Sexton Blake in Australia

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ANONYMOUS
(T.C. BRIDGES)

SEXTON BLAKE IN AUSTRALIA

RGL e-Book Cover^©

STIRRING TALE OF THRILLING ADVENTURE

First published in
The Union Jack, New series, Issue 119,
20/01/1906, Amalgamated Press, London

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2025
Version Date: 2025-07-02

Produced by John Haubrich and Roy Glashan

All original content added by RGL is protected by copyright.

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THE FIRST CHAPTER.

SO ran the telegram which Arnold Grice held between his long, beautifully white fingers. Secretary to Aylmer Greenfield, the great financier, and a millionaire twice over, Arnold Grice looked his part. He was a youngish man, tall and well built, and evidently possessed of considerable personal strength.

His exquisitely cut frock-coat fitted him to perfection, and he wore a gardenia in his buttonhole. Altogether he was as smart and well-groomed as the best tailor and valet in London could make him, and, with his brains and cleverness into the bargain, he was the envy of most of his acquaintances.

It was odd, then, that there were lines of evident anxiety on his face, while a deep frown contracted his forehead.

"I sha'n't get a better chance," he muttered, with a gleam in his deep-set eyes, as he glanced round the large, handsomely furnished room which was the private office of Mr. Greenfield.

He got up, and went to one of the doors, two of which opened out of the room. This one looked out upon a landing and a private staircase leading to the street.

There were a score or more of clerks on the lower floor, but few of these ever set eyes on the face of the millionaire, who preferred to come and go alone and unnoticed.

And with that he turned and went straight towards a small safe, which was let into the wall at the opposite end of the room. From his pocket he took a peculiarly shaped key, and slipped it into the lock. It turned without trouble, and the massive steel door opened noiselessly.

Grice dropped on his knees, and his fingers worked like lightning as he ran through bundle after bundle of papers.

"Ah, here they are!" he exclaimed, in a low tone of intense relief, as he came suddenly upon a fat bundle of banknotes.

"No, I'd better have some cash as well. Less likely to cause suspicion, and handy for travelling expenses," he continued, and turned to the safe again.

On the bottom shelf were several wash-leather bags, each neatly tied up and sealed with red wax. He tore them open. Some were full of gold, some of silver, and one, much larger than the others, of copper coins.

This latter he emptied, tumbling the coppers in a heap in the bottom of the safe, and then quickly stuffed into it as many of the smaller bags as it would hold.

The whole business had not taken him more than three minutes. He was in the act of closing the safe again, when a slight sound behind him made him pause. He sprang to his feet, and confronted a tall, stout, elderly gentleman, who had entered unobserved, and whose feet had made no sound upon the richly carpeted floor.

There was a moment of deathly silence. On the face of the elder man anger and amazement struggled for utterance. The veins stood out purple on his forehead. He seemed to be choking.

They were his last words. With one bound, Grice was upon him, and, swinging the heavy bag of coin, brought it down with fearful force upon his employer's head. Mr. Greenfield flung up his hands, staggered, and, without so much as a groan, fell over sideways, the back of his skull striking with terrible force full upon the corner of the marble curb of the fireplace.

For a moment Grice stood like a figure of stone, his face frozen into a hideous mask. Then he flung himself on his knees beside the other's body, and, with fingers which shook in spite of himself, felt the heart of the prostrate man.

He rose, and stared round wildly. Then, with an effort of his iron will, he collected himself, and made for the door.

His fingers were on the handle, when he suddenly started back, listening intensely. His florid face, pale already, went a sickly grey. Someone was coming rapidly up the stairs, springing lightly two steps at a stride. Grice turned again, and fled like a hare across the room, bolted through the other door, and closed it noiselessly behind him.

Next instant the door at the head of the stairs was flung open, and there entered a young fellow of about nineteen. Finding the room apparently empty, he paused and looked round. Then suddenly his glance fell upon the body.

"W-what's happened?" he muttered, horrified; and, running across to the fireplace, he bent over the quiet, motionless figure. "Uncle," he cried—"Uncle Aylmer, what is it? Are you badly hurt? Good heavens, look at his head!"

With horror dawning on his face, he made an effort to lift his uncle, so as to get his head off the marble which had wounded it so terribly, As he was doing so a voice suddenly broke upon his ears—a voice as startled as his own:

There, at the staircase door, stood Arnold Grice, his face no longer grey, but bearing an expression of cleverly simulated amazement and dismay.

"I don't know, I found him like this. He's badly hurt. Quick, ring the bell! Send for help!"

But the words seemed to have an opposite effect. Fear succeeded amazement on the other's face.

"Must I? It's plain on the face of it. Everyone knows what terms you and your uncle were on. This is a hanging matter."

"Personally, I don't," returned Grice coolly, "But you must know what others will think."

"My dear Hammond, consider for yourself," answered Grice, with a clever pretence of real feeling in his voice.

"You and your uncle have been having constant quarrels during the past year over your profession. Everyone knows how keen you are to go in for farming and country life, and how anxious he was to have you in the office— especially since your brother Maurice disappointed him. You and he were alone here together this afternoon—"

"Cut it," returned Grice forcibly. "Clear out until the matter is cleared up one way or the other. Give me an address to find you, and I'll keep you posted. If the real murderer is discovered, well and good. You can come back. If not"—he paused significantly—the further you go the better. But, whatever happens, I tell you you're dead certain to be arrested if you stay here, and the more I try to shield you the worse you'll be suspected."

Bob passed his hand over his face in a confused fashion. Terror of the disgrace of arrest, and fear of the consequences, was robbing him of self-possession. Grice saw his advantage, and pushed it home.

"The sooner you're off, the better," he urged. "I'll do all I can for you. Have you money?"

"Here's twenty pounds—all I can spare." And he pushed four notes into the boy's hand. "Take the next train at Cannon Street. Change two or three times; and if I were you, I'd make for Spain. Mind you write. You know my address."

He almost pushed his victim out of the room, led him down the stairs, and bundled him into a cab. Then, in the coolest way in the world, he sauntered into the main offices, and through them into the manager's room, where he entered upon a discussion as to some business which he said that Mr. Greenfield wanted carried through at once.

That evening at seven, as Grice strolled out from his well-appointed apartments in King Street, on his way to dine at his club, a newsboy rushed up.

"Horful murder in the City! Millionaire found dead in 'is private hoffice! Flight hof 'is nevew!"

Grice bought a paper, and a cynical smile showed the real ugliness of his mouth.

THE SECOND CHAPTER.

Sexton Blake Loses His Money and Makes Up
His Mind to Help to Chase the Thieves.

A MONTH or two after the death of Mr. Greenfield, a man of middle height, with a clean-shaven, resolute face, stood in front of the one news-paper office in the small seaport town of Narragoola, in Queensland, Australia, and studied a poster displayed in the window:

"Garrison Downs—eh? Just where I want to go," muttered the reader to himself thoughtfully. "By Jove, I thought the reign of bushrangers was over! H'm! One lives and learns. Now, Pedro"—turning to pat the splendid bloodhound which was his companion—"we must pay a call at the bank; and then, hey! for the hotel and a good night's rest. We need it, after knocking about for forty-eight hours on that smelly little coast steamer!"

So saying, Sexton Blake walked on up the wide, hot, dusty street, and entered the one substantial-looking building in the place. Here he transacted certain business with the manager, a hard, smart-looking Queenslander, and then strolled leisurely back to the hotel.

"Ought to be, after the tossing we had last night, sir. How long do we stay here?"

"Not sure, lad. I'm not certain yet where to start looking for our man. The trail petered out in Sydney; and, as you know, it was a very slight clue that took us up here."

"Then he'd have come here for a certainty," replied Tinker quickly. "I've been making inquiries, and they say the country inland from here on the ranges is the finest cattle-ground in Australia. What's more, the cattlemen have the habit of bringing their beasts down to the coast here for about six weeks every year to give them a change to the salt grass. Seems to me we might very likely pick up the trail here."

"That's a good point, Tinker. We'll stop a day or two and make inquiries. Hallo, here's dinner going in! Come on!"

