For the first time since the outrage at Taloona, Dudgeon visited Waroona.

He drove up to Soden's hotel in the old rackety buggy at a crawl, for his horse had gone dead lame on the way. At the time he arrived Patsy was making ineffectual attempts to mount his horse for the ride which led to so dramatic a turning in Durham's romance, having just staggered out of the bar highly indignant because Soden had refused to allow him to have anything more to drink on the premises.

"Have you a horse I can borrow from you, Soden? My old crock has gone in the off hind-leg and wants a rest. Can you let me have one to get back?" Dudgeon called out.

"I'll have to send out to the paddock, Mr. Dudgeon, but I'll have one in by four this afternoon, if that will suit you."

"It'll have to suit, I suppose," Dudgeon replied. "I didn't want to hang about the place so long, but if you'll have it in by four I'll be here ready to start. I'll leave the buggy with you."

While they were talking Patsy and his horse were slowly going round and round, the old man missing the stirrup every time he put his foot up, and only avoiding a fall by hanging on to the bridle so firmly that he pulled the horse round at each ineffectual attempt to mount.

"Give him a leg up, Jim," Soden said to his barman.

Old Patsy, with the help of the barman, managed to clamber into the saddle, where he sat for a few minutes swaying unsteadily before he started to ride off through the town.

"Where's he from?" Dudgeon asked, looking after him.

"Oh, that's Mrs. Burke's Irish body-guard," Soden said. "Says he should never have left Ireland, and I agree with him. There'll be trouble out at the Downs some of these days, if she doesn't clear him out or he gives over drinking. Don't you serve him any more, do you hear, Jim? Hand him over to Brennan if he comes in again," he added to his barman.

"Well, what's the news?" Dudgeon exclaimed as he got out of his buggy and limped over to Soden.

"The leg's not all right yet, I see?" Soden said.

"Oh, that's getting on. Anything fresh about the bank?"

"Why, haven't you heard?" Soden cried. "They've found Eustace, found him with a bullet through him, lying in the water at the ford in the range. He's over there now," he added, jerking his head towards the police-station.

"What's that you say?" Dudgeon exclaimed, open-eyed and open-mouthed.

"They found him only yesterday—the sub-inspector and the constable. And last night, what do you think? His mate, the man with the beard who stuck your place up, galloped through the town here, and afterwards, when we were all out chasing him, doubled back on us and stole everything he could lay his hands on."

Dudgeon still stood staring open-mouthed and open-eyed.

"There were only two places he missed, the bank and the cottage down the road—Smart's place—where Mrs. Eustace is living."

"Ah! Then that poor thing's a widow?"

"That's so," Soden replied. "But, between you and me, I don't think for long. You know she and Harding—he's our new bank manager, by the way—are old friends, Mr. Dudgeon, and from what I hear from Jim, my barman, who's got his eye on the girl Mrs. Eustace has, they're pretty good friends now, if not a bit more. I shouldn't be surprised, speaking as between man and man, to see her back at the bank again before many years are over, that is, if young Harding stays on here."

"Oh!" Dudgeon exclaimed. "Oh!"

"He's a fine young fellow, Mr. Dudgeon, and you ought to be interested in him, for he was the first to look after you when you were knocked over. But, here, won't you come in for a bit? You're in no-hurry."

"Yes, I am," Dudgeon replied. "I'm in town on business, and when I have business to do, Mr. Soden, I do it. See?"

"It's a good plan."

"Yes, it's a very good plan. So I'll move along. Don't forget to have that horse in sharp at four—I don't like waiting."

He limped away down the road and Soden turned back into his house.

"Old Dudgeon don't seem to have lost much of his sourness since he was laid out," he said to his barman as he passed. "He's never been inside this door since I've been here, and they say he hadn't been in for years before then. Queer old chap he is. I wonder if he is mixed up with the Rider?"

Limping along, Dudgeon made straight for Smart's cottage and knocked at the door.

"I've come to see Mrs. Eustace," he said gruffly when Bessie answered.

"I'm sorry, sir, but Mrs. Eustace can't see anyone to-day. It's——"

"You go and tell her it's me, do you hear? Mr. Dudgeon of Taloona. I'll come in and sit down till she's ready."

He pushed the door wide open and stepped inside.

"But Mrs. Eustace, sir——" Bessie began.

"Did I speak loud enough for you to hear, or didn't I?"

"Yes, sir, but——"

"Then go and tell Mrs. Eustace I'm here."

He was nearly at the door of the sitting-room when Mrs. Eustace, having heard his voice, reached the passage.

