, never! He—oh, have some pity on me, Fred, some pity."
She sank into a chair and buried her face on her arms on the table as she gave way to a storm of weeping.
To the man it was agony to see her, anguish to hear her, more bitter after the confession she had made and while the grip of suspicion still held him. Scarcely knowing what he did, he stepped to her side and laid his hand gently upon her head.
"I have pity, more than pity for you, Jess," he whispered. "Don't think——" He caught his breath to check the quiver in his voice, and so remembered. "I beg your pardon—Mrs. Eustace I should have said," he added as he drew back.
With hands close clenched behind him he stood. The love he fancied he had stifled had burst through the restraint he had placed upon it; the injury she had inflicted upon him, the wrong she had done, thecause for resentment she had given him were alike forgotten. The lingering suspicion alone prevented him from taking her in his arms to soothe and comfort her in her distress. Fighting against himself he stood silent, and the woman, aching for someone on whom to lean, shivered.
"What am I to do?" she moaned. "What am I to do?"
He, thinking only of her, took the words to refer to her present difficulty.
"I think it would be better if you went away," he said gently. "I do not think it will be easier for you to bear if you are here when—should anything else come to light."
"You mean if—if he is arrested?"
"Yes."
She lifted up her head and turned a tear-stained face towards him.
"Have they found him? Have they? Is that why—why I am asked to leave the house?"
"No, Mrs. Eustace. A new manager will be appointed, and the house is wanted for him."
"But I will not leave Waroona," she exclaimed, as she stood up. "I dare not leave it—till I know. If he—suppose he did do it—and wants to find me?"
"I should advise you to go right away," Harding said, still speaking gently. "You will do no good by remaining here where everybody knows what has happened, whereas if you go away you will be able to put all the worry of it away from you."
"I will not go."
She spoke with a fierce emphasis, the more pronounced because she felt that the course he suggested was the one she ought to follow, and resenting it because, by following it, she would pass out of his sight, and perchance out of his life for all time.
"I can only advise you," he said. "The new manager may be here in a day or two, and the bank will——"
"Oh, I'm not going to stay in this house," she interrupted. "I will be out of here to-morrow; but I will not leave Waroona."
"You will make a mistake if you do not, I think, but it is for you to decide."
She sat down again, clasping and unclasping her hands in her lap.
"If I go—will you—will you write to me?"
"No, I cannot do that," he answered at once.
"May I—write to you?"
"I should be sorry if you did."
She raised her eyes and again looked at him steadily in silence, looked until he turned away.
"How hard you make it, how hard!" she said at length. "How am I to know what is happening if I go away? I am sure you are expecting his arrest. Why did those two troopers go off so mysteriously this afternoon? They did not go to the railway. I watched them from upstairs. They rode the other way."
He did not reply.
"Will you answer me this one question? Do you believe I know he is the thief?"
"If there is anything that I can do to help or assist you in your present difficulty, Mrs. Eustace, I shallbe only too pleased to do it. But I cannot discuss the robbery with you."
For the first time there was a tone of sternness in his voice.
"Then I take it that you do," she said. "I only want to tell you this. I still do not believe he did it. I know he is—he is not as you are. I have tried to shield this from you. I did not want you to know—then. Now I have told you. I did not know he was going to run away. I did not know he had gone until Brennan came to arrest him. But I can understand why he went. He knew the bank would suspect him at once, knew that there was a black record against him. It was cowardly of him, cowardly to leave me here alone. But he has gone, and I do not think I shall ever hear from him or see him again. That is why I want to remain here. If I go away, I may never know; if I am here, I shall be able to find out. But don't think that I know either that he intended to run away or where he has gone. At least have that much faith in me."
"I did think so," he said quickly. "Now I do not."
"Thank you," she said softly. "I know how difficult it is for you to say even that. You cannot discuss the matter, but—don't think harder of me, Fred, than you can help."
She turned quickly and hurried from the room. She had scarcely closed the door when she reopened it.
"Constable Brennan is asking for you," she said. "Will you go in?"
She pushed the door wide open and Brennan came forward.
"Is Mr. Wallace here?" he asked, as soon as he had seen the door close.
"He has gone to bed—he is rather tired out after his journey. Is it anything particular?"
"One of the troopers has just ridden back. When they reached Taloona they found the place on fire. The sub-inspector was outside with his head smashed, and Mr. Dudgeon, with a bullet through him and his hands handcuffed behind his back, lying on the floor of the hut. They saw the glare of the fire through the trees and only galloped up just in time to get the old man out. He's in a bad way, Conlon said, and so is the sub-inspector."
"Wait till I tell Mr. Wallace," Harding exclaimed, as he rushed from the room.
