"There is no limit to the good it may be if it is properly applied, Mr. Dudgeon."
"Where will it do good?" he exclaimed. "That's just what I want to know. Tell me."
"There are hospitals," she said. "And schools. You might found scholarships for poor students to——"
"And chapels and missions and dogs' homes—go on, trot out the whole list," he interrupted. "None of them will ever get a pennypiece out of me. More than half the money given to them goes to keep a lot of lazy, patronising officials in luxury—I know—I've come in contact with them when they have been cadging after me for subscriptions. They cringe till they find out there's nothing for them,and then they snarl. I've no time for that sort of people, no time nor money either."
"Then I hardly know what to suggest," she said, "unless——"
"Unless what?"
"You helped Mrs. O'Guire and her children, if she has any."
His mouth went into its old hard lines, and he sat silent for a time.
"It's no good talking about that," he said presently. "The best thing I can do for them is not to think about them—I'd be after them again if I do—if I could find them. Help them? No. I'd rather give the money to the Government to build gaols. Can't you think of anything else?"
"I'm afraid I cannot," she answered. "But I am still sure your money will do good if it is properly applied."
"Ah, that's it. If it's properly applied. I'm an old man now. How am I to apply it? There's only one way that I can see, and that is what I am going to do with it. I'm going to give it away. What do you think of that?"
"If you give it away where it will do good I think it is a very excellent idea," she answered.
"You know that youngster at the bank, don't you? Young Harding, I mean."
"Yes," she replied.
"Do you think he is a man to be trusted?"
"I know he is, Mr. Dudgeon."
"I'll take your word for it," he said as he stood up. "I'll get along and see him. You can let himknow if you want anything and he'll send on word to me. I'll look in again next time I'm passing. Good-bye."
He held out his hand, hard, knotted, and roughened with toil, and she placed hers in it. His fingers closed on hers, and he stood looking into her eyes till she grew uncomfortable under the scrutiny.
"I'd give everything I've got in the world," he said hoarsely, "for a daughter like you."
He dropped her hand and limped quickly to the door, opening it and going out without looking back.
Through the window she saw him pass along the road towards the bank, his head up in the old defiant way, the limp robbing his stride of much of its sturdiness. Without a glance at the cottage he passed out of sight.
Right through the town he walked until he came to the bank.
Harding, looking up at the sound of footsteps, was surprised to see him limping to the counter.
"Good day, Mr. Dudgeon," he exclaimed.
"Do you know how to make a will?" the old man asked, without replying to the greeting.
"That is more the work of a solicitor than a banker, Mr. Dudgeon."
"Oh, I know all about that. If it's going to be a long, muddled, complicated affair a solicitor's the man to go to. But that's not what I want. I want to make a will leaving everything I possess to just one person. I'm no hand with a pen, so I thought you might be able to do it for me."
"Mr. Wallace is inside; perhaps he could advise you better."
"Well, I'll see him."
Remembering his last interview with the crotchety old man, Wallace was particularly circumspect when he met him.
"What I want is this," Dudgeon exclaimed. "I want to say it in such a manner that there can be no questioning the thing afterwards, that is when I'm gone, you understand?"
"I understand," Wallace replied.
"I want to leave everything I possess to one person. If that is written on a sheet of paper and I sign it, isn't that enough?"
"If your signature is witnessed by two persons."
"Then go ahead. Write it out for me. You and this young man can be witnesses."
"It is an unusual thing for the Bank to do, Mr. Dudgeon; but if you really wish it, of course we shall be only too happy to oblige you. Don't you think Mr. Gale——"
"No," the old man snapped. "I've finished with Gale."
"Then will you come into my room and we will do the best we can for you."
Wallace drew up a simple form of a will and read it through aloud.
"I have left the name blank," he said. "If this expresses what you wish, you can fill in the name and sign it, either before Harding and myself or two other people."
Dudgeon took it and read it through again.
"That'll do," he said. He put it on the table in front of Harding. "Fill in Mrs. Eustace's name—I don't know it," he added.
Harding wrote the name in the blank space, the name of one who, in another minute, would rank amongst the greatest heiresses of the world.
"That is the full name," he said as he handed back the document to Dudgeon.
He looked at it.
"Jessie, is it?" he said. "Jessie Eustace, née Spence. There is no chance of a mistake being made, is there? Hadn't you better add whose wife she was?"