While the two are enjoying their food, and Pedro sits by his master's side awaiting the bones which he knows will come his way at the end of the meal, a word of explanation as to what has brought the famous detective so far out of his usual beat.

At the death of Mr. Greenfield no will was to be found. Consequently, his whole enormous property, valued roughly at two millions sterling, went to the dead man's next-of-kin, his two nephews, Maurice and Robert Hammond.

The latter was a hunted fugitive, for he was strongly suspected of his uncle's murder, and a warrant had been issued for his arrest. So far, however, he had eluded all attempts to find him. He had disappeared as utterly as though he had vanished off the face of the earth. But it was not to hunt Bob Hammond down that Blake had come so far from home. His task was to find the elder brother, Maurice.

The latter was four years older than Bob, and five years before our story begins had quarrelled with his wealthy uncle, and, having a few hundreds of his own, had left England, intending to start life for himself in some new land.

Having suddenly become heir to a million of money, he had assumed an importance in the eyes of the financial world, which he himself had probably been the last to expect, and Mr. Greenfield's solicitors, Messrs. Simonds & Clarke, had at once advertised for him. But these advertisements, though inserted in almost every paper of any importance in the Empire, as well as in the United States, had brought no result and month by month the embarrassment of the lawyers grew greater.

There were more distant heirs, who were clamouring for their rights, and there was danger of the whole immense property being flung into Chancery. It was to avoid this disaster that Messrs. Simonds & Clarke had at last commissioned Sexton Blake to start on the search, giving him an absolutely free hand, and bidding him spare no reasonable expense to attain their object.

There is no need to detail the way in which Blake set to work—how he traced Maurice Hammond first to the Cape, then to Ceylon, and finally to Australia. At Sydney, however, all real clues had failed. It was only the fact that a man vaguely answering Maurice Hammond's description had been in Sydney twelve months before, and had gone by ship up the coast, which brought Blake and his faithful attendant to Queensland. It was, indeed, the remembrance of that fact which Tinker had just given voice to—namely, that Maurice was extremely keen on cattle—which had resolved Blake to land at Narragoola.

Strangers were a rarity in the little seaport town, and in the evening a number of men foregathered in the smoking-room of the little hotel. But Blake easily avoided suspicion by giving out that he thought of going in for cattle, and was on his way up-country to look at some ranges he had heard of.

"Well, I don't know," answered Blake, with that innocent air he could assume so well.

"Take my tip, and keep away," returned the other. "Or if ye go, hump your own swag, an' let on you're a sundowner*."

"Anyone can see you're a new chum, my friend," was the reply, "If you weren't, you'd know the country ain't safe for anyone up that way. Cap'n Glyde and his gang rule the roost. Every station's a fort. My word, he's a wonner, that chap! I tell you, if ye've put the value of a ticky* about you, he'll find it. He'll clean you finer than a new-plucked chicken!"

"Good gracious, what a terrible state of affairs!" exclaimed Sexton Blake, apparently horrified. "Who is this dreadful man?"

If Blake wanted information he got it. Every soul in the place began talking at once. Everyone wanted to make out that he knew a little more about the infamous Glyde than his neighbour did.

Blake listened quietly, sifting out the truth from the lies and exaggerations, and storing away a whole fund of information in that wonderful brain of his, which never forgot anything that he wished to remember. Now and then he threw in an apparently innocent question which kept the ball rolling. At last he said:

"I suppose there's no danger of this dreadful man coming down this way, is there?"

The result of this remark was a horrified silence. Evidently Narragoola folk had hardly imagined such a contingency. Then a quiet man, long, lean, and sun-dried, a typical "cornstalk," answered in a quiet drawl:

"I don't reckon so. All the same, he's got the cheek of Old Nick. If he could once git the police out o' the town I b'lieve he'd think nothing of it."

Soon afterwards the party broke up, and Blake went up to his room. He was tired after two bad nights in a stuffy cabin on a rolling coastwise steamer, and though he could do without sleep for nights together if necessary, yet he always made up for lost time when he had the chance. No man understood better that if the brain was to be in first-class working order the body must be kept in good training. With Pedro lying on the mat by the door, he felt himself absolutely safe, and made up his mind to take a good ten hours' repose.

Yet the habit of years made him wake at any unusual sound, and all of a sudden he found himself sitting bolt upright in bed, listening with all his ears.

He waited a while, but heard nothing more, Pedro had not stirred. He got up and looked out of the window. There was no moon, and it was very dark. He could see nothing, nor hear anything unusual. So, feeling still very sleepy, he returned to bed, and was off again in a very few minutes.

When he next woke it was broad daylight. Tinker was shaking him by the shoulder. "Wake up!" exclaimed the boy eagerly.

Sexton Blake was out of bed like a flash. He saw by the other's face something serious had happened. He heard the tramp of horses' feet in the street outside.

"Glyde's gang have robbed the bank," continued Tinker. "They're gathering a posse to chase them."

Tinker's face fell. He knew how important money was in a search like theirs, and that it would take some days to get more from England, for Blake would have to write to his agent in Sydney, and get him to cable to Simonds & Clarke.

"Raise a couple of horses and join the posse," was the quick reply. "I'm interested in this bushranging business, and it will be a good way to pass the time, even if we fail to get our cash back."

Tinker laughed, and ran off to look for horses. By the time he got them, Blake was ready dressed, and with all his preparations made. In another minute the two were riding hard after the pursuers, who had already started on the chase.

THE THIRD CHAPTER.

Blake Backs His Own Opinion, and Proves That
Pedro's Nose is Better Than Wallaby Jack's Eyes.

"MY word, it was the coolest job you ever saw in your life! First they nobbled the two police on the beat; then they set a guard over the police-station, so as to keep the rest of 'em quiet. After that, four of 'em went straight to the bank. The manager woke up, to find a pistol tight up against his head, and had to listen while the rest cleaned out the show below. Not a shot was fired."

Sexton Blake interrupted the speaker, who was the same long, weather-beaten cornstalk who had suggested the possibility of a visit from Glyde on the previous evening. "But I heard a shot," he said.

"Twarn't no shot, mister. "Twas the plug o' gun-cotton Glyde used for busting the safe open."

"Ay, and be bored fuller of holes than a hair sieve!" he returned. "You'd better thank your stars, mister, that you stayed where you was!"

Blake only smiled. He remembered that he was a new chum in the eyes of these men. He would have to act accordingly.

All the morning they rode sharply on the track of the bushrangers. The road led straight inland, and by mid-day they had crossed the flat country, and were among thickly-wooded hills. They stopped for a brief rest and a meal under a great clump of pines, and then pushed on again.

This tracking business was no novelty to Blake, who had followed criminals over every kind of country in Europe. He was gifted not only with extraordinary powers of sight and hearing, but also with that far more exceptional ability of noticing everything. Nothing escaped him, not even a broken twig or a bent blade of grass. Where his own senses failed, he was accustomed to rely on those of his wonderful hound Pedro, and he had never yet known the animal fail.

Not one of the Narragoola men had ever seen a bloodhound work before, and, angry as they were at the impudent robbery of their bank, they were inclined to be facetious at the expense of the new chums and their big dog. But Blake took their chaff with perfect good-humour, and they soon got tired of making fun.

Across the plains it had been child's play to follow the bushrangers. Indeed, they had made no attempt to cover their tracks. Here in the thick forests the tracks were less easy to see.

After a time they came to rocky ground, where even the iron-shod feet of horses left no mark. Progress became gradually slower and slower.

"Wish to goodness we'd got Warralong Billy along with us!" exclaimed the tall man, whose name Blake had found to be Jack Warley, better known as "Wallaby Jack," as he got off his horse for the fifth or sixth time to examine the rocky ground.

"The black tracker," was the answer. "Worse luck, he's off with Sergeant Tracy, of the police."

A mile further on the trail forked, and here the native-born men were entirely at fault. The ground was like iron, and no tracks were to be seen, even with the closest scrutiny. The whole party dismounted, and there was a long and anxious discussion. Blake said nothing, but looked on in his usual quiet fashion.