"Ah," he exclaimed. "I want to talk to you. Just come in here, will you?"

He held the door open for her and waited till she passed in. Then he followed and closed the door.

"Just excuse me one minute," he said as he remained standing by the door which he suddenly flung open again.

"I thought so," he cried, as he saw Bessie in the passage. "You clear out of it. What I've got to say to Mrs. Eustace don't concern you, nor Jim the barman. Do you hear?"

Bessie heard, and scurried.

"It's only fair to tell you," he said, turning to Mrs. Eustace, "that what that girl sees and hears here goes to Jim the barman who, if you don't know it, tells Soden, and Soden tells the town. You understand?"

He limped across the room and sat down.

"I've come in to tell you something," he went on. "When I got here I heard the news. But that makes no difference to what I had to tell you. I can still tell you. But I must say something else first. You wouldn't stay on at Taloona when I asked you, but that was your business. Now this has come to you. I'm no hand at talking sympathy, but if you want anything that I can get for you it's yours—you understand?"

He leaned forward, with his hands on his knees, looking her steadily in the face.

"Thank you, Mr. Dudgeon, I—I understand," she said haltingly.

"That's what I thought you'd say," he remarked as he sat back. "I know it's a sad business for you, as it stands, and I'd rather you never had it. You're the first woman I've felt that way about for more years than you've lived. But I'm sorry for you, hang me if I'm not."

"It is—good of you to say so," she murmured.

"Still, you're young, and there are many years before you which won't be all sad, you may be sure. But now you're a widow will you come to Taloona?"

She looked up quickly without replying.

"I don't care how it is. You can make it your home as a guest, or you can come as Mrs. Dudgeon."

"Oh, please, Mr. Dudgeon," she exclaimed as she stood up. "You—I know you don't mean to hurt me, but——"

She broke off and turned away.

"It wasn't said to hurt you," he said. "It was only to show you what I'd do for you. Seemed to me it was the best way to put it. I only want you to understand I'm with you whatever comes along. Will you take it that way?"

"I know," she exclaimed impulsively, as she crossed over to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. "I know how you mean it, Mr. Dudgeon, and I appreciate it more than I can say. It was the——"

"The clumsy way I put it," he said, as she hesitated. "That's all right. Don't mind speaking out your mind to me—you used to pretty well when I shied at that physic you poured into me a few weeks back."

"I should have asked how the leg is," she said leaping at the opening to change the subject. "Is it still very painful?"

"Oh, it comes and goes," he replied. "Mostly goes."

"Don't you think it would be a good thing if you took the doctor's advice now and went away for a change and a rest? It would make you all right again in a few months. The hard, rough life you lead at Taloona makes it very difficult for you to get up your strength after the experience you have had."

He smiled grimly—his facial muscles had been so long strangers to anything approaching tokens of mirth or pleasure that they did not move easily.

"I suppose it is a bit rough out there," he said. "But then, you see, I'm used to a rough life—I've had it all my days. Is that why you wouldn't stay? Was it too rough for you?"

He looked round the little sitting-room in which she had the furniture and nicknacks from her room at the bank.

"There's a bit of a difference I will say," he went on as she did not reply. "It's a flower-garden to a stock-yard to compare this room with the hut you had out at Taloona. Look here. I'll build a new house, build it as big as you like or as little as you like, and you shall furnish it and fit it up just as you fancy—if you'll only make it a home for yourself."

She shook her head.

"No, Mr. Dudgeon, I am afraid that is impossible," she said. "At the same time, I want to thank you very much for what you say."

"Look here," he exclaimed. "I don't want thanks. You know what my life has been—I told you the story often enough when I was lying sick and you were waiting on me like an angel—oh, I mean it," he added, as she looked up. "Just let me say what I've got to say. When you came back here, and I was by myself again, I began to think. Somehow the old views didn't seem quite to fit together. There was something wrong somewhere and I reckon that somewhere was me. I've put a wrong twist on things. It never struck me there was more than one woman in the world who could do anything to make me contented. So I set out to make money. I made it, made it by the ton. And now I've got it what's the good of it to me?"

"There is no limit to the good it may be if it is properly applied, Mr. Dudgeon."

"Where will it do good?" he exclaimed. "That's just what I want to know. Tell me."