"If you wish it."
"And say where she is living now, and where she came from before she came here. I don't want this to go wrong. I want to make sure she will get everything."
When the additions were made he read the whole document through once more.
"Yes, that seems to fix it," he said. "Give me a pen."
The signature affixed, and witnessed, he looked from one to the other.
"I'll take your word to keep the matter secret till I'm gone," he said. "I don't feel like dying just yet, but one never knows, and, in the meantime, I don't want this known. She don't know, and if she does, it will only be through one of you two talking."
"You may rest assured, Mr. Dudgeon, that both Mr. Harding and myself will respect your confidenceand hold the matter absolutely secret," Wallace replied.
"That's good enough," he said.
Turning to Harding, he added, "I'll leave this in your charge. If I go, see that she gets it. Good day."
He was at the door when Wallace spoke.
"Will you not stay and have some refreshment, after your long drive in?" he said.
Dudgeon looked over his shoulder, with his hand on the door-handle.
"That's all I want from you," he replied.
"There is one other matter," Harding exclaimed. "If this will ever has to be used, we have no information what property you are leaving."
Dudgeon let go the handle and faced round.
"Young man," he said, "you've got a head on you. Just sit down and I'll tell you, and you can write them down."
Leaving the two together, Wallace went to the outer office.
"I am glad he's gone," Dudgeon remarked. "This don't concern him."
Then he reeled off a list of properties, securities, cash deposits, and other possessions, dazzling in their value and variety.
The name of a firm of lawyers in a southern city was added.
"That's the lot," he said unconcernedly. "I needn't tell you to see she has her rights. Give me your hand, my lad. I hope she shares it with you."
Without another word he was gone.
Harding was still running his eye over the list of properties Dudgeon had dictated when he heard Wallace call.
"All right. We'll come in," Wallace added, and appeared with Durham at his heels.
"Do you know this?" Durham asked, as he held out his hand.
"My watch! Where on earth did you find it?" Harding cried.
"It is yours?"
"It's the one which disappeared from under my pillow the night the bank was robbed."
"I thought so."
"Have you found anything more?" Wallace asked breathlessly.
"All the money and a lot of jewellery. I would like Mr. Harding to come along with me to-night to the place where I have it hidden. We can bring it in quietly without anyone knowing. But till then, don't let this be seen, and don't breathe a word of what I have told you. Now I've got the money I want to make sure of the man."
Wallace slapped him warmly on the back.
"You're a marvel, Durham. I knew you'd do it somehow, but I'm bothered if I could see how. May I wire to head office?"
"Not till to-night, Mr. Wallace. When the stuff is handed over to you will be time enough."
"How about Mr. Dudgeon's money?"
"It's there, too."
"He's in town. Will you tell him?"
"Not a word, Mr. Wallace. You are the only people I mention it to; not even Brennan will be told about it till it's here."
"Well, you know more about these things than I do, so your word's law. But I shall be glad to let the head office know—I want to have the general manager's authority to do what I told you was going to be done."
Durham smiled in answer. So did he want the general manager to authorise what was to be the news he wished to give Mrs. Burke on the morrow. With five thousand pounds behind him he anticipated less difficulty in persuading her to postpone her intended return to Ireland, postpone it long enough, at all events, for her to go, not as Mrs. Burke, but as Mrs. Durham.
He stood at the door chatting to Wallace before going on to the station, when Dudgeon rattled past in his old buggy drawn by a borrowed horse.
He did not look towards the bank as he passed.
"If I told him I suppose he'd scowl at me and say, 'Oh, have you?'" Durham exclaimed as he watched the crazy old vehicle disappear along the road.
"You are sure his money is there too?" Wallace asked.
"Quite."
"That's curious."
"Why? It was obviously stolen by the same man who robbed the bank, and naturally they took it to the same spot."
"Have you any idea who the men were—or ratherthe man, for I suppose there is only one now to be considered?"
"That is so," Durham answered. "Only one—and he may be—anybody."
"You have no suspicions?"
"I don't want any. If I begin suspecting different persons I may miss the real individual. As matters stand, I know where, sooner or later, I shall meet him under conditions which will identify him as the man I want. The trap is set and the bird will be caught. That is all I can say."
"Have you heard what they are saying in the town?"
"I've heard a good deal one way and another, but not to-day, as I have been away since dawn. Is it anything special?"
