There could be no doubt about it, and every one stared blankly after the beautiful big creature as it passed on, round the house towards its own stable.

"What can have happened?" Mrs. Orban exclaimed. "Bob is such a splendid rider."

"Oh, he can't have been thrown, of course," Eustace said, with an emphasis meant to impress Aunt Dorothy.

"Perhaps it's black-fellows," said Nesta shakily.

"Stupid," said Eustace sharply, "Bob can shoot straighter than any one I know."

"Instead of wrangling over possibilities, we ought to be doing something," said Mrs. Orban. "Eustace, you had better fetch that horse and ride down to father at once. Perhaps he will guess what it means."

Eustace was off like an arrow from a bow, and presently appeared below the veranda, sitting erect and fearless, riding the returned horse.

He looked such a scrap perched up there that Miss Chase had a sudden qualm as to his safety.

"Will he be all right going down alone?" she asked.

"All right?" questioned Mrs. Orban, looking puzzled.

"Yes; I mean, isn't it rather a risk for him?""Oh goody, no!" Nesta answered with a laugh. "Why, Eustace can ride anything; he has ridden ever since he was six."

"Father will want to see the horse," Mrs. Orban said. "Perhaps it has only run away from the Highlands before it was stabled. But I can't think what it has been doing in the interval, or why Bob has not sent over to inquire. He ought to have got home by nine at latest."

Mr. Orban was as puzzled as every one else when he saw the horse. He examined it carefully.

"Well, so far as I can see, Bolter has not been running away," he said thoughtfully. "He has not been overheated, and he is as fresh as paint. I should say he has had some quiet hours of grazing. But where Bob is remains a mystery. I must ride over to the Highlands at once and find out if he is there."

"O father, can I come too?" Eustace cried eagerly. "I could ride Bolter, and I shall never be happy till I know Bob is all right."

Mr. Orban eyed the boy kindly.

"Yes, you can come," he said. "It will scare Mrs. Cochrane less perhaps, and look more casual if I have you with me."

Away they went at a quick trot along the rough road leading to the wood known as Palm Tree Scrub. Eustace knew every inch of the way, and generally loved to get into the cool and shade under the feathery palms. But to-day he glanced left and right, looking for he knew not what with sickening anxiety.

The road, nothing but a cart-track, skirted a mangrove swamp awhile."He can't have got in there," said Eustace, with a nod towards the thickly growing stems of ti-trees rearing up from long coarse grass.

There was a mysterious darkness in the depths of the woods that somehow chilled the boy to-day.

"What should he get into a rank place like that for?" said Mr. Orban bracingly.

At the same time he whipped up his horse and hurried forward. He was regretting having brought Eustace. A mangrove swamp is an unhealthy spot at the best of times, productive of a great deal of malarial fever; it would be nightfall, he reflected, before they got back, and the mist would be rising.

Away and away out into the open the pair galloped, and came to the side of the creek—the bend in the river through which the horses had to wade. The water was low just now. There were times when such floods roared over this spot that the man carrying the mails had been known to be swept away, horse and all, and was never heard of again.

At the other side the horses plunged into grass as high as their flanks—a flat, uninteresting tract of land, bare of trees except where here and there a single palm tree arose. But beyond that the ground rose suddenly from the banks of this bend of the river. On the summit of a high bank, luxuriantly surrounded by tropical foliage of all sorts, was Bob Cochrane's home.

It was a relief to Mr. Orban to find only Mr. Cochrane on the lower veranda. He was a short, broad, sandy-haired man with a rough appearance, and as kind a heart as could be found in the colony, which is saying a great deal."Good-evening, Cochrane," said Mr. Orban casually, as he reined in his horse. "Is Bob at home?"

Eustace listened for the answer with a thumping heart, and he saw a slight look of surprise flit across Mr. Cochrane's face as he replied slowly,—

"Bob? No. I thought he was over at your place. He hasn't turned up here to-day."

