By the time Trafford had recovered from the emotion which had produced the inaction of stupor, Esmeralda and Norman had ridden out of sight and sound. Trafford got into his saddle and rode after them, but he was inexperienced in Australian locomotion, and before he had ridden very far in blundering haste across the thick and knotted undergrowth, his horse made a false step and threw him.

There was no great harm done, and Trafford picked himself up, shook himself, and mounted again. But by this time the pair he was pursuing had completely vanished and had left no clew behind them. His horse, though uninjured by its fall, was not rendered more cheerful by the mishap, and did not evince any very great interest in the proceedings, but went along rather sullenly for a time. Presently, however, he pricked up his ears and quickened his pace. It was evident that he had been made aware, either by the sense of smell or hearing, of the proximity of some human being or friendly animal.

Trafford, quivering with excitement and a mixture of emotions, let the horse have its head, and the animal trotted quickly down the slope to the valley below. At a sudden bend in the track—if it could be called track—Trafford caught sight of a small stream, the ground near which had been broken and disturbed by the hand of man. He conjectured that this must be the site of an abandoned camp or gold-digging, and the conjecture proved correct, for he came presently upon a ruined hut standing amidst some deserted claims.

He pulled up, or rather the horse stopped of its own accord, and Trafford looked round. He appeared to be alone, amidst the dÉbris of the camp. Here and there were signs of life and activity which had ebbed away; a broken wheelbarrow, a rusty pick, shovels bent and twisted, and planks half hidden by the weeds that had grown round them, lay about in dismal confusion. The whole place, with its air of desertion, was weird and depressing, and Trafford, in his weary and high-strung condition, could scarcely repress a shudder. He wondered why the horse had brought him there, for though he listened intently and looked about him keenly, he could neither see nor hear any sign of the presence of any human being save himself.

He dismounted, and loosely fastening the bridle to a tree, so that the horse could feed, entered the hut. It was in ruins, and looked as if it had been left hastily. Trafford half hoped that he might find some remnant of food, but there was nothing of the kind. He went down to the stream and got a drink of water, and threw himself down to wait until the horse had rested and he could resume his journey.

He felt that he would be wise to remain the night there, but the place depressed him, and it seemed to him that he could know no rest until he had found Norman and Esmeralda. He lay, with his head upon his hand, watching the horse and still feeling half stupefied, when suddenly he knew that something alive was approaching him. It was dusk now, it would soon be dark. He peered into the shadow of the bush from whence the sound came, and his hand sought his revolver. A moment or two later a tall, well-built figure emerged from the bush and approached the hut, a horse followed at a little distance with drooping head, as if too weary for anything save following in his master’s footsteps.

Varley, for it was he, walked to the hut and entered.

He came out a moment afterward, and Trafford, who could now see his face plainly, was struck by its well-bred air as well as by its pallor and the expression of stern resolution which seemed to mask anxiety.

Varley looked round about him searchingly, then sunk on to the upturned wheelbarrow, sighed, and removing his hat, wiped the perspiration from his brow. He had all the appearance of waiting for some one.

Trafford watched him closely, and he felt convinced that this man was neither a bushranger nor a common digger. At this moment Trafford’s horse neighed a greeting to Varley’s, and Varley sprung to his feet.

Trafford, knowing that concealment was no longer possible, rose and walked toward the hut. At the sound of his footsteps, Varley turned and confronted him.

He had expected to see Simon, and he stared at Trafford with surprise for a moment, as if too astonished to speak. Then he raised his hat, and said, in a voice husky with the dust of the long journey, but with his usual languid manner:

“Good-evening.”

Trafford raised his hat in response.

“Good-evening,” he said.

The two men stood looking at each other as two men meeting, perfect strangers and in such a place, must necessarily look; and though neither touched his revolver, each was ready to draw and fire.

It seemed to Trafford that he had seen the tall, well-knit figure before, but he did not identify it, for the moment, with the horseman Johnson, the driver, had pointed out.

He was the first to speak; the silence between them was becoming unendurable.

“I am a stranger here,” he said, “and I have lost my way.”

Varley glanced round.

“That is not at all difficult,” he said.

“No,” assented Trafford. “What place is this?”

“It is called Raven Claim,” answered Varley.

As he spoke, it flashed across his mind that Simon had stipulated that only one person should be sent with the ransom. No doubt he had Esmeralda concealed somewhere near, and was waiting to see what the presence of two men meant.

He, Varley, must get rid of this stranger as quickly as possible.

“May I ask what place you were making for?” he said.

“Three Star Camp,” replied Trafford.

Varley did not start, but he glanced keenly from under his long lashes at the worn and weary face.

“Three Star Camp?” he repeated. “You are a long way from there.”

“I feared so,” said Trafford.

“Yes,” said Varley. “Are you anxious to reach it to-night?”

He looked, as he spoke, at the dust-stained figure and pale face.

“I am very anxious to do so,” said Trafford. “I wish to reach it at the first possible moment, and I shall be extremely obliged if you will direct me.”