Outside in the passage, Mrs. Eustace faced him.
"Fred, what is it? I heard—who is killed?"
"Nobody, I hope. I'll be back in a moment."
He dashed up to Wallace's room and hammered at the door.
"Hullo, what's the matter now?" Wallace cried, as he answered the knock.
"Come down to the dining-room. Brennan is there. One of the troopers has come back. Taloona is burnt and both Dudgeon and Durham injured."
When they reached the dining-room they found Mrs. Eustace with Brennan.
"I can be of use. I know how to nurse. I've learned how to give first aid. Let me go out and attend to them till the doctor comes. He is twentymiles away, and they may bleed to death before he can get there. I've got some bandages. I'll fetch them," Mrs. Eustace was saying.
She turned as Wallace and Harding entered.
"Tell them, Brennan, while I get the things," she added as she ran out and upstairs.
"It's wicked to think of her wasted on a scoundrel like that," Brennan exclaimed. "You heard what she said, sir? I know she's the only one in the township who understands what to do till the doctor comes. We've sent a man off for him, and they're getting a party together to go out and fetch the sub-inspector and the old man in. She's offered to go too. It may save their lives, for, from what Conlon said, they're badly hurt, both of them."
"Has the gold gone?" Wallace asked.
"I reckon so, though there's no saying until we hear what has happened. But it looks like a bad case of sticking the place up and trying to murder the inmates. Hullo, there's Mr. Gale calling. He's got his buggy. There's a seat to spare if either of you like to go."
"You'd be of more use than I should, Harding," Wallace said.
"Yes, I'll go," the younger man replied.
Mrs. Eustace came running into the room, her arms full of bottles and bandages.
"I haven't stopped to sort them out—I'll take all I've got," she exclaimed breathlessly.
"I will put them in the buggy while you get a cloak. I am coming with you," Harding said, as he took the articles from her and carried them out toGale's buggy, which was drawn up outside the bank.
"You had better bring them here; it's quieter and more roomy than any other place in the town," Wallace said to Brennan when they were alone.
"If they can stand the journey," Brennan said under his breath. "I've told Conlon to ride back and let us know; I'll have to stay here."
"Then I'll tell Harding."
He reached the front door as Harding was returning, after having packed the things Mrs. Eustace had given him in the buggy. At the same moment Mrs. Eustace tripped down the stairs and ran across the hall.
"You had better bring them here," he began when she turned quickly towards him.
"Bring them here? Mr. Wallace, do you want to kill them? If they are badly injured it would be fatal to move them this distance. I will send word back at once, but if the doctor comes before you hear, send him on. Now, I'm ready."
She went out with Harding at her side.
"I am so glad to have you with me," she said softly. "It is good of you to come."
He helped her into the buggy without speaking, though the clinging touch of her hand thrilled him. He had known her as a light-hearted girl, full of frolicsome impulses and mischievous tricks, and had loved her with a passion that kept her ever before him. He had seen her when that love-lit image had been veiled by the gloom of seeming disillusion. He had seen her striving to sacrifice herself in order to shield the man who had blighted her life, and he hadseen her as a man loves best to see the woman he reveres, throw aside the conventional reserve for him to learn the innermost secret of her heart. But never had he seen her as she appeared to him at that moment and later, when they arrived at the scene of the outrage, cool, clear-headed, capable, thinking only of the sufferings of others, cheering them with tactful sympathy, tending them with gentle care, the while her own soul was down-weighted with care and sorrow.
Throughout the ten-mile drive little was said, each one of the three instinctively refraining from all reference to the subject which was uppermost in their minds, and failing to maintain even a desultory conversation on more commonplace topics. Gale drove his pair at a hand gallop all the way till the road swerved from the straight and through the dim mystery of the starlit bush an angry red glow showed among the trees.
The last of the homestead, now an irregular heap of smouldering ashes over which stray lambent flames flickered and danced, served to shed sufficient light to show where two still figures lay under the shelter of Dudgeon's rackety old buggy, thrown over on its side. The trooper's horse, tethered to a tree, pawed the ground impatiently as it champed its bit, while its master, with a carbine on his arm, paced slowly to and fro. As the galloping pair swung into sight he faced round sharply and brought his carbine to the ready, till he recognised Harding.
"Are you the doctor? You're badly wanted," he exclaimed as Gale reined up beside him.
"Quick. Help me out," Mrs. Eustace said as Harding leaped to the ground. She ran lightly over to the two figures. Through the rough bandage the troopers had tied round Durham's head a red stain was spreading. Dudgeon lay with glittering eyes staring vacantly. His right leg was bandaged, but more than a stain showed upon it.
