Since Mrs. Eustace returned to the township Harding had never once been to see her nor, when passing the house, had he glanced at it.

His attitude was inexplicable to her. That she had not had even a word from him while she was at Taloona perplexed her, for it did not occur to her to question whether he had received the message she left with Bessie for him. Yet there were several reasons which might account for that omission. But his failure either to see or to communicate with her after her return to Waroona was entirely another matter.

When the third day came without a sign or word from him she took the bull by the horns and sent a note asking him to see her that evening.

She was waiting for him in her sitting-room when she heard him come to the door, heard him ask Bessie if she were at home, heard him approach the room. As he opened the door she rose to greet him. He stopped on the threshold.

"I received your note—you wish to see me?" he said stiffly.

"Fred!" she exclaimed, looking at him in amazement. "Why, what has happened? Why do you speak so? What is it?"

He remained where he was, silent.

"Don't you wish to see me?" she asked, still regarding him with a look of wondering amazement. "Has anything happened? Is that the reason you have never been to see me since I came back—why you never sent a word to me at Taloona? Have they—have they found out anything more about Charlie?"

He closed the door and walked across to the table by the side of which she was standing.

"Mrs. Eustace," he began, but before he could say more she interrupted him.

"You have something unpleasant to say. What is it? At least be frank. Whatever it is I am prepared to hear it."

He took the letter from his pocket.

"This came into my possession the night we were at Taloona," he said slowly. "I should have returned it to you at once, but it slipped my memory until after you had gone. Then, accidentally, unthinkingly, I came to read it. I—I wish to hear what you have to say about it. I wish to know——" The sentences he had so carefully thought out fled from his brain before the calm, steadfast look with which she was regarding him. "Do you recognise it?" he asked abruptly.

He held out the cover to her, turning it over so that she could see both sides.

"It is one of the Bank envelopes; I don't recognise anything else," she replied.

Taking the letter from the cover, he spread it open and held it out.

"Now do you know it?"

"Charlie's writing!"

Her eyes, after one rapid glance at it, were raised to his.

"You recognise it?"

"I recognise the writing, yes. It is his. Do you wish me to read it?"

"If you have not already done so."

She took the letter from him. As she read the first sentence she raised her eyes, filled with piteous anguish, to his.

"Oh, Fred!" she exclaimed. "Oh, what is this? Where did you get it?"

Without waiting for an answer she looked at it again. Her face went as white as the paper, a violent fit of trembling seized her, and she sank to her knees beside the table, burying her head on her arms.

"Oh, Fred! Fred! Why—why did you let me see it?" she moaned.

"Is it not yours?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

"Mine?"

She was on her feet, facing him, with eyes that blazed through the tears which filled them.

"You believed that? You believed I had this when—that I had read it when we were at Taloona? You believed that?"

"It was given to me by one of the troopers, who picked it up where you had been kneeling when you attended to Durham's wound. The man said it was either yours or mine. I knew it was not mine, so I took it to give it to you. I should have given it at once, but I forgot it at the moment. When I read it——"

"Go on," she said in a hard voice as he paused.

"When I read it I——"

Her eyes disconcerted him; he could not bring himself to say to her face he suspected her.

"When you read it—you believed it was mine," she said steadily.

"For the moment, yes; I had no alternative. Then—later—I was uncertain."

"Uncertain of what?"

"Uncertain whether it was yours. At first I intended to hand it over to Brennan, as Durham was too ill to understand. Of course, that would have made it public, and you—well, you would have been suspected, at the least, of complicity in the robbery. I could not believe that of you—could not, even with this in my possession. I came back to Waroona in the morning intending to see you and hear what explanation you had to offer before taking any further steps. But you were not at the bank, and when I got there I was done up."

The steady look in her eyes never changed.

"Go on," she repeated.

"I ask you now—what explanation have you to offer?"

"Please finish your story first," she replied. "Then I will tell you mine."

"I have little to add. I could not bring myself to give up the letter until I was sure it was really yours. Lest anyone else should see it, I hid it where no one could find it. But when I came down from my room again, Mr. Wallace told me you had been in and had gone back to Taloona. So I kept it until I could be sure."