“It is not easy to direct you,” said Varley, “but I will endeavor to do so. You appear to have had a long ride?”

“I have,” said Trafford, “and I am almost knocked up; but I must reach Three Star to-night.”

Varley drew a silver flask from his pocket and held it out.

“Will you have a drink?” he said.

Trafford took it gratefully.

“Don’t spare it,” said Varley; and he rolled up a cigarette and watched Trafford, who had seated himself upon the trunk of a felled tree, and was sipping the spirit as a tired man sips who is seeking a stimulant and tonic to enable him to undergo fresh exertion.

“Will you have a cigarette?” asked Varley in his slow and languid way.

“Thank you,” said Trafford, with a faint smile. “I think that will do me as much good as your excellent whisky.”

Varley handed him the pouch and paper, but Trafford’s hands were shaking, and Varley, saying, “Permit me,” took them from him and rolled a cigarette, offering his own for a light, and watched Trafford smoke, with that sense of satisfaction which we all feel when we are playing the part of the Good Samaritan.

“I am very grateful to you,” said Trafford, after a silence, broken only by the breathing of the two horses and the shrill cry of a bird fishing in the stream. “May I ask your name?”

“My name is Howard—Varley Howard,” said Varley.

Trafford started, with his cigarette half-way to his mouth.

“Varley Howard?” he echoed. “Of Three Star Camp?”

“Of Three Star Camp, and very much at your service,” said Varley, with his little drawl. “May I ask the same question?”

Trafford rose.

“My name is Belfayre,” he said.

Varley’s fingers closed over his cigarette, and the red flamed in his face for a second, to leave it deathly pale.

“The Duke of Belfayre?” he said in a perfectly expressionless voice.

“Yes; I am the Duke of Belfayre,” said Trafford.

There was a moment’s silence, Varley breathing hard and looking just above Trafford’s head. The blood was beginning to burn in his veins as Esmeralda’s wrongs rose before him. This man standing there was the man who had deceived her and wrecked the child’s life.

“It seems I am not unknown to you, Mr. Howard.”

Varley drew a long breath.

“You are not,” he said. “I have heard of you. Will you think me impertinently inquisitive if I ask your business in Three Star?”

The blood began to mount to Trafford’s face.

“You have every right to ask me that question, Mr. Howard. It is my duty to answer. I have come in search of my wife.”

“My ward—adopted daughter?”

Trafford inclined his head.

“Yes; I am in search of her, Mr. Howard,” he said.

“What do you want with her?” asked Varley; and if Trafford had known him he would have recognized the ominous significance of his quiet, languid tone.

It was a strange question to put to a husband, and for a moment Trafford could find no answer.

“Surely that lies between her and me,” he said at last.

Varley’s dark eyes flashed.

“Pardon me,” he said, with frigid courtesy. “My ward has left you; she is under my protection.”

Trafford’s eyes flashed across to the other man.

“Yes, she has left me,” he repeated; “but I am desirous of finding her, and I am going to Three Star for that purpose.”

“You will waste your time,” said Varley. “She is not there.”

“That is a lie!” said Trafford, deliberately.

Varley’s hand went to his revolver; but he checked himself, and, with a smile which would have made any man who knew him tremble, raised his hat an inch or two.

“Your grace is polite,” he said.

“I spoke the truth,” said Trafford. “When she left England and me she fled to Three Star with a man who had stolen her from me.”

“Permit me to repeat your elegant retort, and remark, ‘That is a lie!’” said Varley.

“It is the truth,” said Trafford. “I have seen them here—together.”

Varley raised his brows.

“You appear to be laboring under a strange delusion, your grace,” he said, with sardonic courtesy. “You appear, also, to forget that, though Esmeralda is, or was, your wife, she was, and still is, my ward, and that I have the right to repel any false accusation you make against her.”

Trafford looked at him without speaking for a moment; then he said, hoarsely:

“When I say that she has come to Three Star with a man with whom she fled from me, I speak the truth, and you know it. I have seen them together.”

“And I say again—you lie!” said Varley. “Esmeralda came to Three Star to claim my protection from the man who had married her and betrayed her. Stop—do not speak! It is my call, I believe. I have wanted to meet you very badly, my lord duke. I have had something on my mind that I wanted to say to you, and Providence has granted my wish. You will have to listen to what I have to say. My child”—his cool, almost nonchalant voice very nearly broke—“Esmeralda, left me and the people among whom she had been brought up, and who loved her, in a way that you could scarcely understand, a happy, light-hearted girl. She went to England and met you and your kind, and you took advantage of her innocence and her ignorance of your world, and tricked and trapped her as we over here trick and entrap some wild and helpless bird. You married her for her money; you cared nothing for her. No doubt you made a jest of your success and laughed among yourselves. Having got possession of her money, you lost no time in breaking her heart.”

Trafford stood rigid and motionless, the big drops of sweat gathering on his brow.