"I vote for the left-hand one," said Wallaby Jack, at last. "Stands to reason they've took to the hills. That 'ere right-hand path runs down to the plain again."

"Don't you think they may have gone that way just to put you off the scent?" suggested Blake mildly.

"Pedro!" called Blake, The dog came to him. The detective took something from his pocket—a parcel wrapped in paper—and unrolled it. Inside was a horse-shoe, which, unnoticed by the others, Blake had picked up some time previously. "Smell it, boy!"

"What, up that way?" inquired Blake, as he watched the dog. "No, I don't think so. My idea is that Glyde's fellows have gone to the right."

The idea of a new chum presuming to have an opinion of his own on such a matter seemed to tickle the Australians. Some laughed, others were openly contemptuous.

And Blake heard one whisper, "He's sick of it. Going to wait till we're out of sight, and then turn back and go home."

Tinker heard these remarks and flushed angrily, but Blake remained as imperturbable as ever.

"Well, gentlemen, I'll stick to my own opinion, if you've no objection. Won't any of you come?"

"We ain't got no time to waste, fooling like this!" cried Wallaby Jack impatiently. And, putting spurs to his horse, he led the way along the left-hand path. Next minute Blake, Tinker, and Pedro found themselves alone in the wilderness.

"Silly fools!" growled Tinker. "Think they know everything! What are we to do now, Mr. Blake?"

"Follow Pedro," was the cool reply. "Seek 'em, boy!" And as the great hound put his nose to the ground, and, giving vent to one deep, resonant bay, hurried along the right-hand path, Blake mounted again, and, followed by Tinker, took the trail.

THE FOURTH CHAPTER.

THE heat was tremendous, for it was now the end of October, and the Australian summer had begun. They were forced to go slowly, and nurse their horses. Later, clouds covered the sun, but it grew no cooler. Not a breath of air stirred, not a leaf rustled. A stillness that was almost supernatural held the forest. But Pedro never faltered. Nose down, he followed the trail at a steady pace.

Thicker and thicker grew the clouds. Sweat was streaming from the horses, and the flies bit and stung till men and horses alike were near distracted with the maddening irritation.

The words were hardly out of his mouth before a vivid flash of lightning streaked the gloom, and a few seconds later a long, heavy roll of thunder boomed overhead.

"We're in for a ducking, Tinker," returned Blake. "But we must stick to it, for once there's water over the ground Pedro won't be able to follow."

They were now riding along a distinct path—only a bridle-path, certainly, and rough to a degree, but still plainly in regular use. It wound in long curves down the hillside, and though the trees were too thick to allow any view to right or left, Blake felt sure that they were rapidly approaching the plain again.

A second flash of lightning was followed by a far louder peal of thunder. The gloom thickened until it was almost as dark as night. There came a puff of cold wind from the south, and without further warning down poured the rain in a perfect deluge. Then followed the wind, and in a minute or two the travellers were in the midst of such a storm as neither had ever seen before. Through the pounding, lashing rain the lightning flashed and twisted in every direction, sometimes blue, sometimes orange, and, again, with the pure white blaze of an incandescent lamp. The flashes followed one another at the rate of fifty or sixty a minute, and no doubt the thunder was continuous, only it could not be heard at all above the tremendous din of wind and rain.

Great boughs, torn from the trees, whirled like feathers across the path, and every now and then a gigantic monarch of the forest would heel over and drop to the ground, either broken short off or torn up by the roots. The horses, terrified, refused to move, and Pedro, whose sense was almost human, came straight back to his master.

Blake signed to Tinker to dismount. The din of the storm made words useless. They led their horses behind the shelter of a rocky bank, and stood there, drenched and waiting, till the weather should clear.

When at last the darkness lifted, and the rain began to moderate, it was little more than an hour to sunset. Everything was running with water, and the air, by comparison, seemed quite cold. Tinker looked interrogatively at Blake.

"Push on," said the latter, "This path must lead somewhere; and, anyhow, we can't get back to Narragoola to-night."

"Yes; I'm afraid we've lost the bushrangers for the present; but never mind. We're nearer to them than our Narragoola friends are, anyhow."

It was slow travelling, for the path was now cumbered with branches and fallen logs, and the torrents of rain had cut deep gullies, into which the horses slipped and scrambled. Just as evening began to close in, a rearing sound came to their ears, and presently they emerged from the trees, to find themselves cut off from further progress by a flooded river.

No doubt it was a mere brook at ordinary times, but now it was coming down fifty feet wide, red with clay, and raging like an angry bull. All the centre was small waves, thick with clotted foam, and under the banks swirled eddies full of logs and fence-posts, carried down from above. Just as they reached the bank of the torrent, by a curious chance the last of the storm-cloud passed away, and the low rays of the setting sun shone on a small bark-roofed house about half a mile away on the other side. Some horses grazed near it, and a curl of blue smoke rose hospitably from the chimney.

"I call that the irony of Fate, lad," he said, with a smile. "Here we are, soaking and starving, and cut off from the promised land by this miserable river."

"I'm precious hungry, sir," he answered, between chattering teeth. "Don't you think we might try to cross?"

Sexton Blake looked doubtfully at the muddy flood which swirled in front of them. Then he glanced up and down the river. A little further down the stream was wider, and appeared to be shallower.

"That's the place to try, then, Tinker," he said. "But it'll be no easy job to ford it."

Tinker, however, had no relish for spending a night supperless in the dripping woods.

So saying, he rode to the place which Blake had indicated, and forced his unwilling horse into the water.

"Come on, sir, it's quite shallow!" he cried exultingly, for he was half way across, and the water no higher than his saddle-girths. The words had hardly passed his lips when his horse put both feet into a deep bole, floundered forward, and next instant was being carried away down the swift current at a tremendous pace.

As the animal lost its footing, Tinker, who knew what he was about, flung himself out of the saddle, and, keeping hold of the mane, floated down alongside his steed. Blake, horrified at the turn things had taken, trotted sharply down the bank, hoping to find some shallow where he might ride in and give assistance.

But the channel narrowed, and the water, becoming deeper, raged along at a fearful rate. What was worse, a regular rapid was ahead, where the waves of red-brown water flung their foam-tipped crests over great rocks, which barely showed their heads above the roaring stream.

Tinker turned a despairing face up to Blake. He saw the danger, but was too proud to cry out. In an instant the detective had taken his resolution. Flinging himself from the saddle, he took a short run, and, with a magnificent bound, landed on the top of a rock quite ten feet out from the bank. The impetus of his spring nearly sent him into the water beyond, but, collecting himself with a violent effort, he jumped again, alighting on a second great stone almost in mid-stream.

Here he crouched, every muscle taughtened, and waited for the other. The din of the pent torrent was deafening; spray almost blinded him. The water sluicing past seemed to be leaping over the top of his refuge, threatening to snatch him away.

Ah, here came Tinker, still clinging like grim death to his horse, of which only the head now showed above the brown foam!

Tinker heard and obeyed. He took two desperate strokes, which carried him exactly opposite to Blake. Next moment the latter had grasped him in his powerful hands, and, with one tremendous effort, lifted him clean out of the water on to the top of the rock. The horse swept helplessly by, and next moment was crushed by the current against a rock, and disappeared beneath the surface.

Tinker took two desperate strokes, which carried him
exactly opposite to Blake. Next moment the latter had
grasped him in his powerful hands, and, with one
tremendous effort, lifted him clean out of the water.

"Well, it didn't," answered Blake cheerfully. "And now, with your permission, we'll clear out of this extremely uncomfortable position."

"No, more can I, I'm afraid," replied Blake. "It's good-bye to my horse, too, for the present. But there are rocks enough to make stepping stones to the other side. I'll lead the way. Mind you don't slip."

Presently, breathless and soaking, they climbed the opposite bank, and through the now fast falling dusk made rapidly for the house which was visible in the distance. As they came nearer they noticed that the place had a dreary, tumbledown appearance.

