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 and grey, 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 manager that 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 a member 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 said he 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 anything happened 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 their beds. 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 out en masse and 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.

Three months later Harding followed her. There was no staying the township then. He was the last of the active participants in the tragic mystery to leave the place, and it was an open secret he was going to join the one for whom they all felt deeply. So they made up in his send-off for the restraint they had exercised upon themselves when she bade the town a silent farewell.

The memory of that festivity still lives in the local annals, and ever, as a stranger asks for the story of the Rider, the send-off of the banker is the conclusion of the tale. In vain the stranger may ask for particulars as to who the Rider was.

The charred ashes of Waroona Downs had no tongue wherewith to tell what happened the night fire came to wipe the homestead from the earth.