“But you were not satisfied with that; you must needs cover her with shame and dishonor. You accuse her of being a vile and abandoned woman, and you come here to press your charge and torment her further. My lord duke, you could not have come to a better place. If you had searched the world over you could not have found a man better fitted to thrust the lie down your throat. Esmeralda has been to me like a daughter of my own. I know what she was; I know what she is—the purest and best of women—and I tell you that you are a liar and a scoundrel!”

Trafford extended his hand half imploringly, half defiantly.

“Wait!” he said, hoarsely. “Listen to me. I—I can bear with you—”

Varley laughed.

“Bear with me!”

“Yes. For you have loved her as I loved her until—until she was false to me.”

“False to you?” echoed Varley. “If she had been, it was no more than you deserved. But I will answer for her purity with my last breath. I know nothing of her story; I have never asked her, and she has never told me, but I would believe her word against all the dukes in Christendom. You married her for her money; you have broken her heart; you have followed her here to inflict further torture upon her. My lord duke, you have gone a step too far. You have to deal with me, Varley Howard, her guardian, the man who has loved her as a father, who will stand up for her truth and innocence against a world of d——d dukes!”

Trafford again made a gesture, half of entreaty, half of defiance.

Varley caught his breath.

“Ever since she came back to Three Star, I have longed to meet you. I have lain awake, tortured by the desire to grasp you by the throat and call you to account. I am not a religious man, but I have prayed, actually prayed for this hour. And it has come!”

Trafford stood erect and fearless, the blood surging in his face. The two men gazed at each other, watching each other as two wild animals might watch before the struggle of life and death.

Varley was the first to recover his composure.

“I have said my say, your grace,” he said, with a return to his old languid sang-froid. “I imagine that you have nothing to say in response, and that you plead guilty. I suppose in your world a woman’s heart counts for little, and that, if you break it, a graceful apology is considered all that is necessary. Out here, in this wild, God-forsaken place, we judge differently. We hold that a woman’s broken heart demands some reparation—and punishment. I demand that reparation and penalty. You and I, my lord duke, have a long and bitter account to settle. We will settle it here and now, if you please.”

Trafford looked at him with knit brows.

“What do you mean?” he asked, hoarsely.

“I mean,” said Varley, attempting to roll a cigarette but failing, “I mean that only one of us shall leave this place alive. You are a gentleman and a nobleman, and therefore, I presume, a good shot. I also am accounted a fair one. We are therefore equal. We will measure out twenty paces—and fight at that.”

As he spoke, he drew his revolver from his belt and examined it with almost a listless air. It seemed as if in his own mind he were quite sure that he should exact the full penalty he deemed payable.

Trafford stood stock-still for a moment, then he too drew his revolver.

As Varley turned to measure the distance, a man came from behind the hut. It was Simon. He stood and stared at the other two with undisguised astonishment. Varley nodded to him.

“Where is Esmeralda?” he asked.

“Escaped,” said Simon, coolly.

Varley expressed no astonishment, but a faint smile flashed for a moment over his face.

“You Dog’s Ear men are unlucky,” he said. “I’ve brought the money; but if she’s gone you can’t claim it.”

“That’s so,” said Simon, with the phlegm of his kind. “But what does this mean?” and he looked curiously from Trafford to Howard.

Varley smiled.

“This gentleman and I have met and had a little difference,” he said. “And we have decided to settle it here and now. You have come just in time, and can act as umpire.”

Simon looked confused and bewildered for a moment. Then his face cleared. For a fight of any kind, with or without weapons, is always a precious thing to a man, wild or tame.

“Is that so?” he said, addressing Trafford.

“It is so,” said Varley; “you may take my word for it. Measure out twenty paces, will you?”

Simon strode twenty paces, and the two men took up their positions.

Varley tossed his silk handkerchief to Simon.

“Count three and throw it in the air,” he said. “You understand?” he added, addressing Trafford.

Trafford inclined his head. He scarcely realized what was happening, and yet he felt the rude justice of it. It was true that he had married Esmeralda for her money, and, so far, Varley Howard was only exacting his right.

Well, so be it. As for him, Trafford, now that he had lost Esmeralda, death would be welcome.

He looked at his revolver, braced himself to the occasion, as the French say, and stood pale and erect. He knew what he intended to do: he would fire above Varley’s head.

“Are you ready?” asked Simon, with the handkerchief in his hand.

“Quite ready,” responded Varley in his most languid tones.

“I am ready,” said Trafford, hoarsely.

Simon looked from one to the other.

“Can’t this be settled?” he asked.

“No!” said Varley, sternly. “This man and I have got a long account to square.”

“All right!” said Simon, phlegmatically. “One, two, three!”

As he uttered the word “three,” Esmeralda rode down through the bush. She pulled up almost within reach of the combatants, sat for an instant as if turned to stone, then flung herself from her horse and upon Trafford’s breast.

At that same moment Simon dropped the fatal handkerchief, and Varley fired.

A cry, a sob, went up to Heaven, and Trafford, who had not fired at all, was in time to catch Esmeralda’s sinking form to his heart.