She knelt down beside the old man, and as with deft, quick fingers she untied the bandage, she looked up at Harding.
"Bring me that packet of cotton-wool, the little leather case, all the bandages, and the bottle with the red label, at once. Tell the trooper to fetch the others."
By the time he returned she had the handkerchief the trooper had bound round the old man's leg loosened.
"Open the case and give me the scissors," she said without a trace of excitement or nervousness in her voice.
She slipped a rent in the trouser and held the edges back, revealing a punctured wound out of which a red stream gushed. In a moment she had a wad of cotton-wool rolled and moistened it from the bottle with the red label, placing it with a firm light touch on the wound.
"While I hold this, cut the trouser leg right down," she said, and Harding, his own nerves steadied by the calmness of hers, did as she bid.
The trooper came over with the rest of the articles, and while she watched what Harding was doing shetold him, quietly, how to prepare a lotion and bring it to her.
Gale came over as soon as he had secured his horses.
"Will you go down to the men's huts and see if there is a bunk where we can put him?" she said, looking quickly at Gale.
"Why didn't you think of that?" Gale exclaimed as he glanced at the trooper. "You ought to have taken them there at once."
"You had better go too," she added to the trooper. "Bring something back with you, a door or a table or anything that will do to carry him on."
Left alone with Harding, she never ceased until she had the wound stanched, cleansed, and properly bound up.
"There is brandy in that flask, Fred. Mix about a tablespoonful in three times as much water."
He brought her the stuff in a pannikin, believing it was for herself.
"Raise his head gently," she said, and slowly poured the mixture between the old man's nerveless lips.
Without a pause she turned to Durham and had the ugly wound on his scalp laid bare. Snipping the hair away from it, she lightly touched the bruised skin surrounding the jagged cut.
"I'm afraid the skull is fractured—I hope the doctor will soon be here," she whispered, as she busied herself with the cotton-wool and red-labelled bottle.
By the time she had Durham's head bandaged,Gale and the trooper returned, carrying the door from one of the huts.
"There are two huts with a single bunk in each, and one with four," Gale said.
"Use the two with the single bunks," she said. "When are the others coming from the township?"
"They're coming along the road now," the trooper answered.
"Run and see if they have any blankets with them. If not, send someone back at once for some."
But there was more than blankets in the buggy that came up at breakneck speed. By the veriest chance the doctor had been within a mile or so of Waroona and had come away at once, bringing with him such articles as he knew would be wanted. He hastened over to the two wounded men just as Dudgeon gave utterance to the first sound he had made since the troopers had dragged him out of the burning homestead.
The doctor bent over him, rapidly examining the bandage round the leg. He stood up and turned to Durham.
"Who put on those bandages?" he asked sharply, as he looked up.
"I did, doctor. I plugged the bullet-hole with an iodoform wad and stopped the bleeding. I put a pad on Mr. Durham's wound, but I fancy his skull is injured."
"Where were you going to send them?"
"There are two single-bunk huts at the men's quarters. I was going to have them taken there on that door until you came."
"We will take them there at once."
Under his directions the two were lifted and carried away to the huts and made as comfortable as was possible in the rough timber bunks. With Mrs. Eustace and Harding to assist him, he found and removed the bullet from the old man's leg and quickly operated on Durham.
"I don't know what they would say in some of the swagger hospitals, if they were asked to trepan a man's skull under these conditions," he said as the operation was finished. "But he'll pull through, and thank you, as the old man will when he knows, for saving his life. Aren't you Mrs. Eustace?"
"Yes," she answered.
"I hardly had time to notice who you were before. You're a brave woman. For your sake I hope your husband gets away."
The blood surged to her face, and then left it pallid. The shadow of her sorrow had been forgotten during the strenuous moments she had gone through; the tactless remark brought it back upon her with cruel emphasis. She turned aside and slipped through the door at the back of the hut while the doctor, oblivious to his blunder, went out at the other.
Harding was about to follow her, when one of the troopers appeared at the door through which the doctor had gone. He held a letter in his hand.
"I found this where the lady knelt when she tied up the sub-inspector's head—I fancy it's either hers or yours."
On the flap of the envelope Harding saw the bank's impress.
"It probably is hers," he answered as he took it. "I will give it to her at once."
There was no sign of her as he passed out of the little door at the back of the hut and, believing she had gone round to the other, he turned to go back when, in a limp and dishevelled heap, he saw her lying on the ground against the wall of the hut.
Her upturned face was white and drawn as he stooped over her.
"Jess!" he whispered. "Jess! Are you ill?"
She made no response, and he placed his arms gently round her and lifted her till she lay in his clasp, her head drooped on his shoulder.
The movement revived her sufficiently for her to know what was happening.
