pressed.

"Westonley, old fellow," he said, as he sat down, "give me a big brandy
and soda. I've ridden hard all the way from my place." Then he looked
at the letters and newspapers still lying upon the breakfast table.
The latter, he saw, were unopened. Drinking off the brandy and soda, he
said:

"You haven't opened your _Argus_ yet, I see?"

"No, we had some bad news about Tom Gerrard--he's been mauled by an
alligator, and we haven't bothered about newspapers this morning."

"Not seriously hurt, I trust?" anxiously asked the squatter, who had a
sincere regard for Gerrard.

"No, I am glad to say. I'll show you his letter presently. But what is
the matter, Brooke? You look worried."

"I am--most infernally worried. Tell me, old man, what did you do with
that cheque of mine for eight thousand?" (The cheque to which he alluded
was the price of the station in Central Queensland which he had bought
from Westonley a few weeks previously.)

"Paid it into my bank," replied Westonley, instantly surmising that
Brooke's financial affairs had gone wrong.

"Dacre's?"

"Yes."

"Westonley, old chap, I have bad news for you. I got a telegram
from Melbourne last night--Dacre's Bank has smashed, and smashed
badly--hopelessly, in fact."

Westonley's florid face paled.

"Smashed!"

"Utterly smashed. Will it hit you hard?"

"Break me! I had thirty thousand pounds on fixed deposit, a current
account of about fifteen thousand--including the eight thousand you paid
me, and every penny of my wife's money, little Mary's, and Jim's were in
Dacre's," and, man as he was, his voice trembled.

"It won't break you--by heavens, it shall _not_ break you, Westonley! I
bought Comet Vale from you for my boys, but I'll give it back to you for
three--for five--years to help you to pull up."

"Thanks, Brooke," and the big man grasped his friend's hand
mechanically. "This has dazed me a bit. Come outside, and well talk it
over."

He rose unsteadily, placing his hand on the edge of the table, and then
fell forward upon his face, and lay still--his big, generous heart had
ceased to beat.

When Brooke rode away late that night on his way home thinking of
his dead friend, he reproached himself for so often having spoken of
Elizabeth Westonley as "a pretty automaton, with as much heart in her
as a doll." For her silent grief had showed him that she had loved her
husband.

CHAPTER XVI

The news of Westonley's sudden death was a gr