"Thank goodness! Then there's a chance of supper," returned the youngster, whose mind was running on mutton-chops and damper. "I'm hungry enough to eat a horse, hide and all."

THE FIFTH CHAPTER.

THE door of the shanty was open, and inside, to the astonishment of both men, was a small bar, and shelves covered with bottles.

"It's what they call a bush pub," answered Blake, in a low voice, "Keep your eyes open, lad." So saying, he walked straight in.

A young fellow of about twenty jumped up from a chair behind the bar and stared doubtfully at the new-comers. He was thin and roughly dressed, and Blake, taking him in in one lightning glance, thought he had never seen a more unhappy face.

"Er—I don't know," he stammered. "Wait, and I'll ask," He went out through a door at the back of the bar.

"What's the matter with him?" muttered Tinker. "You'd think they would be glad of custom in a forsaken place like this."

But Blake made a motion for silence, and next moment a tall, powerfully-built man, with a heavy black beard and moustache, came into the room.

"Want to put up for the night?" he said genially. "Why, of course, if you can stick rough quarters. My word, you're wet through! We must have a fire!"

Blake briefly explained that they were on their way up-country to look at a cattle range; that they had been caught in the storm, bushed, and lost their horses. To hear him speak, anyone would have taken him for the newest of new chums, but all the time he was watching their big, brawny host with the utmost keenness. There was something about the man that roused every detective instinct in his nature.

And yet there was nothing whatever to take exception at in the fellow's manner as he led them out into the kitchen to dry themselves at the stove, and made the boy brew hot tea and cook mutton-chops for their supper.

"Rough fare, gentlemen!" he said, as the food was put on a bare table at one end of the kitchen. "But I dare say you're hungry. After supper I'll send out Tom to see if he can find the horse you left across the river, and maybe I can lend you another in the morning. Now, I'll leave you to finish your supper. I must go and look after the bar."

"A very odd smell," replied the other quickly. "It's been bothering me ever since we came into this room."

Blake took a cautious glance round. They could hear glasses and bottles being moved in the front room. The boy Tom had already gone out to look for the horse. He got up and went quietly over to the stove. The damper was closed and the fire banked down. Very cautiously he lifted one of the iron rings from the top of the fire, and, taking the poker, stirred the smouldering wood ashes. Tinker watched him with deep interest.

Apparently Blake found nothing, for he laid the poker down and replaced the ring. Tinker slipped across to him.

Oddly enough, the oven door refused to open easily. But Blake had a way of his own with such things, and in a very few seconds he had forced it.

A cloud of ill-smelling vapour poured out into the room. Covering his nose and mouth with one hand, the detective thrust the other into the oven, and quickly scraped out a handful of scorched fragments, which he hastily crammed into his pocket. He had hardly closed the oven door and got back to his chair before the door giving into the front room was opened, and the host entered again.

"Eaten all you want, gentlemen?" he exclaimed, in the most cheerful manner imaginable. But Blake had caught a queer, suspicious expression which had flashed in the man's eyes as he opened the door.

"Yes, thanks; we've done excellently. But, I say," he continued innocently, "what a queer smell there is in the room! I was just trying to open the window."

"It's grease spilt on the stove," responded the other readily. "That window won't open. You'd better come out of the room. Would you like to sit in the bar, or shall I show you your bed-room? There's only one beside the room which Tom Field and I share. However, I dare say you won't mind dossing together."

All this was said with an air of such geniality as would have humbugged anyone less keen-brained than Blake. Even Tinker began to think that certain vague suspicions which he had formed were unfounded.

"I think we'll go to our room," answered Blake pleasantly. "We're both dog-tired, and must be off early."

There were two upstair rooms, both dirty and untidy, like all the rest of the place. The landlord ushered them into one where two truckle-beds stood side by side. These, with one broken chair, a table, and a water-jug, were the whole furniture which the place boasted, As soon as ever the door was closed, Blake, motioning to Tinker to keep silence, knelt down and put his ear to the keyhole. He remained quite still in that position for fully five minutes; then at last got gently up, and, sitting on the edge of the bed, began emptying his pocket of the queer-looking cinders which he had rescued from the oven. Tinker came and turned them over curiously.

"Exactly; and, look, here is a bit of scorched tape which once tied the top of a bag."

"I think we're on the track of the Narragoola Bank robbers," he said, in the lowest of whispers, "And I think something else, too."

"I think our friend the host suspects us, Tinker, and that one of us had better stand guard all night."

Tinker agreed, and there was a little friendly squabble as to which should take first watch, which ended in Tinker lying down, while Blake took the chair and sat by the open window, listening to the hum of crickets, the croaking of frogs, and the myriad other sounds of the hot, still, tropical night.

The detective had not been sitting there five minutes before an almost overpowering drowsiness began to steal over him. He tried to fight it away, but it increased, rapidly, until it required all the determination of his iron will to keep himself awake.

"One might be drugged," he muttered. "And yet I've tasted nothing since supper."

He got up, and, taking a flask from his pocket, filled the metal cup belonging to it with water from the jug, added a few drops of spirit, and dashed it off.

"H'm! That tasted rather odd," he muttered again. He rinsed out the cup, filled it again from the jug, sniffed and tasted it. "The cunning brute!" he hissed. "Why, this is poisoned! What a fool I have been!"

His head was spinning. He felt as though a heavy weight was pressing on top of his skull. Grey stars whirling against a black background appeared before his eyes.

It was not the first time by many that the great detective had been drugged, He knew the symptoms of most sleeping-draughts well, and nowadays invariably carried an antidote about him. Summoning all his remaining powers, he thrust his hand into the inner pocket, where he kept the little airtight metal case which contained this medicine. A groan burst from his lips. The case was gone. The whole lining of the pocket had been torn open, doubtless during his rescue of Tinker from the river.

He could now hardly see or hear. His feet and hands were turning cold, and he had hardly any command left over his limbs. Yet, even so, he would not give up. By an almost superhuman effort, he staggered across the room towards Tinker's bed, and flung himself upon it.

"Wake up, Tinker!" he groaned. Alas! Tinker, too, was in that deep stupor which only drugs can cause. Blake could not rouse him. "Done!" he muttered.

And with that his senses left him, and he lay, breathing heavily, across his faithful assistant's body.

THE SIXTH CHAPTER.

In the Hands of the Enemy —
An Unexpected Ally —
How Blake and Tinker Escaped.

IT was a feeling of something cold upon his face which roused Blake. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt as if they were glued together. He made a tremendous effort to stir, but could not move an inch.

Again he exerted every nerve to move, and this time succeeded in opening his eyes. The first grey dawn-light was filtering into the room, and over him and Tinker, who lay beneath him, a dim figure stooped.

A cup was put to his mouth. Oh, the joy of the cool fluid to his parched and dried-up throat! He tried to move, but could not. He was tied hand and foot. Without a word, the figure produced a knife and cut the cords. Blake, gradually regaining his senses, became aware that it was the boy Tom Field whom he had seen in the bar the night before.

For answer, Blake struggled to his feet. His head ached frightfully, and he was so dizzy that he could hardly stand; but he summoned all his will power to his assistance.

"Quick, help me to wake the other!" continued Tom Field, his teeth chattering. "There's not a minute to waste!"

Blake wasted no time in questions. He began working rapidly on Tinker, and the latter, not having imbibed so much of the drug—which had no doubt been administered in the tea at supper—as Blake had taken, soon sat up.

"What's up?" he muttered drowsily. Then, seeing Tom Field: "What are you doing?"

"Trying to save your life," answered Field, in a curt whisper. "You'll both have your throats cut if you're not clear of this jolly quick!"

"S-sh!" An expression of terror appeared on his face. "It's too late!" he muttered. "They're here now!"

Sure enough, both Blake and Tinker heard the outer door downstairs open, and then the sound of people talking in the room below.

"A 'tec of some sort," he remarked, in contemptuous tone; which came plainly up through the thin board flooring. "Great Scott, such a juggins! Played up he was a new chum; but I caught on to him before he was half an hour in the house. He'd been scooping the ashes of those burnt money-bags out of the oven. I could have laughed! Neither of the chaps had the least notion that they'd already drunk up enough laudanum in their tea to make them sleep for a week!"