"Sure of what?"

"Whether—you had had it."

She laid it on the table in front of him.

"Take it," she said. "Do what you will with it. I am sorry you showed it to me. I would rather not have seen it. How it came where it was found I do not know. Until to-night I did not know it existed."

She met his glance openly, frankly, proudly.

"And you believed it was mine!" she added.

"I had no alternative—until I saw you," he answered.

"You have had that letter for weeks; I have been here three days. Yet you only come to me now—when I have asked you to come."

"I dared not see you—lest——"

"Lest you discovered me to be even a greater traitress than you had already learned me to be," she said in measured tones. "I cannot blame you. The fault was mine. I have given you ample reason why your faith in me should have ended."

"That is not true," he exclaimed. "I could not bring myself to believe you had acted so. But it was horrible enough as it was. It was because I had not lost faith in you that I hid the letter so as to prevent anyone else seeing it. By doing so I was not acting as I should have acted towards the Bank."

"I never had it, never. I wish I had not seen it, for it"—her voice lost its hardness as she spoke—"it is the last straw. Whatever else I knew my husband to be, I held him innocent of that crime. When you and all the others suspected him, I would not, could not bring myself to believe it. But now——"

Her voice caught and she turned aside, sinking into a chair where she sat with averted face and bowed head.

"No wonder you did not wish to see me again," she added presently, as he did not speak. "What am I now? The wife of a thief, an outlaw, one who was almost a murderer. Oh, leave me! I should not have sent to you. Leave me. There is nothing for me now but death or degradation."

"You must not say that, Jess, you must not say that," he said in a strained voice as he came and stood beside her. "Whatever he may have done, you are not affected by it. Appearances cannot well be blacker against him than they are at present, but you must still remember you are not responsible for his ill-deeds. No one here, least of all myself, blames you. Besides, he has not yet been convicted."

"Not after that letter? There can be no doubt after that. He must have had it with him when he was at Taloona, and dropped it."

"But it was opened, torn open, when the trooper found it. If Eustace had dropped it, surely it would have been sealed up."

She glanced at him quickly.

"Do you still suspect me?" she exclaimed.

"I should not be here if I did," he answered quietly.

"Oh, I don't know what to think," she said. "I would rather you had come to tell me he was dead than to show me that hideous thing. Better if he were dead, far, far better, than that he should live to end his days on the gallows or in gaol."

She was voicing his own thought, a thought which had been with him for many days.

"It was because something of this kind might happen I wanted you to go away," he said.

"I know. I understand that. But I told you—told you why I could not go."

She spoke scarcely above a whisper, with her head bent over her clasped hands as though she feared he might see her face.

"But the reason you gave no longer exists. Will you go now? Will you go and leave all this wretched strain and worry behind you?"

"I dare not. It would drive me to perdition. You don't know how a woman thinks. So long as she has someone near her whom she knows has respect for her, she will fight against the temptation to drown all her sorrows in one reckless plunge. When that one is no longer near her, no longer her stronghold, then—what has she to live for?"

"You have the respect of all who know you."

She pressed her clasped hands to her lips to stop their quivering.

"No, Fred, no. I must stay. I could not bear to go. A man can think for the future; a woman lives only in the present. You, a man, cannot understand that. You would say I should go away, and in a few months or a year or so everything would have blown over. That would be all right for a man, but not for a woman. It is while the affair is blowing over that she is in the greatest danger. It is then she wants sustaining. She is only conscious of the precipice at her feet. Left to herself she must lean over, nearer and nearer to the edge until she falls.

"That is the road to ruin thousands of women tread," she went on. "It would have been the road I should have gone but for you. The knowledge that despite all I have done to merit your scorn, you still hold to the love you gave me in the happier days, is the rock to which I have clung. Had you acted differently, I should have gone—gone from here, gone from everything, gone out into the world and lost myself under the weight of the disgrace which had come upon me. People would say I have no right to tell you this, that I am false to my sex in doing so. They don't know. It is easy to theorise when one is not in danger. I tell you because I trust you and know I can trust you. It is such men as you who save women, save them from themselves, as it is such men as Charlie who ruin them—as he ruined me."

