Craig Bellshaw started back.

"Look," he said, "see that?" and he pointed to the wide verandah, built round the house.

"There's nothing there," answered Garry, thinking he must have been doing it heavy in Sydney and that the effects had not died out.

"No, of course not," said Bellshaw, trying to laugh it off. "So you say I had better make you a present of it. Why?"

"Because I know you did not take her to Sydney," said Garry slowly.

"It's a lie," roared Bellshaw.

"No it isn't, and you know it. Where is she now?"

"That's my affair."

"You can't tell me. I'm worth a few hundreds. I'll bet them you can't tell me," Garry persisted.

"This is foolishness. What the deuce have you got into your head?"

"More than you think. I know you travelled to Sydney alone," replied Garry.

"And supposing I did, you fool, do you expect I'd travel in the same carriage with her?"

"Maybe not, but you'd have been only too glad to have gone anywhere with her a couple of years back," Garry retorted.

"It was her own fault. She was tired of my company. She behaved badly. I treated her well," said Bellshaw.

"When you first brought her from Bourke you did, but I don't think she ever forgave, or forgot, how she came here. It was a blackguardly trick to play her."

"What trick?"

"Oh, stow that. Do you mean to say you think I don't know? I'm no fool.

She was dazed, drugged, or something, when she came. Why it was more than a week before she found out where she was, and she had to stay because she couldn't get away. There was nowhere to go."

"We'll drop all that. She's safe enough now. Don't bother your head about her."

"But that's just what I do. I might have saved her. I could have done so if I'd had the pluck, but you bought me off, and I hate myself for it.

Do you know what I think?"

"No."

"You can have it whether you like it or not--I think you've done away with her."

Bellshaw stepped up to him in a threatening att.i.tude.

"Stand back," said Garry, pulling out his revolver. "I found this near the big water hole when I was having a ride round."

He pulled a handkerchief and a piece of ribbon out of his pocket.

"Well?" Bellshaw asked.

"There'd been a struggle near the water hole, but she wasn't in there. I made sure of that, but you left her there, and she's as dead as if you'd shoved her in. She'd starve, die of thirst, go mad wandering about. It would have been more merciful to strangle her. I saw her tracks for some distance, but I couldn't follow them far; the ground soon dries up.

She's no more in Sydney than I am, and you've done a brutal, cowardly act, Craig Bellshaw!"

Bellshaw made no answer, and Garry went on, "It'll come home to you some day, mark my words if it doesn't. If I thought she was alive I'd be mighty glad, for I feel as though I had a hand in it. When I saw her drive away with you something told me you meant mischief, but I never thought you'd kill her by inches. Hadn't she suffered enough at your hands that you must let her die such a terrible death?"

"Have you done?" asked Bellshaw quietly. His tone surprised Garry.

"Yes, I've said enough, and you know the bulk of it's true."

"You may think it is, although it's a poor recompense for all I have done for you. However, I bear you no malice. I have only one request to make."

"What is it?" asked Garry.

"Keep your thoughts to yourself. The law is powerful. There's more than that--in this part of the country I am the law, and I can take it into my own hands without fear of being called to account. You've seen me do it; you know I'm not a man to be cowed, that I do not fear you, or any other man, nor what you say, or do. Listen to me, Garry Backham. There are men round Mintaro who will do my bidding for money, no matter what it is I ask. You know the sort of men, desperate, some of them, the worst of criminals. If I hear any of the lies you have said repeated I will burn your place to the ground, and you with it. You had best keep a still tongue."

Garry knew he was capable of carrying out his threats, and that he had the men to do what he willed. He believed the accusation he had brought, but he had no wish to run into grave danger.

"You'll think about that money, Mr. Bellshaw," he said.

"You mean giving it you, not lending it?"

"Yes."

"It depends upon yourself," was the reply.

CHAPTER XI

JERRY, JOURNALIST

In a small house, in a side street, on Moore Park, the woman who came to Sydney with Glen Leigh, and the other two, had rooms. It had been decided to call her Clara Benny, as it was necessary she should have a name, and to install her here. Mrs. Dell, who kept the house, was a widow, a respectable woman in reduced circ.u.mstances, and she had promised to do what she could for her lodger. Clara could not understand it. She wanted the three to be with her. They had always been together.

Why should they leave her alone? It was useless to try and explain, and no attempt was made. Glen said it was necessary because they had to work, and it would be better for her to have a kind motherly woman to look after her; this made her more contented, and one of them called to see her every day. Mrs. Dell was puzzled over her lodger; she fancied she suffered from some brain trouble, but she liked her from the first, and quickly came to love her; she looked upon her as a subst.i.tute for her own girl, who had died of consumption at about the same age. Clara repaid this affection, and in a very short time they became inseparable.

The money she received for her board and lodging was a great help to Mrs. Dell, and Glen Leigh was always supplying some delicacy for the table.

Bill Bigs succeeded in finding a small hotel to his liking in Castlereagh Street. The seller came into some money, and sailing for England, was glad to find a buyer at a reasonable price. The house was in bad condition, but Bill, with his usual energy, quickly set to work, and in a few weeks it was spick and span, clean and inviting. There was a steady trade, and a fair number of customers frequented the place--many theatrical, sporting and pressmen, with whom he became popular.

Jerry Makeshift, of "The Sketch," found good copy in Bill. Jerry was one of the most popular men in Sydney, a wonderfully clever black and white artist, a born joker, and an excellent writer of highly sensational news, in paragraphs, or columns, as required. He had one failing, not an unusual one in these days. He was fond of his gla.s.s and hilarious company, and as he always had a lot of admirers following in his wake he soon brought genial customers to "The Kangaroo," as Bill curiously named the place. Jerry Makeshift extracted from Bill much interesting press matter about Boonara, and the district surrounding it; also about the keepers of the fence.

The clever journalist was astounded at what he heard, especially about the men on the rabbit-proof fence. In a hazy sort of way he had heard of them before, but when Bill began to talk about them, with intimate knowledge, Jerry opened his eyes.

"I'll introduce you to two of 'em," said Bill. "They are staying with me. In fact they came to Sydney with me from the forsaken place. They found the life too much for 'em, and you bet it must be awful when such men as they throw it up."

"I'd like to meet them," replied Jerry. "How is it I have not done so before?"