"And what are we to do with 'em, Griffith? Take 'em up to the ranges, and see how much their employers 'll pay for 'em?"

"Not much!" was the curt reply. "They're dangerous. Alligator Pool's the place for them!"

Blake, listening with all his ears, saw Tom Field shiver at these words. The young fellow seemed on the verge of collapse.

"I say, we'd better be shifting, hadn't we?' he suggested coolly. "I don't know where Alligator Pool is, but it don't sound nice."

"There's no way of getting out," replied Field, in desperate terror. "Heavens, isn't it bad enough already without more murders?" he continued, half to himself.

"My dear fellow, there's the window," returned Blake cheerily, "It's not twelve feet to the ground. Come along!"

"You don't understand," muttered Field, in desperation. "They'll see you and catch you."

"Oh, no, they won't!" answered Blake encouragingly. "Now, come on. This is no place for you!"

"I can't," replied the other wildly. "You go. Get away if you can. Your horse is in the stable."

At that moment steps were heard in the room below. Field tore himself away, and, flitting silently out of the door, crossed the passage and darted into the other bed-room.

"Well, if he won't come, he won't," said Blake, with his usual coolness. "But now, Tinker, if we're going to escape this unpleasant place—Alligator Pool, wherever that may be—I think the sooner we make ourselves scarce the better!"

So saying, he walked on tiptoe to the window, which was fortunately wide open, slipped through, and, letting himself down, hung by his fingers from the sill. Then, with a little kick off from the wall, he dropped, and landed safely on the ground below.

"They were coming up the stairs," he muttered, in Blake's ear, as, keeping close under the wall of the house, the two darted away side by side through the cool, dim morning,

Blake led the way to the railed-in paddock at the back of the house. It was useless, of course, to think of catching horses in the open in the few moments that were all they had before their flight must be discovered, but Blake hoped they might find two animals in the little stable which lay at the near side of the large enclosure. They were out of luck, for there was only one there—the horse which Blake had ridden the day before.

"We'll have to ride double, that's all!" exclaimed Blake, flinging on the saddle while Tinker bridled the animal.

They led it out. Blake sprang to the saddle. Tinker leaped lightly up behind, and they galloped away just as a volley of furious oaths sounded from behind them, and were followed by the sharp cracking of two or three revolvers.

Blake spurred sharply until they were out of range, and then, to Tinker's surprise, slackened to a canter.

"It's all right," he said reassuringly, "It'll take them all of ten minutes to catch their horses, and we must save ours all we can."

Blake rode straight for the river, judging that by this time the flood would have run down. He was right, and they had little difficulty in fording the stream. Then he turned up the path down which they had come the evening before. Pedro, who had been an interested spectator of their proceedings, followed close at heel.

Though so far they had come off safe, Blake had no delusions about the seriousness of his and Tinker's position. That they had stumbled into one of the Glyde gang's resorts there was, of course, no doubt, and he knew the desperate character of these men well enough to realise that they would strain every nerve to run him down.

Had he and Tinker had a horse apiece, they might have reasonably hoped to escape; but as it was, it could be only a matter of time before Griffiths and the other bushrangers rode them down. To make matters worse, neither of them knew the country, so they were obliged to stick to the track.

As the horse pluckily cantered on with its double burden, Blake's brains were active. The fresh morning air was rapidly clearing away the effects of the drug, and he was planning some method of outwitting his pursuers.

Near the river the soil was wet and swampy, but a mile or so up the path the horse's hoofs rang on hard ground, where they left little trace. Instantly Blake pulled up.

"Off you get, Tinker!" he ordered; and then he himself dismounted. At once he proceeded to muffle the horses' feet with handkerchiefs and both their soft felt hats, tying these on firmly with string. Then, choosing a suitable spot, he led the animal off the path to the right, and up a steep slope into a thicket of tea-tree scrub.

Tinker saw the force of the manoeuvre and chuckled gently. "Cover for a regiment here," he muttered.

At that moment Pedro uttered a low, warning growl, and next moment, through the stillness of the sleeping woods, came the distant thud of horses' feet. They came at a fierce gallop up the hill.

Presently they came into sight. There were four of them, including the innkeeper, and a more murderous set of ruffians one would not wish to see. Each carried a rifle, and there were pistols in their holsters. Peering through the thick, wet, leafy screen, the fugitives watched the fellows come pounding up the path, evidently never suspecting the trick that had been played on them.

They were level, they had passed. Tinker turned to Blake with a boy's delight in his bright eyes, when there came one of those unlucky chances which at times defeat the best-laid plans. Blake's horse, recognising, no doubt, his stable companions of the night before, suddenly gave a shrill whinny.

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER.

INSTANTLY the bushrangers pulled up short. Blake had just time to spring into the saddle, and Tinker to leap up behind, when a savage yell told them they were viewed.

Now it was neck or nothing. Cut off from the path, Blake could only force his beast straight ahead through the forest. He was a magnificent horseman, and had ere now held his own in the first flight of an English hunt. More, he had ridden at full gallop in the front rank of a charging squadron of Hussars. But this was a far more desperate task. The ground was fearful, and the going practically blind. To ask a doubly weighted horse to travel at full speed across such country was little short of suicide.

"Loosen my pistol!" gasped Blake, as he put the horse at a small gully which yawned before them. Over they went, and he turned the animal in among a perfect network of tree-trunks. Overhead the foliage was so thick that near the ground it was almost dark. Long, whippy branches switched their faces. It was impossible to see ten yards ahead. In an instant their pursuers were out of sight among the foliage, but they could hear them crashing along behind.

The trees opened out a little, the undergrowth became less thick. Blake gave a sigh of relief, as it seemed they had left the worst behind. Suddenly the horse put both forefeet into a hidden hole and came down with a crash, sending both his riders flying, Blake falling on his head.

Tinker was on his feet again at once. The horse was up, too, apparently unhurt, but, to the boy's horror, Blake never stirred. And in the thicket behind the crashing came momentarily nearer.

For a moment Tinker was at his wits' end. All seemed lost. Then suddenly an inspiration, born of the urgency of the case, came to him. Picking up a handy stick, he gave the unfortunate horse a sharp cut on the flank, which sent him galloping off again at full speed. Then he seized Blake, and, exerting all his strength, lifted him and swung him into a dark corner behind the enormous trunk of a gigantic black gum. There he crouched, breathless and silent as a hare in its forme.

He had not long to wait. Almost instantly, with a crash and a rattle, out came two of the bushrangers from the scrub. A third followed close. Tinker's fingers clutched convulsively on the butt of Blake's revolver.

The three swept by him almost close enough to touch, and presently there came the fourth, spurring in hot pursuit. But he, too, passed without noticing the two fugitives cowering close in the shadow, and galloped away in the wake of the others.

Tinker turned to Blake. He was well aware that the respite would be precious short. These fellows were all well mounted, and would run down the riderless horse in no time. Finding how they had been tricked, they would come back on their tracks, and this time with their eyes well open. If he and Blake were not mighty closely hidden there was not the ghost of a chance of their escaping.

"Not much wrong. Only knocked silly." He got slowly to his feet. "Thank goodness nothing broken!"

Blake took in the situation in a second. "We must hide in the scrub," he said; and led the way back through the thick forest they had just ridden through. Before they were through it, distant shouting warned them that the bushrangers had run down the riderless horse, and next moment a pounding of hoofs and crashing of branches came loudly to their ears.

Scrambling and dodging and running hard, they at last reached the scrub, and, plunging into it like a couple of bolting rabbits, threw themselves flat on the ground and waited what would happen.

Australian forests are famous for their scrubs, and among the many sorts of growth which go to make them there is nothing thicker than the tea-tree bush. The stuff was like an English quick-set hedge, so close that you couldn't see a yard one way or another, and Tinker's spirits rose a little when he noticed how difficult it would be for their pursuers to find them. Then he remembered stories he had heard of the cleverness of these Australians at tracking, and began to feel less happy.