"There are hospitals," she said. "And schools. You might found scholarships for poor students to——"

"And chapels and missions and dogs' homes—go on, trot out the whole list," he interrupted. "None of them will ever get a pennypiece out of me. More than half the money given to them goes to keep a lot of lazy, patronising officials in luxury—I know—I've come in contact with them when they have been cadging after me for subscriptions. They cringe till they find out there's nothing for them, and then they snarl. I've no time for that sort of people, no time nor money either."

"Then I hardly know what to suggest," she said, "unless——"

"Unless what?"

"You helped Mrs. O'Guire and her children, if she has any."

His mouth went into its old hard lines, and he sat silent for a time.

"It's no good talking about that," he said presently. "The best thing I can do for them is not to think about them—I'd be after them again if I do—if I could find them. Help them? No. I'd rather give the money to the Government to build gaols. Can't you think of anything else?"

"I'm afraid I cannot," she answered. "But I am still sure your money will do good if it is properly applied."

"Ah, that's it. If it's properly applied. I'm an old man now. How am I to apply it? There's only one way that I can see, and that is what I am going to do with it. I'm going to give it away. What do you think of that?"

"If you give it away where it will do good I think it is a very excellent idea," she answered.

"You know that youngster at the bank, don't you? Young Harding, I mean."

"Yes," she replied.

"Do you think he is a man to be trusted?"

"I know he is, Mr. Dudgeon."

"I'll take your word for it," he said as he stood up. "I'll get along and see him. You can let him know if you want anything and he'll send on word to me. I'll look in again next time I'm passing. Good-bye."

He held out his hand, hard, knotted, and roughened with toil, and she placed hers in it. His fingers closed on hers, and he stood looking into her eyes till she grew uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

"I'd give everything I've got in the world," he said hoarsely, "for a daughter like you."

He dropped her hand and limped quickly to the door, opening it and going out without looking back.

Through the window she saw him pass along the road towards the bank, his head up in the old defiant way, the limp robbing his stride of much of its sturdiness. Without a glance at the cottage he passed out of sight.

Right through the town he walked until he came to the bank.

Harding, looking up at the sound of footsteps, was surprised to see him limping to the counter.

"Good day, Mr. Dudgeon," he exclaimed.

"Do you know how to make a will?" the old man asked, without replying to the greeting.

"That is more the work of a solicitor than a banker, Mr. Dudgeon."

"Oh, I know all about that. If it's going to be a long, muddled, complicated affair a solicitor's the man to go to. But that's not what I want. I want to make a will leaving everything I possess to just one person. I'm no hand with a pen, so I thought you might be able to do it for me."

"Mr. Wallace is inside; perhaps he could advise you better."

"Well, I'll see him."

Remembering his last interview with the crotchety old man, Wallace was particularly circumspect when he met him.

"What I want is this," Dudgeon exclaimed. "I want to say it in such a manner that there can be no questioning the thing afterwards, that is when I'm gone, you understand?"

"I understand," Wallace replied.

"I want to leave everything I possess to one person. If that is written on a sheet of paper and I sign it, isn't that enough?"

"If your signature is witnessed by two persons."

"Then go ahead. Write it out for me. You and this young man can be witnesses."

"It is an unusual thing for the Bank to do, Mr. Dudgeon; but if you really wish it, of course we shall be only too happy to oblige you. Don't you think Mr. Gale——"

"No," the old man snapped. "I've finished with Gale."

"Then will you come into my room and we will do the best we can for you."

Wallace drew up a simple form of a will and read it through aloud.

"I have left the name blank," he said. "If this expresses what you wish, you can fill in the name and sign it, either before Harding and myself or two other people."

Dudgeon took it and read it through again.

"That'll do," he said. He put it on the table in front of Harding. "Fill in Mrs. Eustace's name—I don't know it," he added.

Harding wrote the name in the blank space, the name of one who, in another minute, would rank amongst the greatest heiresses of the world.

"That is the full name," he said as he handed back the document to Dudgeon.

He looked at it.

"Jessie, is it?" he said. "Jessie Eustace, nÉe Spence. There is no chance of a mistake being made, is there? Hadn't you better add whose wife she was?"

"If you wish it."

"And say where she is living now, and where she came from before she came here. I don't want this to go wrong. I want to make sure she will get everything."

When the additions were made he read the whole document through once more.

"Yes, that seems to fix it," he said. "Give me a pen."

The signature affixed, and witnessed, he looked from one to the other.

"I'll take your word to keep the matter secret till I'm gone," he said. "I don't feel like dying just yet, but one never knows, and, in the meantime, I don't want this known. She don't know, and if she does, it will only be through one of you two talking."

"You may rest assured, Mr. Dudgeon, that both Mr. Harding and myself will respect your confidence and hold the matter absolutely secret," Wallace replied.