"Someone started the yarn last night, so Gale told me. There's an idea that old Mr. Dudgeon is at the back of the whole affair; that he hired the man they call the Rider to rob the bank in the first instance, so as to prevent the sale of Waroona Downs being completed. Eustace is supposed to have been bribed to join the conspiracy."
"That's rather an ingenious theory. Whose is it?"
"One of the men in the town; Gale did not mention his name. But he has evolved a very workable theory—at least to my mind."
"Let me hear it all," Durham said.
"Well, when the bank had been robbed, and the second lot of gold was hurried forward in time to save the situation, one part of the scheme failed,for the sale of the property was completed. The Rider and his mate—Eustace, as is generally believed—went out to Taloona to settle up with the old man. They found you there and, to blind you as to the real character of Dudgeon, they pretended to make him a prisoner. Then you showed fight, Dudgeon was shot by the bullet intended for you, the lamp was upset, and the place set on fire just as the troopers I sent arrived on the scene."
"That sounds all right as far as it goes. Is there any more?"
"Oh, yes. Dudgeon being laid up delayed the settlement and the pair had to wait—every time up to last night that the white horses have been seen was on the Taloona road, you may remember, which adds colour to the theory. Then they got tired of waiting and quarrelled between themselves, with the result that one of them got killed. The general idea is that they quarrelled over the division of the spoil, and, seeing what you have discovered to-day, I am inclined to agree with it. Last night's escapade was sheer bravado to mock at you and Brennan. What do you think of the idea?"
"Oh, it's all right, as far as it goes. When my man walks into the trap waiting for him I may be able to tell you whether it is the correct solution, but, for the present, I should neither accept nor reject it."
"That is all you have to say about it?"
"That is all; and now I must get along to the station. I'll be back in an hour or so to tell Harding where to meet me."
It was just on sunset when he returned to arrange for Harding to go out with him about midnight. With Harding and Wallace he was standing at the private entrance of the bank when, with a clatter, there dashed down the road the horse and buggy in which Dudgeon had driven by during the afternoon.
The horse was galloping with the reins trailing behind it, the splash-board was smashed and hanging loose, striking the horse at every stride and adding to its panic.
Durham and Harding rushed out to stop the runaway. It swerved to the edge of the road, the buggy overbalanced and rolled over, the shafts snapped, and the horse, breaking free, raced through the town.
"Look!" Harding cried. "What has happened?"
On the seat of the vehicle was an ugly red splash, while the floor was smothered with blood.
"Send along to Brennan to follow me, will you?" Durham exclaimed as he sprang to his horse, which was standing at the door of the bank, mounted it, and spurred away along the road the runaway had come.
Four miles away on the Taloona road he found Dudgeon.
The old man lay in a heap in the middle of the road, riddled with bullet wounds, any one of which would have proved fatal.
There were abundant signs of a fierce struggle. As Durham read the indications, an attack had been made upon him while he was driving alongHe had been shot and had struggled from the vehicle, probably returning the fire, for there was the mark where another man had fallen and added another red stain to the ground. Then the two had closed and, in the contest which ensued, Dudgeon had gone down, his assailant venting his mad rage by firing bullet after bullet into the prostrate form.
While he was still examining the marks Durham was joined by Brennan and half a dozen of the townsmen who had ridden out in obedience to Harding's warning. Durham drew Brennan aside.
"I only have my revolver with me," he said. "Give me your carbine and what cartridges you have. I must get away on his tracks before any of the men lose their heads and ruin the chance of capture by smothering them."
"Give Brennan what help you can, will you?" he called out to the men who stood by their horses looking, horror-stricken, at the lifeless form of the old man.
Mounting his horse he sped away. For a time he watched the track of a horse which had galloped just off the road. It had evidently lacked a firm hand on the bridle, for it seemed to have taken its own direction.
The rider was wounded. Of that Durham was certain.
Under such circumstances where would he go?
As Durham turned his horse into the bush, making for the range where the little cave was situated, he answered his own question.
Riding at topmost speed, he reasoned as he rode. The other man had at least two hours' start. With such a lead he could easily reach the cave first if he could ride steadily. But he was wounded, and in that lay Durham's hope of getting there before him.