In a very few minutes the bushrangers came back through the thick trees next the scrub, and pulled up so close to the edge that the fugitives could hear their voices, though they could not distinguish words. Then they began riding up and down, evidently searching for tracks.

Presently one of them actually came up within twenty yards of where they lay. Tinker stole a glance at Blake. The detective was his usual cool, everyday self. Except for a little tightening of the strong mouth, no one, to look at him, would have supposed there was any danger within miles. Pedro, trained to perfection, lay quite still beside his master, but all his white teeth were showing in silent snarl.

The bushranger was evidently trying to force his horse into the scrub, but just here the stuff was so thick that he could not get the beast to face it. After wasting two or three minutes they heard him utter a savage oath and move on a few yards to find an easier entrance. Blake signed to Tinker, and started off into the hot, prickly depths of the tangled growth.

The next half-hour was full of about as desperate excitement as either Blake or his faithful follower had ever known. Over and over again the bushrangers nearly rode over them, and more than once a shot was fired by one of the men, who fancied he saw or heard something moving in the scrub. But in each case it was only a wallaby or a snake. So cleverly did Blake dodge that his enemies never once laid eyes on him or his followers. At last, with many muttered threats, the gang gave it up, and the sound of their horses' feet died slowly away, Tinker wanted to start off at once, but Blake would not let him do so.

"They'll be waiting for us somewhere," he said. "We must give them plenty of time."

So they stayed where they were for nearly two hours, and then at last, after a cautious look all round, Blake gave the order to proceed.

It was now ten o'clock in the morning, and blazing hot. All three, including the dog, were fearfully thirsty, and between the heat, the effects of the drug, and lack of breakfast, both Blake and Tinker were feeling rather done up. Their situation, too, was enough to make any less seasoned pair extremely uneasy. They were quite forty miles from Narragoola, in a practically unknown and almost uninhabited country; they had no horses, no food, and their only weapon was Blake's revolver. Worst of all, they did not dare return by the track along which they had come the day before, for, as Blake said, the bushrangers were dead certain to be in waiting for them somewhere or other.

"You see, Tinker," he explained, "they daren't let us get away, for if we do it's all U P with that snug little refuge of theirs down by the river. And, for another thing, they know we both of us could swear to that fellow Griffiths' identity, and to the fact that he had something to do with the Narragoola business."

It was precious hard going for two tired and hungry men, but they stuck to it, and tramped steadily for the next three hours through pathless forest. By that time they reckoned that they had covered eight miles, and they had seen nothing further of the bushrangers. They took an hour's rest in a shady spot near a brook, and then, after a good drink of the clear, cool water, pushed on again.

Towards three they suddenly hit upon a road which seemed to run in the direction they were travelling, and, after some discussion, they decided to take it. This road, though it was evidently a made one, bore signs of long neglect. It was full of deep mud-holes, and scrub and weeds grew far out over its edges. Here and there a fallen tree lay across it, and though it was all right for men-on foot or horseback, it was plainly impassable for wheeled vehicles.

Presently it began to run uphill, with a thick forest of huge, gloomy iron barks on either side, and for the next two miles or so it was all against the collar. Tinker was beginning to feel awfully done, but the boy would have gone till he dropped rather than confess it. Even Pedro was slouching along with his tongue hanging out. Next, they came to a regular defile, with the road running at the bottom, and great slopes of tremendously steep, slaty rock on either side. Small iron barks, Australian pine, and thick scrub grew thick upon the hillsides. Altogether, a grand but extremely gloomy spot.

They passed several small caves along the side of the pass, and Tinker vaguely wished that he could crawl into the cool depths of one of them and sleep the clock round.

Suddenly Pedro growled. Blake pulled up instantly, and sprang behind a rock which jutted out from the side of the path. Tinker instinctively did the same. Lucky for him, for the next second two rifles cracked at once, and two bullets splashed into the road on the very spot where they had been standing the moment before.

Blake, always equal to any emergency, spotted that the smoke rose on the same side of the gorge as that on which they two were standing. He seized Tinker by the arm.

"The cave!" he exclaimed; and darted back, bending double as he ran, and keeping close under lee of the steep bank.

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER.

THE rum finished Tinker. He dropped, panting, and unable to speak, just inside the mouth of the cave. Blake pulled him well under cover, and then, with his usual coolness, took up his own stand near the mouth of the cave, and awaited further developments.

He had not long to wait. A man crept cautiously out of the cover of some rocks some way further up the road, with the evident object of crossing it, climbing the opposite hill, and thence, from cover, potting into the cave.

He reckoned without his host. If there was one accomplishment in which Blake excelled above any other, it was as a shot. It was said he could kill a running rabbit at fifty yards with a revolver. He stuck his head out just far enough to see, there was a sharp crack, and the bushranger, with a hideous yell, dropped squirming in the road.

"All of eighty yards," muttered Blake to himself, with pardonable pride. "Now, I wonder what they'll do."

He slipped a fresh cartridge into the empty chamber, blew the smoke out of the barrel, and waited again.

Minutes passed, and no signs of the bushrangers, It was a very still afternoon, and down in the forge not a breath stirred. Not a leaf moved. The silence was intense.

"Foxy beggars, they mean me to think they've hooked it, I suppose! Well, I wasn't born yesterday!" said Blake softly to himself.

It was just then that there came to Blake's ears through the stillness a sound which puzzled him. It reminded him of the distant tramp of a squadron of cavalry. But he knew very well that it could be no such thing, and so he dismissed it from his mind, and kept all his faculties intent on a good look-out for his enemies.

"By Jove, they mean business this time! They've been reinforced, too!" he muttered: for here came no fewer than six men, with the big innkeeper at their head, galloping like fury down the pass.

Blake saw what they were after. It was an attack in force. They knew he could not hope to shoot more than one or two of them at most before the rest reached the mouth of the cave and mowed him down.

Another man would have lost his head, fired wildly, perhaps have emptied a saddle or two, and then have been filled up with lead. Not so Blake, fears of danger, acting on an exceptionally strong nature, had made him resourceful beyond the common lot. He took a quick glance round. The little cave was not deep enough to give any shelter at its inner end. But its floor was strewn with loose blocks, which had fallen from the roof. Most of these were smallish, but there was one huge slab leaning against the wall.

Blake sprang to it, and, exerting all his great strength, turned it over. It fell with a crash, making a two-foot barrier, big enough to shelter more than one man from any number of bullets. There was just time to fling himself down behind it, and for Tinker to crawl up beside him, when the bushrangers came jeering up, and as the pasted they poured a regular volley into the little, dark mouth of the cave.

Not one of the shots touched Blake or Tinker. But the bushrangers did not get off scot-free. As the last man came by Blake took a snapshot at him. The bullet missed the man; but hit the horse just behind the saddle, breaking its spine and killing it on the spot. Its rider was pitched a good way over its head, and it was only the fact that he fell on the inner side of the road, so that he was out of Blake's range, that saved him.

"If I'd only got anything to shoot with, we might beat 'em off still," he muttered, between dry lips.

It was the sound he had mentally compared to a squadron of dragoons. It was quite near now, and coming closer every moment.

"That's Griffiths!" exclaimed Tinker, in a voice that fairly shook with excitement.

Two shots sounded, and then followed at once a deep bellow of fear and pain. Next instant the drumming noise increased. There were loud shouts from up the pass, and the sharp cracking of whips. Then, charging wildly past the mouth of the cave, and filling the narrow pass from wall to wall, came a great herd of long-horned, savage-looking cattle.

They were half crazy with fright, and galloping like mad things, tossing their huge, shaggy crests, while foam flew from their nostrils. Behind them the shouts and pistol-like reports of whips resounded fiercely.

"What the deuce is up?" muttered Blake, for once in his life surprised. "Lie low, Tinker. Wait till the procession's past."