"That's good enough," he said.

Turning to Harding, he added, "I'll leave this in your charge. If I go, see that she gets it. Good day."

He was at the door when Wallace spoke.

"Will you not stay and have some refreshment, after your long drive in?" he said.

Dudgeon looked over his shoulder, with his hand on the door-handle.

"That's all I want from you," he replied.

"There is one other matter," Harding exclaimed. "If this will ever has to be used, we have no information what property you are leaving."

Dudgeon let go the handle and faced round.

"Young man," he said, "you've got a head on you. Just sit down and I'll tell you, and you can write them down."

Leaving the two together, Wallace went to the outer office.

"I am glad he's gone," Dudgeon remarked. "This don't concern him."

Then he reeled off a list of properties, securities, cash deposits, and other possessions, dazzling in their value and variety.

The name of a firm of lawyers in a southern city was added.

"That's the lot," he said unconcernedly. "I needn't tell you to see she has her rights. Give me your hand, my lad. I hope she shares it with you."

Without another word he was gone.

Harding was still running his eye over the list of properties Dudgeon had dictated when he heard Wallace call.

"All right. We'll come in," Wallace added, and appeared with Durham at his heels.

"Do you know this?" Durham asked, as he held out his hand.

"My watch! Where on earth did you find it?" Harding cried.

"It is yours?"

"It's the one which disappeared from under my pillow the night the bank was robbed."

"I thought so."

"Have you found anything more?" Wallace asked breathlessly.

"All the money and a lot of jewellery. I would like Mr. Harding to come along with me to-night to the place where I have it hidden. We can bring it in quietly without anyone knowing. But till then, don't let this be seen, and don't breathe a word of what I have told you. Now I've got the money I want to make sure of the man."

Wallace slapped him warmly on the back.

"You're a marvel, Durham. I knew you'd do it somehow, but I'm bothered if I could see how. May I wire to head office?"

"Not till to-night, Mr. Wallace. When the stuff is handed over to you will be time enough."

"How about Mr. Dudgeon's money?"

"It's there, too."

"He's in town. Will you tell him?"

"Not a word, Mr. Wallace. You are the only people I mention it to; not even Brennan will be told about it till it's here."

"Well, you know more about these things than I do, so your word's law. But I shall be glad to let the head office know—I want to have the general manager's authority to do what I told you was going to be done."

Durham smiled in answer. So did he want the general manager to authorise what was to be the news he wished to give Mrs. Burke on the morrow. With five thousand pounds behind him he anticipated less difficulty in persuading her to postpone her intended return to Ireland, postpone it long enough, at all events, for her to go, not as Mrs. Burke, but as Mrs. Durham.

He stood at the door chatting to Wallace before going on to the station, when Dudgeon rattled past in his old buggy drawn by a borrowed horse.

He did not look towards the bank as he passed.

"If I told him I suppose he'd scowl at me and say, 'Oh, have you?'" Durham exclaimed as he watched the crazy old vehicle disappear along the road.

"You are sure his money is there too?" Wallace asked.

"Quite."

"That's curious."

"Why? It was obviously stolen by the same man who robbed the bank, and naturally they took it to the same spot."

"Have you any idea who the men were—or rather the man, for I suppose there is only one now to be considered?"

"That is so," Durham answered. "Only one—and he may be—anybody."

"You have no suspicions?"

"I don't want any. If I begin suspecting different persons I may miss the real individual. As matters stand, I know where, sooner or later, I shall meet him under conditions which will identify him as the man I want. The trap is set and the bird will be caught. That is all I can say."

"Have you heard what they are saying in the town?"

"I've heard a good deal one way and another, but not to-day, as I have been away since dawn. Is it anything special?"

"Someone started the yarn last night, so Gale told me. There's an idea that old Mr. Dudgeon is at the back of the whole affair; that he hired the man they call the Rider to rob the bank in the first instance, so as to prevent the sale of Waroona Downs being completed. Eustace is supposed to have been bribed to join the conspiracy."

"That's rather an ingenious theory. Whose is it?"

"One of the men in the town; Gale did not mention his name. But he has evolved a very workable theory—at least to my mind."

"Let me hear it all," Durham said.

"Well, when the bank had been robbed, and the second lot of gold was hurried forward in time to save the situation, one part of the scheme failed, for the sale of the property was completed. The Rider and his mate—Eustace, as is generally believed—went out to Taloona to settle up with the old man. They found you there and, to blind you as to the real character of Dudgeon, they pretended to make him a prisoner. Then you showed fight, Dudgeon was shot by the bullet intended for you, the lamp was upset, and the place set on fire just as the troopers I sent arrived on the scene."