With her face still averted from him she ceased, and he also was silent, not trusting himself to speak.

"That is why I must stay here. The mere fact of being near you gives me strength. If you are going away, then I will go also, for Waroona would then be impossible for me. But not till then, Fred, not till then. I only want to know you are here, only to see you sometimes. Do not deny me that."

"You know I will not deny you anything that will help you in facing your difficulties, Jess," he answered.

"Yes, I know," she said. "I could never have come through what I have if I had not always known it.

"Will you have to go when the new manager comes?" she asked presently.

"The new manager is here," he answered.

"Here? Why, when did he arrive? I did not hear of it. Did they keep it from me on purpose? Mr. Gale was in this morning, but he said nothing about it."

"He probably did not know at the time. I told him this afternoon."

"What is his name? Is it anyone I know, or who knew Charlie?"

"Yes."

She faced round quickly.

"Fred—you?"

"Yes," he answered.

"Oh, I am pleased," she began impulsively. Then she stopped. "That was why you did not come sooner," she added.

"Yes," he replied. "Mr. Wallace told me three days ago it was to be, and I thought it better not to call immediately you returned."

She had risen with her hand outstretched to him, but, before she could speak, a knock at the front door interrupted her.

"Is Mr. Harding here?" they heard Durham's voice ask when Bessie went to the door.

"Tell him I wish to see him at once," he added.

She went to the door of the room.

"Ask Mr. Durham to come in," she called out. "I am glad to see you out again," she added as Durham came forward. "Mr. Harding is in here. Will you come in?"

He followed her into the room without speaking, his face so stern that a tremor of fear ran through her.

"Will you give me a few minutes alone with Mr. Harding, please, Mrs. Eustace?" he began, when his keen eyes caught sight of the open letter lying on the table.

He sprang forward and picked it up.

"How did this come here?" he cried, looking from one to the other.

"I brought it," Harding answered. "One of the troopers found it at Taloona and thought Mrs. Eustace or I had dropped it when attending to you."

"It must have fallen from my pocket," Durham said as he folded it up.

Mrs. Eustace was looking at him with anxious eyes.

"Will you tell me—where you—got it?" she asked hesitatingly.

"I found it—in the bush, lying unopened on the ground. By the marks on the ground someone had evidently been thrown from his horse, and this, I assume, had fallen from his pocket."

"Was it—near the bank?"

"No, Mrs. Eustace, it was in the bush miles away."

She gave a deep sigh of relief.

"Will you leave us for a few minutes now, if you please?" he repeated.

She inclined her head and went from the room.

As soon as the door was closed, Durham turned to Harding.

"I went to the bank for you," he said, "to ask you to come here. I am glad you are here already. I have an unpleasant task to perform. Will you give me your assistance?"

"Certainly," Harding answered. "What is it you wish me to do?"

"I wish you would do it altogether. It will be easier for her if you tell her, than if I do."

"Eustace is arrested?" Harding exclaimed in an excited whisper.

"Eustace is dead," Durham replied in the same tone.

Harding started as though he had been struck.

"How? When?" he exclaimed.

"Brennan and I found him, as we were returning from Waroona Downs this evening. He was lying on his face in the creek where it crosses the road in the range. He was drenched with water from head to foot, but the water at the ford is barely six inches deep. There were no footprints on the track either side of the ford to show how he had entered the water. He was shot in the back, the bullet having passed through his right lung, coming out at his chest. His wrists were bruised and chafed as though he had been tightly bound and had struggled to escape. The only thing found on him was this."

He produced a handkerchief with two round holes burned in the centre.

"It was such a handkerchief one of the men who stuck up Taloona was wearing," he added.

"Where is he now?" Harding asked.

"We brought him in and took him over to the police-station. It is for Mrs. Eustace, of course, to say what is to be done about the funeral. Will you break the news to her by yourself, or shall I do it?"