Down came the cattle, scores of them. There must have been two hundred or more in all. At last they were all past; and then, close at their heels, rode three men, all in moleskins, flannel shirts, and wide-brimmed hats. The first, mounted on a splendid bay, was an uncommonly good-looking fellow, tall and finely built, with fair hair, and a crisp, golden beard. His face was full of rage, and so were those of his companions.

"The low-down brutes! If I could only get at 'em!" Blake heard him exclaim fiercely.

"The bushrangers 'll have to ride like blue blazes if they're going to get clear of the cattle," returned one of the others.

Then they were gone, and Blake ventured to look out. This is what he saw. Far in the distance, five bushrangers galloped down the hill as hard as their horses could lay legs to the ground. Close behind them poured the cattle, in a regular living avalanche, and after the cattle rode the three stockmen. Just outside the cave lay two dead bullocks and a dead horse, all mangled horribly with the plunging hoofs of the herd.

It was plain what had happened. The charge of the bushrangers had stampeded the herd, which was no doubt on its way down to the coast pastures. The robbers, seeing their danger, had then tried to stop the rush by firing into the beasts, and had killed two. The only result had been to so infuriate the owner—the golden-bearded man—that he and his men had forced the cattle in pursuit of the bushrangers, who, being unable to get their horses up the cliff-like banks of the pass, had been forced to ride for their lives.

Blake, if alone, would have followed; but Tinker was too exhausted to go any further at present, and he could not leave him. So the only thing was to wait in the cave for a while. Blake judged that the owner of the dead cattle would come or send back for their hides. In any case, he and Tinker would not starve now, for there was now plenty of fresh beef. As for the bushrangers, they would not be likely to give any more trouble for the present; and, in any case, when Tinker felt a little better, there were first-class hiding-places higher up the cliff.

Sure enough, in about an hour's time, back came one of golden beard's men, riding up the pass with his rifle across the cantle of his saddle. When Blake hailed him, he flung up the weapon pretty quickly, evidently under the impression that the former was one of the bushrangers. However, the detective soon explained matters, and the man was delighted to see him.

"You're right, boss," he said. "Those chaps are some o' Glyde's gang, and we'll hev trouble with them yet. They're mad as hornets to hev had to let you fellows go. Now, the best thing you kin do is to come along and camp with us. We'll need every man we can git if the road-agents tackle us to-night and try to drive off the bullocks."

Blake helped to skin the beasts, and, laden with the hides and some of the meat, they accompanied their guide back down the hill. Just outside the pass they found the cattle-owner camped a bit off the road, on a big, open, grassy plot, where there was an old stockade, or pen, into which he had managed to drive his frightened cattle.

He himself came to meet his unexpected guests, Blake introduced himself and Tinker, but, naturally, did not say a word as to his real identity.

"My name's Callendar—Dick Callendar," said the other pleasantly, "Jolly glad to see you! You must be pretty well played out. Supper'll be ready soon, and I dare say you won't be sorry!"

"That we sha'n't," answered Blake, with a smile. "But what's become of the bushrangers?"

"Haven't a notion," answered Callendar. "Tell you the truth, I think they're full up for the present. Of course, they may come back and tackle us after dark; but they'll know we're ready for them, and, unless they're reinforced, it will be five to five—not the sort of odds those gentry care about!"

Callendar proved to be quite right. No one disturbed them during the night, and next morning it was settled that Blake and Tinker should accompany Callendar down to the coast. He was taking his cattle to a range quite near Narragoola, and meant to leave them there in charge of his men while he himself returned to his own place up at Garrison Downs.

"They are. But"—with some contempt—"bless you, they're too scared to tackle a station! They're only a gang of low-down horse-thieves—poor imitations of the old-style road-agents!"

Blake found Callendar a very pleasant fellow, and when they parted the latter asked the detective and Tinker to come and visit him at his Station Taroomba if they were ever up that way.

So they parted, little knowing under what tragic circumstances they would meet again.

THE NINTH CHAPTER.

BLAKE sat at a table in his room at the Narragoola Hotel. A photograph lay before him which he had just been studying.

"Tinker," he said at last, and there was an unusual trace of depression in his tones, "I'm very much afraid we have been wasting time."

"We have been here three weeks," continued Blake, "and I'm free to admit that I have not yet found any clue worth following up. The worst of it is that I have so precious little to work on. This photograph of Maurice Hammond was taken nearly five years ago. He was then only twenty. Five years at such an age makes an immense difference. He probably looks totally different now from what he did then; and, besides, it is almost certain that he has changed his name."

He picked up the photograph and studied it. It represented a tall, rather slight young fellow, with very fair, rather curly hair, and a face smooth except for a mere trace of moustache. He was very smartly dressed, and the card bore the name of a well-known Bond Street photographer.

"That's true. But I doubt whether it's worth while, for I've got the name and description of every settler in the district. None of them answer to the man we want."

At that moment they were interrupted by a knock at the door, and the maid brought in the post, consisting of one letter, enclosed in a dirty white envelope, and addressed to "Mr. Baker," which was the name that Blake had registered under.

The detective opened it, and drew out a crumpled half-sheet, written in pencil, and a photograph. At sight of the latter a slight exclamation escaped his lips. He handed it to Tinker. The boy positively jumped.

So it was. The newly-arrived photograph was identical with the one of Maurice Hammond which they had just been examining. Blake hastily perused the letter, which ran as follows:

I'm glad you got orf all rite. They didn't ketch on to wat I'd done. I heer yo're looking for a man called Hammond. He lives at a plaice called Taroomba, eighteen myles from Garrison Downs. It's orl safe for you to go, for the rode agents—you know who—are orl away.

Blake threw the letter across to Tinker, and the lad's sharp face became a study in amazement.

"The chap who saved us at the bush inn! But how on earth did he come to know anything about what we were after?"

"Well, I'm glad the chap got off all right," exclaimed Tinker. "If that big blackguard Griffith had found out about his turning us loose that morning he'd have murdered him."

"How on earth did he get hold of that photo?" muttered Tinker. "I suppose you'll go up to Taroomba?" he continued.

"It may be a trap," he said quietly. "Griffith & Co. haven't forgiven us, you may bet on that. And they'll be all the sorer since we laid the police on that haunt of theirs by the river."

Tinker shrugged his shoulders. This was beyond him. He began to study the letter again.

Presently Blake got up. "Come on, Tinker!" he said. And, putting on his hat, he left the hotel.

It was scorching hot outside. There had been no rain since the thunderstorm three weeks ago, and the temperature was hovering about the hundred point. The sun glared red through a curious dry mist. There was news of bush fires up in the ranges.

Blake led the way straight to the police-station and inquired for Sergeant Tracy.

"I want a few minutes' private talk with you, sergeant,' he said. And the sergeant, a powerfully built, determined looking man of about forty, took him and Tinker into his private office. He knew Blake already, but only as Baker.

Imagine, then, his surprise when the world-famous detective calmly announced his real identity, and at once proceeded to explain his mission in Australia, and to show the sergeant the letter and photograph which he had just received!

When Sergeant Tracy had recovered a little from his surprise he began to ask Blake what his plans were.

"I can give you an escort in a few days' time," replied Tracy. "Glyde's gang are up in the hills, I hear, to the north of Garrison Downs, no doubt planning some new mischief. The Garrison Downs police have wired me to be ready."

"I don't want an escort," answered Blake promptly. "This is what I'm going to ask you." And he proceeded to unfold his plan.

"All right, Mr. Blake. I fancy we can fix it up. But, mind you, your disguise will have to be pretty good."

"You needn't fret about that, "he answered; and, after a few words more, left the barracks and returned to his hotel.

That evening he and Tinker packed up part of their kit, leaving their trunks at the hotel, and, after purchasing a couple of good horses, rode away, telling the innkeeper that they were going up the coast to look at some land, and that they hoped to be back in ten days or a fortnight.

THE TENTH CHAPTER.

TWO evenings later Sergeant Tracy was sitting in the private room of the sergeant-in-charge of the Mounted Police Barracks at Garrison Downs when there came the hammer of a horse's feet up the street.

"Someone's in the mischief of a hurry," he exclaimed, jumping up and going to the window. Next moment a man reined up in the light of the lamp over the door, jumped off his horse, which was white all over with foam, and hammered at the door.