"Well, he was with us," Mr. Orban said, trying hard to keep up the careless tone, "but he started off this morning—I thought for home."

"Not he," said Mr. Cochrane; "at least he hasn't arrived. Perhaps he had to come round by somewhere else—Gairloch or one of those places. Come in, won't you, and wait for him, if you want to see him."

"Afraid I can't do that," Mr. Orban said, speaking low so that only Mr. Cochrane, now by his horse's head, should hear. "Fact is, I'm rather worried. Bob's horse went lame, and he borrowed one of mine. He should have been here at about nine, but the horse—this one Eustace is on—appeared back at my place an hour ago."

Mr. Cochrane stared blankly.

"Without Bob?" he questioned in a dazed way.

"Yes. Don't say anything about it to your wife—it might frighten her unnecessarily," Mr. Orban said. "He may have gone round by Gairloch, and the beast ran away from there. We can just say I came over on business, and then you had better come right off with me to see if Bob is all right."

"I'll do that," said the Scotsman, and hurried off to get his horse.

"Now look here, Eustace," Mr. Orban said, "I'm going to leave you here for to-night, whatever happens. Mother would not thank me for bringing you through that mangrove swamp and risking fever. But you'll have to keep a quiet tongue in your head and say nothing about Bob's leaving our house to-day. If you say nothing, Mrs. Cochrane and Trix will only fancy he is staying with us."

"O father," Eustace said pleadingly, "need I stay really?"

The prospect frightened him, for he was terrified lest he should let the cat out of the bag. Keeping a secret was not one of his accomplishments.

"Yes, my lad," was the answer, however; "there is to be no question about it, and you are to behave like a man. Anxiety is much worse to bear than any bodily hurt, and a man should protect a woman from it as he would save her from being tortured. Do you understand?"

"Yes, father," Eustace said, with a sinking heart.

"It isn't a little thing to do," Mr. Orban went on; "it is one of the big things, for it means self-sacrifice. It is always comforting to oneself to talk things out. You'll have plenty of things to say without mentioning Bob. Tell them about Aunt Dorothy and her queer mistakes—the boxes you have unpacked—Ah, Mrs. Cochrane," he broke off suddenly, looking up to a figure that appeared on the upper veranda, "how do you do? I've just come over to steal your husband for a bit. I hope you won't mind."

Eustace was amazed at the change in his father's tone; it was brisk, cheery, and impossible to suspect.

"But won't you come in?" asked Mrs. Cochrane, who in appearance was something like a little brown robin. "You must be hot and tired.""Not a bit," Mr. Orban said; "and I'm in such a hurry I must ask you to forgive the rudeness. I want you to do me a favour too, if you will. Keep Eustace the night. I never thought how late I might be going home when I brought him; I want to go back by Gairloch."

"Certainly, I'll keep the dear laddie with pleasure," was the cordial answer, and the kindly look that beamed on Eustace positively hurt him. She looked so happy, and oh, what awful news was there in store for her!

"I may even keep your husband all night," Mr. Orban added. "You won't be scared if he doesn't turn up in good time for bed?"

"Not I," said Mrs. Cochrane. "I know my dear belongings are always safe with you."

Eustace could have cried at the words. "Safe!" and where was Bob whom she pictured so safely at this very minute in the Orbans' house? Mr. Orban did not look up as he said,—

"Don't expect Bob either. Eustace will tell you all about what a merry household we have suddenly become. We've got a witch into it, as Bob calls her. Here comes Cochrane. I hope he won't want an hour to say farewell."

"Not I," said Mr. Cochrane bravely. "Orban has made his apologies, I suppose?"

He ran up the steps, said good-bye, and in a few minutes the two men were gone, leaving Eustace to face a terrible ordeal.

