Moya. Her eyes were on him. He knew it before he
looked.

"Seen anything of him?" asked the sergeant inevitably.

"Not to my knowledge. What's he like?"

"Oldish. Stubby beard. Cropped head, of course. Grey as a coot."

"Height 5 ft. 11 in.," supplemented the trooper, reading from a paper;
"'hair iron-grey, brown eyes, large thin nose, sallow complexion, very
fierce-looking, slight build, but is a well-made man.'"

A dead silence followed; then Rigden spoke. Moya's eyes were still upon
him, burning him, but he spoke without tremor, and with no more
hesitation than was natural in the circumstances.

"No," he said, "I have seen no such man. No such man has been to me!"

"I was afraid of it," said Harkness. "Yet we tracked him to the
boundary, every yard, and we got on his tracks again just now near the
home-paddock gate. I bet he's camping somewhere within a couple of
miles; we must have another look while it's light. Beastly lot of sand
you have from the home-paddock gate right up to the house!"

"We're built upon a sandhill, you see," said Rigden, with a wry look
into the heavy yellow yard: "one track's pretty much like another in
here, eh, Billy?"

The black tracker shook a woolly pate.

"Too muchee damn allasame," said he. "Try again longa gate."

"Yes," said the sergeant, "and we'll bring him here for the night when
we catch him. You could lend us your travellers' hut, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes."

"So long then, Mr. Rigden. Don't be surprised if you see us back to
supper. I feel pretty warm."

And the sergeant used his spurs again, only to reign up suddenly and
swing round in his saddle.

"Been about the place most of the afternoon?" he shouted.

"All the afternoon," replied Rigden; "between the store and this
verandah."

"And you've had no travellers at all?"

"Not one."

"Well, never mind," cried the sergeant. "You shall have four for the
night."

And the puggarees fluttered, and the stirrup irons jingled, out of sight
and earshot, through the dark still pines, and so into a blood-red
sunset.

III

INSULT

Rigden remained a minute at least (Moya knew it was five) gazing through
the black trees into the red light beyond. That was so characteristic of
him and his behaviour! Moya caught up the _Australasian_ (at hand but
untouched all this time) and pretended she could see to read. The rustle
brought Rigden to the right about at last. Moya was deep in illegible
advertisements. But