"Have you seen him before? Do you know him? His name is Craig Bellshaw. He lives at Mintaro, a big homestead, some miles from the hut, the home we left," said Glen.

The fear, or whatever it was, passed. She smiled. No, she did not know him, nor had she heard the name.

"Perhaps you knew someone like him?" Glen suggested.

She shook her head. She did not remember.

Much to Glen's surprise he saw Bellshaw go into Lin Soo's shop. He came out again in about a quarter of an hour, hailed a passing hansom, and drove away.

Why had he gone into the Chinaman's? It was about the last place Glen would have expected to see him in. He told Bill what had happened. They could make nothing of it, but it made a deep impression on them.

Craig Bellshaw was uneasy. The face on the water troubled him; it haunted him as he walked about. He left Sydney suddenly and returned to Mintaro, where he arrived unexpectedly. He found everything going on as usual. Garry Backham had put a man in charge of the shanty at Boonara, and returned to his duties until such time as Bellshaw came back.

"I met Bigs in Sydney," said Bellshaw. "He told me you went into his place the day he left, and handed it over to you. I suppose you came back when he had gone?"

"Yes. I thought it best to make sure of the place. Bigs is a shifty customer. If I'd left him in charge he might have done me out of no end of things," returned Garry.

"Probably he would. He seemed surprised when I told him I didn't know you had bought him out."

Garry grinned.

"Of course you didn't know. How should you?"

The two men looked hard at each other.

"Joe Calder's dead," said Garry.

Bellshaw started.

"Dead," he exclaimed.

"Murdered. Shot through the heart."

"Who did it?"

"Nobody knows, but I have a suspicion," Garry answered. "He's buried, and so far as that goes it's done with, but he was a friend of mine, and yours, and we ought to do something."

"I shan't. Let it be, man. What's the good of kicking up a fuss?" argued Bellshaw.

"Two men have cleared out from the fence."

"Who are they?"

"Glen Leigh and Jim Benny."

"Good riddance to them. They were rotters—no good to me."

"You don't like Leigh. He's been one too many for you once or twice."

"I hate him. It was Leigh who kicked up a fuss about that mob of cattle that broke the fencing down. He complained that I ought to have them driven off, and said it was not the duty of the keepers of the fence."

"It's part of their duty. They are a lazy lot of beggars," replied Garry. "I fancy Glen Leigh and Jim Benny know a good deal about Joe Calder's death."

"Do you think that's why they have cleared out?"

"Yes. Don't you?"

"It may have something to do with it; I wish I could find out."

"You said a minute or two back it was best left alone," said Garry.

"But this is different. I'd like to put a halter round Leigh's neck."

"Why? Have you any strong reason?"

"I'm told Abe Carew and he were pals, and that Abe told him a good many things about Mintaro. Calder gave me the information," Bellshaw answered.

"Did he now, and Abe wouldn't spare you, would he?"

"Spare me? What do you mean? He'd tell a lot of infernal lies about me, the scoundrel."

"You should be more careful how you send men away. You were not over polite to him," said Garry.

"He didn't deserve it. He robbed me right and left."

"I don't think he did. I told you so at the time."

Bellshaw made an impatient gesture.

"You know nothing about it; I shan't be sorry when you're gone, Garry. You've been getting above yourself for some time."

"You think so, do you? I shan't be sorry to get away from Mintaro. There's some things a fellow can't stand."

Bellshaw laughed harshly.

"I didn't think you were soft, or chicken-hearted," he said.

"I'm not, but I'd like to know what became of the woman," retorted Garry.

"I told you I took her away with me because I was tired of her, and that she was going back to Sydney with me," said Bellshaw.

"Did she go to Sydney with you?"

"Yes."

"And she's there now?"

"Yes."

"With her mother, I suppose," sneered Garry.

"Never mind who she's with. She's all right."

"I don't believe you took her to Sydney," said Garry.

Bellshaw glared at him.

"Where else could I take her?" he asked fiercely.

"Nowhere."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It's pretty lonely about here. One woman would not be missed."

Bellshaw caught him by the arm in a fierce grip and raised his fist.