"You have told Mr. Wallace?"

"Yes. He suggested I should see you. The news upset him very much."

"It will be better if I see her alone, I think."

"I think so too. Not that I want to put the burden upon you, but coming from me——" he shrugged his shoulders. "I will leave you then, and ask her to come in."

Harding met her at the door. Closing it behind her, he took her hand and led her to the chair where she had been sitting before Durham arrived.

"Jess," he said softly, as he stood by her, still holding her hand, "I have sad news to tell you."

Her fingers closed tighter upon his, but beyond that she made no sign.

"Durham asked me to tell you."

"Charlie," she said in a tense whisper. "It is about him. He is——"

A shudder went through her and her voice broke.

He placed his other hand upon hers gently.

"He is gone, Jess."

She rose to her feet with a gasp, clutching his arm.

"Not dead!"

"Yes, Jess."

Her hands fell to her sides, limply, nervelessly; her lips parted, but no sound came from them; for a second she stood motionless.

He took her hand again and rested his arm upon her shoulder, fearing she would fall.

"Dead!"

The word came in a low whisper, but the parted lips did not move nor the staring eyes change.

"My poor, poor Jess," he whispered.

"Oh, Fred!"

A great wavering sigh escaped her, a sigh that ended in a sob, plaintive, wailing, sad. But still her eyes stared blankly.

"Sit down, Jess," he said softly.

"No, no. Let me stand. Let me—I want to face it. Don't leave me, Fred, don't leave me."

She swayed, and the staring eyes closed. He slipped his arm round her waist to support her and at the touch she came forward, flinging her arms round him as her head drooped upon his shoulder and she burst into a fit of wild, tempestuous weeping.

So he held her, his head bent upon hers, his arms supporting her. Not until the storm of sobs had abated did he speak.

"Sit down, now, Jess. You will be better resting," he whispered.

"No, no," she answered. "No, no. Let me stay—a moment."

A hum of voices came from the road outside, for the news, flying through the town, brought everybody out to tell and hear.

With one accord they gathered round the police-station, which was almost opposite the cottage, and stood in the road discussing the latest phase of the mystery, the phase which brought into it the note of tragedy. Then someone remembered the cottage and who was in it, and passed the word along. The loud voices were hushed as the men, actuated by the rough sympathy of the bush, quietly moved away so that the sound of their voices should not reach the woman on whom a fresh blow had fallen.

Bessie, hearing the noise, went out to ascertain the cause. Hearing what the news was, she rushed back into the cottage and precipitately burst into the sitting-room. As she opened the door, Harding signed to her to keep quiet.

"Here is Bessie, Jess. Will you stay with her?" he said.

She drew away from him slowly.

"No, don't go yet," she answered. "Tell me everything. I can hear it now."

Bessie slipped out of the room and softly closed the door after her.

Mrs. Eustace took the chair Harding placed for her and he sat down by her.

"Who—did it?" she asked.

"No one knows yet," he answered.

She looked at him quickly.

"Do they think—it was—himself?"

"No; it could not have been."

"I am glad of that," she said. "I have always feared he would. Then there could have been no doubt. Was he found?"

"Yes. Durham was driving in from Waroona Downs with Brennan. They found him in the water where the creek crosses the road in the range."

"Drowned?" she asked wonderingly.

"No, not drowned; he had been shot."

She shuddered and gripped his hand.

"They did not——" she began brokenly. "They—it was not because he was—escaping?"

"They found him," he said gently. "He was lying in the water—the shot had been fired from behind him."

For a time she sat silent, still holding his hand firmly.

"Where is he now?" she asked presently.

"They brought him in and Durham came across to tell you. Will you——"

"No, no. Oh, no," she interrupted as she shuddered and hid her face in her hands.

Presently she raised her eyes to his.

"It is better so," she said. "They may find out now that he was innocent; they would have condemned him had he been taken alive."

He laid a hand on hers without speaking.

With a quick gesture she raised it to her lips.

"Oh, Fred, what a friend you have been to me!" she murmured.