"That sounds all right as far as it goes. Is there any more?"

"Oh, yes. Dudgeon being laid up delayed the settlement and the pair had to wait—every time up to last night that the white horses have been seen was on the Taloona road, you may remember, which adds colour to the theory. Then they got tired of waiting and quarrelled between themselves, with the result that one of them got killed. The general idea is that they quarrelled over the division of the spoil, and, seeing what you have discovered to-day, I am inclined to agree with it. Last night's escapade was sheer bravado to mock at you and Brennan. What do you think of the idea?"

"Oh, it's all right, as far as it goes. When my man walks into the trap waiting for him I may be able to tell you whether it is the correct solution, but, for the present, I should neither accept nor reject it."

"That is all you have to say about it?"

"That is all; and now I must get along to the station. I'll be back in an hour or so to tell Harding where to meet me."

It was just on sunset when he returned to arrange for Harding to go out with him about midnight. With Harding and Wallace he was standing at the private entrance of the bank when, with a clatter, there dashed down the road the horse and buggy in which Dudgeon had driven by during the afternoon.

The horse was galloping with the reins trailing behind it, the splash-board was smashed and hanging loose, striking the horse at every stride and adding to its panic.

Durham and Harding rushed out to stop the runaway. It swerved to the edge of the road, the buggy overbalanced and rolled over, the shafts snapped, and the horse, breaking free, raced through the town.

"Look!" Harding cried. "What has happened?"

On the seat of the vehicle was an ugly red splash, while the floor was smothered with blood.

"Send along to Brennan to follow me, will you?" Durham exclaimed as he sprang to his horse, which was standing at the door of the bank, mounted it, and spurred away along the road the runaway had come.

Four miles away on the Taloona road he found Dudgeon.

The old man lay in a heap in the middle of the road, riddled with bullet wounds, any one of which would have proved fatal.

There were abundant signs of a fierce struggle. As Durham read the indications, an attack had been made upon him while he was driving along He had been shot and had struggled from the vehicle, probably returning the fire, for there was the mark where another man had fallen and added another red stain to the ground. Then the two had closed and, in the contest which ensued, Dudgeon had gone down, his assailant venting his mad rage by firing bullet after bullet into the prostrate form.

While he was still examining the marks Durham was joined by Brennan and half a dozen of the townsmen who had ridden out in obedience to Harding's warning. Durham drew Brennan aside.

"I only have my revolver with me," he said. "Give me your carbine and what cartridges you have. I must get away on his tracks before any of the men lose their heads and ruin the chance of capture by smothering them."

"Give Brennan what help you can, will you?" he called out to the men who stood by their horses looking, horror-stricken, at the lifeless form of the old man.

Mounting his horse he sped away. For a time he watched the track of a horse which had galloped just off the road. It had evidently lacked a firm hand on the bridle, for it seemed to have taken its own direction.

The rider was wounded. Of that Durham was certain.

Under such circumstances where would he go?

As Durham turned his horse into the bush, making for the range where the little cave was situated, he answered his own question.

Riding at topmost speed, he reasoned as he rode. The other man had at least two hours' start. With such a lead he could easily reach the cave first if he could ride steadily. But he was wounded, and in that lay Durham's hope of getting there before him.

The light was waning by the time the commencement of the foothills was reached. At the bottom of the gully lying at the foot of a ridge across which he had to ride, Durham gave his horse a spell. The top of the ridge rose steep and bare. As he looked towards it, estimating which was the better direction to take to get to the cave, he heard the sounds of a horse walking.

Presently, on the sky-line, immediately above him, he saw a horse and rider. There was just light enough for him to distinguish the form of the man.

He was clad in grey, the jacket open, his hat in his hand. He was a bearded man—a man with a yellow beard.

It was the Rider!

Even as Durham watched, the man saw him, saw him and swung his horse round so sharply it set back on its haunches.

In another moment he would be flying away through the gathering gloom, away into the broken fastnesses of the range, away, perhaps, for all time, from capture.

The horse was recovering itself. Durham threw his carbine forward and, as the horse reared at the pain of the spurs driven into its side, he fired.

Amid the echoes of the report there came a sharp scream of agony.

Durham leaped to his saddle and spurred his horse up the steep slope.

When he reached the summit only the marks of the flying horse's hoofs showed which way the man had gone.