"Be careful, or I'll make it hot for you," he snarled.

Garry wrenched himself free.

"Let me alone. I guess I'm a match for you, and I'm not afraid of you, if other people are," he cried. "You lent me the money to buy Bill Bigs out. Well, it will be better for you to make me a present of it."

Craig Bellshaw started back.

"Look," he said, "see that?" and he pointed to the wide verandah, built round the house.

"There's nothing there," answered Garry, thinking he must have been doing it heavy in Sydney and that the effects had not died out.

"No, of course not," said Bellshaw, trying to laugh it off. "So you say I had better make you a present of it. Why?"

"Because I know you did not take her to Sydney," said Garry slowly.

"It's a lie," roared Bellshaw.

"No it isn't, and you know it. Where is she now?"

"That's my affair."

"You can't tell me. I'm worth a few hundreds. I'll bet them you can't tell me," Garry persisted.

"This is foolishness. What the deuce have you got into your head?"

"More than you think. I know you travelled to Sydney alone," replied Garry.

"And supposing I did, you fool, do you expect I'd travel in the same carriage with her?"

"Maybe not, but you'd have been only too glad to have gone anywhere with her a couple of years back," Garry retorted.

"It was her own fault. She was tired of my company. She behaved badly. I treated her well," said Bellshaw.

"When you first brought her from Bourke you did, but I don't think she ever forgave, or forgot, how she came here. It was a blackguardly trick to play her."

"What trick?"

"Oh, stow that. Do you mean to say you think I don't know? I'm no fool. She was dazed, drugged, or something, when she came. Why it was more than a week before she found out where she was, and she had to stay because she couldn't get away. There was nowhere to go."

"We'll drop all that. She's safe enough now. Don't bother your head about her."

"But that's just what I do. I might have saved her. I could have done so if I'd had the pluck, but you bought me off, and I hate myself for it. Do you know what I think?"

"No."

"You can have it whether you like it or not—I think you've done away with her."

Bellshaw stepped up to him in a threatening attitude.

"Stand back," said Garry, pulling out his revolver. "I found this near the big water hole when I was having a ride round."

He pulled a handkerchief and a piece of ribbon out of his pocket.

"Well?" Bellshaw asked.

"There'd been a struggle near the water hole, but she wasn't in there. I made sure of that, but you left her there, and she's as dead as if you'd shoved her in. She'd starve, die of thirst, go mad wandering about. It would have been more merciful to strangle her. I saw her tracks for some distance, but I couldn't follow them far; the ground soon dries up. She's no more in Sydney than I am, and you've done a brutal, cowardly act, Craig Bellshaw!"

Bellshaw made no answer, and Garry went on, "It'll come home to you some day, mark my words if it doesn't. If I thought she was alive I'd be mighty glad, for I feel as though I had a hand in it. When I saw her drive away with you something told me you meant mischief, but I never thought you'd kill her by inches. Hadn't she suffered enough at your hands that you must let her die such a terrible death?"

"Have you done?" asked Bellshaw quietly. His tone surprised Garry.

"Yes, I've said enough, and you know the bulk of it's true."

"You may think it is, although it's a poor recompense for all I have done for you. However, I bear you no malice. I have only one request to make."

"What is it?" asked Garry.

"Keep your thoughts to yourself. The law is powerful. There's more than that—in this part of the country I am the law, and I can take it into my own hands without fear of being called to account. You've seen me do it; you know I'm not a man to be cowed, that I do not fear you, or any other man, nor what you say, or do. Listen to me, Garry Backham. There are men round Mintaro who will do my bidding for money, no matter what it is I ask. You know the sort of men, desperate, some of them, the worst of criminals. If I hear any of the lies you have said repeated I will burn your place to the ground, and you with it. You had best keep a still tongue."

Garry knew he was capable of carrying out his threats, and that he had the men to do what he willed. He believed the accusation he had brought, but he had no wish to run into grave danger.

"You'll think about that money, Mr. Bellshaw," he said.

"You mean giving it you, not lending it?"

"Yes."

"It depends upon yourself," was the reply.