He took his father's suggestion and talked much of Miss Chase. It was made easy for him by the kindly curiosity of both Mrs. Cochrane and Trixy.Beatrix was a jolly girl, rather like Bob both in looks and ways. She was older for her age than Nesta, perhaps because she had no companions of her own standing to keep her back. Eustace and she always got on well together, and to-night he was grateful to her for being such a chatterbox. The story of Aunt Dorothy's lunatics made Mrs. Cochrane and Trix both laugh till the tears ran down their cheeks. It was harder to tell them about the evening before, for that was all so full of Bob.

It struck Mrs. Cochrane after a time that Eustace looked singularly pale, and that the boy was talking rather fast and excitedly, unlike his usual self.

"Do you know," she said, "I believe you are very tired, Eustace. What do you say to going to bed?"

"Oh, I should love it," he said, with such eagerness that Mrs. Cochrane was startled, and eyeing him critically she discovered he was now crimson.

"I just hope he has not got a touch of the sun," was her thought.

But she said nothing of her fear.

Eustace was put into Bob's room, and everything he looked at in it made him more miserable. But he was thankful to get away by himself at last and give up the wretched pretence of good spirits. He felt he was getting to the end of his powers, that in another minute the truth would tumble out in spite of him. All the time he was talking he was also listening—listening—listening for the sound of hoofs that never came.

He went on listening long after he got into bed, for he could not sleep, he was so certain there must be bad news, as neither Mr. Cochrane nor his father returned.

He must have dozed fitfully through the night, but it seemed a terribly long one. Every time he opened his eyes he was wide awake in a minute to the remembrance of what had happened. When he awoke at last to find the sun rising, he could lie still no longer, he was haunted by such restless thoughts. He dressed and went downstairs into the open air.

"Supposing Bob had gone off the track for some reason, and lost his way," ran his thoughts. "Supposing he was wandering about seeking it all night up to this very minute! Supposing he had been waylaid and surrounded by black-fellows!—Sinkum Fung had declared they were camping in the neighbourhood. No, Eustace would not think of that—one white man against a tribe of blacks: it was too terrible! And yet supposing he had been, and no one found out!" Thoughts are sometimes dreadfully uncontrollable things.

"I believe I will go for a ride," he said to himself. "I might just go down to the creek—I won't cross it—but just as far as there, to see if they are in sight. I can do that easily, and be in to breakfast."

He found a man near the stables whom he got to saddle Bolter, then off he started down the slope across the river, and away over the uninteresting stretch of flatness till he again reached the river bank. There he paused, staring towards the mangrove swamp with the same chilled feeling he had experienced the day before. It was the terrible dread that the depths of the woods might hold something ghastly—Bob living, but in awful distress of mind or body; Bob dead!

There were no signs of his father or Mr. Cochrane; no sounds but those of nature. They certainly could not have found Bob at Gairloch. The only alternative seemed the scrub.

Suddenly Eustace threw back his head, and in a shrill treble gave vent to a prolonged Australian "coo-ee."

"If he is there," argued the boy, "of course he will answer. How silly of me not to think of that before."

He could hardly believe his ears for joy, but there was instantly an answer—so faint that he only caught a bit of it; still he heard it.

In wild excitement he coo-eed again, his very loudest this time; and again came the reply, scarcely more distinct, and more like a cry than a coo-ee.

"It comes from the scrub," thought Eustace. "He must be there, but awfully far off or ill, for that isn't like his voice. What shall I do? I can't go back and fetch any one, because father said I was not to tell. I daren't wait till father comes, for fear I lose it. It might get fainter and fainter. Oh, I must do something when Bob is calling out for help! If I could find him, if—if I could save him, it would be splendid!"

Just once again he sent out his piercing coo-ee, and this time the answer was distinct enough for him to decide its exact position. Without another moment for reflection, he urged Bolter on, waded through the river, and dashed helter-skelter towards the wood. He thought nothing of the possibility of himself being lost, nothing of the danger of meeting black-fellows. He was going to Bob—that was the central idea. Bob was in danger and called for help. It was the fulfilment of the greatest wish of Eustace's life to serve Bob.

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