r thus!

Such was the pith and point of these discreditable reflections when the
jingle of approaching horse put a sudden end to them. Moya looked up,
expecting to see her brother, and instinctively donning a mask. She
forgot it was in the buggy that Theodore had been got out of the way,
and it was with sheer relief that her eyes lit upon a sergeant and a
trooper of the New South Wales mounted police, with fluttering puggarees
and twinkling accoutrements, and a black fellow riding bareback in the
rear.

They reined up in front of the verandah.

"We want to see Mr. Rigden," said the sergeant, touching the shiny peak
of his cap.

"Oh, indeed!"

"Is he about?"

Moya would not say, and pretended she could not. The sudden apparition
of the police had filled her with apprehensions as wild as they were
vague. The trooper had turned in his saddle to speak to the blackfellow,
and Moya saw the great Government revolver at his hip. Even as she
hesitated, however, the store door opened, and Rigden locked it behind
him before sallying forth alone.

"Yes, here he is!" exclaimed Moya, and sat like a statue in her chair.
Yet the pose of the statue was not wholly suggestive of cold
indifference and utter unconcern.

"Glad to find you in, Mr. Rigden," said the sergeant. "We're having a
little bit of sport, for once in a way."

"I congratulate you. What sort?" said Rigden.

"A man-hunt!"

And there were volumes of past boredom and of present zest in the
sergeant's tone.

"That so?" said Rigden. "And who's the man?"

The sergeant glanced at the young lady. Rigden did the same. Their
wishes with respect to her were only too obvious. Moya took the fiercer
joy in disregarding them.

"I'd like to have a word with you in the store," said the sergeant.

"No, no!" said Rigden hastily. "Sergeant Harkness--Miss Bethune."

It was a cold little bow, despite this triumph.

"Miss Bethune will be interested," added Rigden grimly. "And she won't
give anything away."

"Thank you," said Moya. And her tone made him stare.

Harkness touched his horse with the spurs, and rode up close to the
verandah, on which Rigden himself now stood.

"Fact is," said he, "it oughtn't to get about among your men, or it's a
guinea to a gooseberry they'll go harbouring him. But it's a joker who
escaped from Darlinghurst a few days ago. And we've tracked him to your
boundary--through your horse-paddock--to your home-paddock gate!"

Rigden glanced at