A long-drawn sigh escaped her lips and she essayed to stand alone.
"No, Jess, no. Lean on me. You must get back home and rest. You have overdone it," he whispered.
"Fred! You!"
The arms that had hung lifeless wreathed round his neck, the head that had dropped on his shoulder nestled close and the white face upturned.
"Oh, take me away, Fred, take me away from this horror—anywhere, anywhere, so that I may be with you."
"Hush, Jess, hush. You must not talk like that," he whispered, the strength of the grip with which he held her and the soft tremor of his voice giving her the lie to his words.
"Darling, I must," she answered. "Give me freedom from the misery that man has broughtinto my life. Oh, you do not know what it has been and is still. You heard what the doctor said."
She shuddered as she recalled the words.
"The tactless fool," he muttered, resentment rising against the man who had not hesitated to add another twelve hours' work to an already arduous day when the call of suffering reached him.
"No, he only said what others think. I know, Fred. I can feel it. Mr. Gale was the same. They all are."
"You must not think that—you must not," he said. "And you must not stay in Waroona. You must go away."
Her arms held tighter.
"I will never go, never, while you remain. Don't despise me, Fred, don't think ill of me. I know what I am saying. I am on the edge of a precipice. If I go over, I go down, down, down, an outcast, and a—a——"
"Don't," he whispered hoarsely. "Don't talk like that."
"Who would care?" she added bitterly, "even if I did?"
It was no longer merely support that his encircling arms gave her as they strained her to him.
"It would break my heart," he whispered simply. "I am one who would care."
Unconsciously he bent his head, unconsciously she raised hers, until their lips met, and in one passionate embrace the intervening years since they had been heart to heart before passed as a dream, and only did they know that despite all the barrierswhich had been raised between them they were bound by a tie beyond the reach of custom, circumstance, or force.
With that knowledge uplifting and upholding them, they drew apart.
"You must go and rest now, Jess. You have need of all your strength to face what lies before you," he said gently.
"I don't mind what it is—now," she answered.
"Then I will go and ask Gale to drive you back. I will give you all the news when I return in the morning."
"Are you staying?" Gale exclaimed directly he saw him. "I've harnessed up, so if you and Mrs. Eustace——"
"I'm staying, but she will come back with you—the experience has been rather trying for her."
"Trying?" Gale exclaimed. "She's the noblest woman I've ever met. I don't care what's the truth about the bank affair, but there's not a man in Waroona who won't reverence that woman when he hears what she has done to-night."
"I'll tell her you are ready," Harding answered.
"Where is she? Down at the huts? I'll drive down for her."
She was standing talking to the doctor when Harding returned.
"I'm more anxious about the old man," the doctor was saying as Harding came up. "He'll want very careful nursing, so if you could undertake it, you'll lift a weight off my shoulders."
"I will be ready to come out to-morrow if youwant me," she answered. "Send word by Mr. Harding when he comes in—he is going to stay here to-night. You will bring me word, won't you?" she added, turning to Harding. "Is Mr. Gale driving back?"
"He is coming now to pick you up—here he is," Harding replied as Gale's buggy and pair swung into sight.
He helped her in and wrapped a rug round her.
"Don't be late in the morning—I shall be anxious to hear if the doctor wants me," she said as Gale turned his horses and drove off.
"She's a splendid woman that," the doctor said as he stood looking after the buggy disappearing in the dusk. "Pity she's tied to such a rat as that chap Eustace. I suppose you know him?"
"I am in the bank," Harding answered.
"Oh, are you? Then perhaps I've put my foot in it?"
"I don't think so."
"Have you known him long?"
"Eustace? No, only since I've been in the branch—about three weeks."
"I should have judged you had known her for years."
"I have, but I have only known her husband since I have been here."
"Knew her before she was married?"
"That is so."
"Then tell me, why did she want to marry that rat? I've only seen him once, but that was more than enough. Smoke! Women are regular conundrums. There's that one, as true and big-hearted a creature as ever breathed—look at the pluck she showed to-night—and yet she goes and throws herself away on a miserable crawler who can't even respect the trust his employers placed in him. What does it mean to her? Just think of it—the wife of a common thief, worse than a common thief to my mind. What'll become of her? He'll be caught and sent to gaol for years. What's she going to do then? It's a pity someone doesn't shoot him—it would save her from degradation."
The buggy had vanished in the dusk. He turned to his companion. The dim light from the hut fell full on Harding's face. The doctor whistled.
"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."
"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!"
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 aboutthe 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 placewhere 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. Dudgeonwas 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 anunexpected 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 sitabout 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 tothink 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 suggestshe 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 herhusband, 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."
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 cancarry 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 hermind 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 thehouse. 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."