"There are just two more things to be said. None of them know where he is, and none of them know my motive. You're in both secrets. You'd better keep them--unless you want Toorak to know who it was you were engaged to."

The rest followed without a word. It might have been a scene in a play without words, and indeed the moon chalked the faces of the players, and the Riverina crickets supplied the music with an orchestra some millions strong. The clink of a boot in a stirrup, a thud in the saddle, another clink upon the off side; and Rigden lifting his wideawake as he rode after Harkness through the gate; and Bethune holding the gate open, shutting it after them, and taking Moya's arm as she stood like Lot's wife in the moonlight.

XI

BETHUNE _v._ BETHUNE

"I don't want to rub things in, or to make things worse," said Theodore, kindly enough, as they approached the house; "but we shall have to talk about them, for all that, Moya."

"I'm ready," was the quick reply. "I'll talk till daylight as long as you won't let me think!"

"That's the right child!" purred her brother. "Come to my room; it's the least bit more remote; and these youths are holding indignation meetings on their own account. Ah! here's one of them."

Spicer had stepped down from the verandah with truculent stride.

"A word with you, Bethune," said he, brusquely.

"Thanks, but I'm engaged to my sister for this dance," replied the airy Theodore. Moya could not stand his tone. Also she heard young Ives turning the horses out for the night, and an inspiration seized her by the heels.

"No, for the next," said she; "I want to speak to Mr. Ives."

And she flew to the horse-yard, where the slip-rails were down, and Ives shooing horse after horse across them like the incurable new chum he was.

"Wait a moment, Mr. Ives. Don't have me trampled to death just yet."

"Miss Bethune!"

And the top rail was up again. But it was not her presence that surprised him. It was her tone.

"A dreadful ending to our day, Mr. Ives!"

"I'm glad to hear you say that," cried the boy, with all his enthusiasm; "to our day, if you like, but that's all! This is the most infernally unjust and high-handed action that ever was taken by the police of any country! Iniquitous--scandalous! But it won't hold water; these squatters are no fools, and every beak in the district's a squatter; they'll see Rigden through, and we'll have him back before any of the hands know a word of what's up."

"But don't they know already?"

"Not they; trust us for that! Why, even Mrs. Duncan has no idea why he's gone. But we shall have him back this time to-morrow, never you fear, Miss Bethune!"

"How far is it to the police-barracks, Mr. Ives?"

"Well, it's fourteen miles to our boundary, and that's not quite half-way."

"Then they won't be there before midnight. Is it the way we went this morning, Mr. Ives?"

"Yes; he's going over the same ground, poor chap, in different company.

But he'll come galloping back to-morrow, you take my word for it!"

Ives leant with folded arms upon the restored rail. The animals already turned out hugged the horse-yard fence wistfully. The lucky remnant were licking the last grains of chaff from the bin. Moya drew nearer to the rail.

"Mr. Ives!"

"Miss Bethune?"

"Would you do a favour for me?"

"Would I not!"

"And say nothing about it afterwards?"

"You try me."

"Then leave a horse that I can ride--and saddle--in the yard to-night!"

Ives was embarra.s.sed.

"With pleasure," said he, with nothing of the sort--and began hedging in the same breath. "But--but look here, I say, Miss Bethune! You're never going all that way----"

"Of course I'm not, and if I do it won't be before morning, only first thing then, before the horses are run up. And I don't want you, or anybody, least of all my brother, to come with me, or have the least idea where I've gone, or that I've gone anywhere at all. See? I'm perfectly well able to take care of myself, Mr. Ives. Can I trust you?"

"Of course you can, but----"

"No advice--please--_dear_ Mr. Ives!"

It was Moya at her sweetest, with the moon all over her. She wondered at the time how she forced that smile; but it gained her point.

"Very well," he sighed; "your blood----"

"I shan't lose one drop," said Moya brightly. "And no more questions?"

"Of course not."

"And no tellings?"

"Miss Bethune!"

"Forgive me," said Moya. "I'm more than satisfied. And you're--_the_--dearest young man in the bush, Mr. Ives!"

The jackeroo swept his wideawake to the earth.

"And you're the greatest girl in the world, though I were to be drawn and quartered for saying so!"

Moya returned to the house with pensive gait. She was not overwhelmed with a present sense of her alleged greatness. On the contrary, she had seldom felt so small and petty. But she could make amends; at least she could try.

Horse-yard and house were not very far apart, but some of the lesser buildings intervened, and Moya had been too full of her own sudden ideas to lend an ear to any or aught but Ives and his replies. So she had missed a word or two which it was just as well for her to miss, and more even than a word. She did notice, however, that Mr. Spicer turned his back as she pa.s.sed him in the verandah. And she found Theodore dabbing his knuckles in his bedroom.

"What's the matter? What have you done?"