less dark than he had supposed, the light filtering freely through
the leaves and branches. At the inner extremity he found a mildewed
blanket, and the place where the musical-box had evidently lain a long
time; but there, though he delved to the elbows in the loosened earth,
his discoveries ended. Puzzled and annoyed, Kilbride was on the verge of
cursing his subordinate, when all at once he was given fresh cause. The
musical-box had burst into selections from _The Pirates of Penzance_.

"What the deuce are you at?" shouted the irate officer.

"Only seeing how it goes."

"Stop it at once, you fool! He may hear it!"

"You said the bird had flown."

"You dare to argue with me? By thunder, you shall see!"

But it was Sub-Inspector Kilbride who saw most. Backing precipitately
out of the gunyah, he turned round before rising upright--and remained
upon his knees after all. He was covered by two revolvers--one of them
his own--and the face behind the barrels was the one with which the last
hour had familiarized Kilbride. The only difference was the single
eye-glass in the right eye. And the strains of the musical-box--so thin
and tinkling in the open air--filled the pause.

"What in blazes are you playing at?" laughed the luckless officer,
feigning to treat the affair as a joke, even while the iron truth was
entering his soul by inches.

"Rise another inch without my leave and you may be in blazes to see!"

"Look here, Bowen, what do you mean?"

"Only that Stingaree happens to be at home after all, Mr. Kilbride."

The victim's grin was no longer forced; the situation made for laughter,
even if the laughter were hysterical; and for an instant it was given
even to Kilbride to see the cruel humor of it. Then he realized all it
meant to him--certain ruin or a sudden death--and the drops stood thick
upon his skin.

"What of Bowen?" he at length asked hoarsely. The idea of another victim
came as some slight alleviation of his own grotesque case.

"I didn't kill him," Stingaree.

"Good!" said Kilbride. It was something that two of them should live to
share the shame.

"But wing him I did," added the bushranger. "I couldn't help myself. The
beggar put a bullet through my hat; he did well only to get one back in
the leg."

Kilbride longed to be winged and wounded in his turn, since blood alone
could lessen his disgrace. On cooler reflection, however, it was
obviously wiser to feign a surrender more abject than it mi