The light was waning by the time the commencement of the foothills was reached. At the bottom of the gully lying at the foot of a ridge across which he had to ride, Durham gave his horse a spell. The top of the ridge rose steep and bare. As he looked towards it, estimating which was the better direction to take to get to the cave, he heard the sounds of a horse walking.
Presently, on the sky-line, immediately above him, he saw a horse and rider. There was just light enough for him to distinguish the form of the man.
He was clad in grey, the jacket open, his hat in his hand. He was a bearded man—a man with a yellow beard.
It was the Rider!
Even as Durham watched, the man saw him, saw him and swung his horse round so sharply it set back on its haunches.
In another moment he would be flying away through the gathering gloom, away into the broken fastnesses of the range, away, perhaps, for all time, from capture.
The horse was recovering itself. Durham threw his carbine forward and, as the horse reared at the pain of the spurs driven into its side, he fired.
Amid the echoes of the report there came a sharp scream of agony.
Durham leaped to his saddle and spurred his horse up the steep slope.
When he reached the summit only the marks of the flying horse's hoofs showed which way the man had gone.
The silvery sheen of the rising moon glittered on the surface of the pool and lay over the sombre-foliaged bush as Durham came out upon the top of the bluff above the Rider's cave.
From the moment he reached the ridge to find only the marks made by the plunging horse he had raced to get there first. Down the sharp slopes of the gullies, across the dry, rock-strewn bed of the mountain-streams, up the opposite steeps, with never a care for the risks he ran, he kept his horse at its topmost speed, sparing neither spur nor lash to urge it along. There was no time to choose the easy paths, no chance of picking his way; every moment was of value, for he knew how the wounded outlaw would make desperate haste to get to the shelter of his haven.
The gloom of the bush ere the moon rose added to his difficulties. With no landmark to serve as a guide he had to rely absolutely upon his instinctive sense of locality, and kept steadily in the one direction, although that meant riding over the rugged ground, barred by tumbled boulders and thickly growing trees, which formed the almost precipitoussides of the gullies. At any time a fall was possible; he carried his life in his hands and knew it; but the ride was a race against odds, and there was no time to heed.
He was breasting the rise of what he believed to be the last of the ridges he would have to cross, when the laboured breathing of his horse told him it was almost done. Leaning forward in his saddle, he patted it on the neck and spoke to it as a man who has realised the companionship between himself and a favourite horse will do. Responding to the encouragement, it mounted to the summit of the ridge and quickened its pace as it felt it was on level ground again. But where the other ridges had been flat on the top, this one was little more than a razor-back. No sooner was the ascent completed than the descent began. The horse caught in its stride to steady itself, tripped, stumbled, and came down. Durham was flung over its head like a stone from a catapult.
Fortunately he came to the ground on the broad of his back, though with such force that he was momentarily stunned. His horse picked itself up and stood trembling and panting long before he was able to scramble to his feet. Even when he did so his head was spinning and he could barely stand.
With unsteady steps he went to his horse and took hold of the bridle. To attempt to ride it further was obviously out of the question, and he led it slowly down to the bottom of the slope, tethering it securely to a tree in the shelter of the gully. Then,pulling himself together, he set off up the opposite slope on foot.
His head was still swimming from the concussion of his fall, and into it there came the humming he had experienced after his adventure at Taloona. It made him so dizzy that he sank down on a boulder, resting his head on his hands until the humming and throbbing should pass. As he sat there came a sound to his ears which made him start to his feet, forgetful of the giddiness, forgetful of everything save the sound and all that it signified.
Through the silence of the bush came the measured tread of a walking horse.
It was evidently crossing the gully below, for, as he listened, the pace quickened to a trot and then to a canter and then became suddenly faint and muffled.
In an instant Durham read the significance of it. The horse had crossed the gully on to level ground and, urged by its rider, had cantered out of hearing. Exactly such a thing would happen were the gully he had crossed the one which came out on to the level sandy margin of the pool.
The realisation sent a chill through him. The rise up which he was climbing must be the ridge which formed the bluff above the cave. If he were not over it quickly, the Rider would be the first at the cave and Durham's scheme for his capture defeated.
The thought drove the last vestige of dizziness from his brain. He faced the slope and forced his way through the tangled undergrowth until he came to the top and saw the moonlight gleamingon the surface of the pool and illuminating with its silvery sheen the open space at the foot.
There was no sign of the horse he expected to see, and no sound came from the cave. With his carbine ready, he crept slowly and silently down until he was at the mouth. A stray moonbeam fell upon the spot where he had seen the clothes on his former visit. The spot was bare.
He was about to step into the cavern when he heard the distant tread of the horse. Quickly drawing back, he hid himself behind a clump of shrubs which sheltered him, while leaving him a clear view in front up to the line of bushes stretching from the bank to the water's edge. There he waited, while the sound of the horse approaching became more and more distinct.
Presently it was so clear he could hear the snapping of the twigs of the undergrowth as they were trampled down, and he levelled his carbine so as to cover the man immediately he and his horse emerged from the line of bushes. But when the animal appeared, for the moment Durham thought it was riderless. Only when it reached the middle of the open space and was almost directly below him did he see the man, lying forward over the withers, with his arms weakly clinging to the horse's neck and his legs swaying limply as they dangled with the feet out of the stirrups.
Of its own accord the horse stopped. The man painfully pushed himself up until he was able to turn his head and look from side to side.
He was scarcely ten yards from Durham, and the clear light of the moon revealed the face as distinctly as though it were day. The close-cropped hair, fair almost to whiteness, the eyebrows and eyelashes of the same hue; the general form of the face showing above the beard were incongruously, yet elusively, familiar, while the pallor of the cheeks and the anguish of the eyes told of the terrible injury the man had sustained.
He was trying to push himself up so as to sit in the saddle. Only his arms seemed to have any strength, for the legs still dangled limply and the fingers clutched the horse's mane convulsively as the body swayed. The moonlight fell full upon the face, glistening on the beads of moisture which stood out on the skin.
A twinge of pity passed through Durham's heart as he watched the agony of the stricken wretch. The effort to maintain his balance was more than the weakened muscles could stand. A deep groan broke from his lips as his arms gave way; his head fell and he plunged forward, slipping over the horse's shoulder and coming head first to the ground, where he lay in a limp, dishevelled heap.
Freed from its burden, the animal stepped forward and moved to a tree where it had evidently been accustomed to find its feed, for it snorted impatiently and shook itself as it sniffed round the trunk. But Durham had no eyes for it; he was watching, with fascinated intentness, the figure lying motionless on the ground.
Slipping from behind the sheltering shrubs, he approached the man with noiseless steps. There was no sign of life in the figure which lay as it had fallen, but across the lower part of the back the clothes were stained with blood. A bullet had struck him almost on the spine, and the dangling limbs were explained. The shot had paralysed them.
Durham stooped over him. The faintest flicker of breathing showed he was still alive. He lay on his face, his arms out-flung, his legs twisted. Drawing the arms together, Durham slipped a strap round them above the elbows so as to hold them secure. Then he partly lifted him from the ground and dragged him to the mouth of the cave, where he sat him with his back against the rock.
The head drooped forward. In his waist-belt there was a revolver-pouch which Durham, on removal, found to contain a revolver of heavy calibre loaded in all chambers.
Now that he was unarmed and secured, Durham knelt beside him to try and revive him. He gently raised the head and rested it against the stone, holding it steady with one hand while with the other he lifted off the false beard.
As the disguise came away and left the face fully exposed, Durham's heart stood still. With a cry he sprang to his feet, staggering back to stand, with clenching hands and throbbing temples, staring blankly at the white, drawn face upturned to his.
The humming roar was again in his ears, a tremblingseized his limbs, his brain reeled and the scene spun before his eyes.
"Oh, my God!" he cried.
Slowly the eyelids lifted and a spasm of pain contracted the pallid face. The glance rested for a moment on Durham as a faint wan smile flickered round the corners of the bloodless lips and the eyelids drooped again.
The sound of his own voice in a hoarse, strained whisper jarred on Durham's ears.
"You!" he gasped. "You!"
The eyes opened once more.
In a weak, wavering tone came disjointed words.
"You said—you—would shoot him—like a dog—and I told you—it would—kill—me if you—did."
As white as his captive, Durham stood dumbfounded.
The feeling of horror which had come upon him when first he recognised the face overwhelmed him. His heart went dead and his brain numbed. All the roseate dreams of his romance turned to dull grey leaden grief to flaunt and mock him.
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 thecoach—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, andwhen 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 andmade 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."
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 andgrey, 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 managerthat 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 amember 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 saidhe 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 anythinghappened 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 theirbeds. 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 outen masseand 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.