"They've stuck up Taroomba!" Tracy heard him gasp out. "Quick, if you want to save any of 'em!'

In an incredibly short time a small trumpeter had sounded "Boot and saddle!" and in less than ten minutes a body of police, sixteen men strong, was galloping out into the gloom in the direction of the attacked station.

The night was dark, and hot as the inside of an oven. The track was so rough, stony, and precipitous that few but native-born Australians could have travelled it. Now they plunged into deep gullies, where the horses were breast high in thick fern; next minute they would be climbing a slaty slope where loose stones rattled down under the scrambling hoofs. It was all forest, thick and dark and gloomy, with the great trunks rising like enormous pillars towards the dim, starlit sky.

Mile after mile they traversed, no one speaking a word, and the silence only broken by the mournful cry of the morporke or the sudden clatter of the unshod hoofs of a mob of brumbies, disturbed while grazing in some secluded dell.

At last the forest ended, and the party rode out into a great park-like expanse of fairly open land, covered with Brass, now dry like hay from the heat and drought, and dotted with patches of thick scrub. This was the Taroomba Run.

From somewhere in the unseen distance came the faint, whip-like crack of a rifle, and instinctively everyone of the party spurred up to greater speed. They topped a rise; more shots were heard, and in the far distance the flash of the rifles was visible, like small sparks of fire.

Sergeant Tracy gave a low-voiced command, and instantly his men pulled up, and one of them rode alongside their leader. The two interchanged a few words. Then Tracy said in a whisper: "I'll do all I can to help you, Mr. Blake, but remember this. It's my duty to catch the bushrangers if I can. Once we've done that you are welcome to do as you please."

Sexton Blake—for this smartly-drilled, well-mounted man in the dark, handsome uniform of the Queensland Mounted Police was no other than the detective himself—dropped back into his place, and the sergeant gave the order "Quick trot!"

Two abreast, the little force started for the scene of the fight. All night the heat had been terrific. It seemed to increase rather than diminish. The ground was dry, and hard as iron; the grass crackled like burnt paper. Up in the far northern horizon a dull red glow showed that somewhere in the range the scrub was burning.

The firing in front soon ceased, and all was quiet again. Within twenty minutes the police had gained a clump of trees by a waterhole, so near the house that they could faintly see the outlines of the long, low building. There wert lights in two end windows, but not a sign of anyone moving. Here the sergeant halted them again, and, calling up King Billy, the black tracker, sent him on to reconnoitre. Tracey was an old soldier, and knew the craft of Glyde and his gang. It was even batting that the whole body of bushrangers were hidden somewhere close by, ready to pour a withering volley into the troopers.

Billy tipped off his horse and melted into the blackness like a snake into a thicket. The rest waited in absolute silence. In an incredibly short time the native was back. Blake, standing near Tracy, heard him say. "They all gone. Taken south road through scrub, Tink dey go for Mulga Mountain."

"Where's Mr. Callendar?" inquired the sergeant sharply. He was bitterly disappointed at arriving too late.

"Tink they hab tock him along. Ain't no one left in big house 'cept two station hands, and dey's both dead."

A groan broke from the men. Not one of them but would have given a month's pay to get to close quarters with Glyde and his pack of scoundrels.

"We will that!" was the fierce reply. In spite of the frightful heat and their long ride, the men were keen as mustard to get on.

"All right—only be sharp. We're off in five minutes." Then, in louder tones: "Baker, you and two other men go and see if there's anyone alive in the house. The rest of you wash your horses' mouths out, and be ready to start in five minutes."

Blake took Tinker and another man, and ran into the house. It was a long, low timber building, with a wide verandah. Everywhere were signs of desperate fighting. The windows were riddled with bullets. Remains of broken furniture showed where a barricade had been built across the front door. Inside the main living room all was confusion. Two men lay dead inside, and a third, evidently one of the bushrangers, was stretched on the verandah by the window with his brains blown out. Blake made for a writing-table in the far corner. Every drawer had already been turned out, and heaps of letters and papers littered the floor. The detective turned them over with rapid fingers, but everything of value was gone. There were plenty of the bold signatures "R. Callendar," but so far as Blake could make out, not an English letter among the lot, not a photograph—nothing to give the slightest clue to connect the owner of Taroomba with the man he was in search of.

"Yes; a trap laid by that beauty, Griffiths. But he didn't reckon on our turning policemen, Tinker. Now we'll run him down, or help to."

"That we will," exclaimed the other, with boyish fervour. "There's the sergeant calling. Come on!"

Pitch dark as it was still, King Billy seemed to have no more difficulty in following the trail of the bushrangers through the ink-black scrub than Pedro in smelling out a hot scent. His knowledge of the intricacies of the gloomy forest, into which they plunged shortly after leaving Taroomba, was absolutely marvellous. Well accustomed as Blake was to work of this kind, he had never seen anything to equal the ability of this Australian black fellow.

It was now about two hours before dawn, and hotter than ever—hotter in spite of the fact that the air was no longer still. A strong breeze was blowing in their faces, and though they did not feel it much down on the ground, the roaring in the lofty tree-tops told that up there a regular gale was blowing.

Thicker and thicker grew the scrub beneath, while the big trees made a roof overhead, and the path was nothing but a narrow track, barely wide enough for a single horseman, and lumbered with roots and rocks. The air was almost unbreathable. Blake felt a nasty pricking in his lungs, and his throat was like scorched leather. The perspiration poured off his face in heavy drops, and his clothes were wet through with it.

Then suddenly, just as they were in the thickest and blackest of the whole gloomy forest, a twinkling star of light appeared in front which sprang almost instantaneously into a flare of flame. A strange, roaring sound came to their ears.

Billy the tracker, who was riding some yards in advance of the rest, reined in his horse.

It didn't need this to turn the men. The native-born Australian is as plucky a fellow as lives, but he knows what a forest fire is. All the fire-engines and brigades in the world couldn't stop one, once fairly started in such a place as this.

Almost before Blake could turn his horse the single burst of flame was a wall of fire, that came leaping and roaring through the thicket on the wings of the strong wind. Instantly the whole scene was bright as noon-day. Blake had one glimpse of rearing, snorting horses, of tanned faces reddened by the crimson light. Then all broke and galloped for dear life helter-skelter through the fiery forest.

For the first moment the detective had all he could do to prevent his horse, mad with fright, from taking the bit in its teeth and bolting. Almost before he had got control of it another horse cannoned against his violently on the off-side, nearly knocking it off its legs. One glance showed him that it was Tinker's beast quite beyond control. Tinker was sitting well back, with all his weight on the reins; but the animal was crazy with terror, and the boy might as well have pulled at a stone wall.

Great branches spread low in every direction, and nothing could save Tinker from being swept off within a few strides. Blake saw the case was desperate, and bent over and made a lightning grasp at the bridle. The sharp pull slewed Tinker's animal round, bringing its head against the neck of Blake's own horse, which immediately shied violently away to the right. The result was that Blake was jerked clean out of his saddle and flung violently to the ground. At the same instant Tinker's horse reared furiously, the bridle which Blake was still grasping broke short off at the bit, and Tinker slipped helplessly off over the beast's quarters, falling almost on top of the other.

Before anything could be done the two were alone in the burning forest, the horses having galloped off to join their companions.

THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER.

BLAKE had fallen on a thick clump of prickly bush. In an instant he was on his feet again and had jerked Tinker up. The two started running for dear life.

All the rest were out of sight. Their only companion was Blake's faithful bloodhound Pedro, who had followed all the way from Garrison Downs through the reeking night, and who would have died a hundred deaths rather than desert his much-loved master.

Fast as they ran the flames travelled faster still. Leaping higher than the loftiest tree-top they sprang in giant bounds through the air, roaring in appalling fashion and increasing the already heavy gale till the whole air sang like a blast furnace. Monstrous trees burst into flames like tar-soaked torches. Whole branches, blazing furiously, drove on in front of the advancing wall of fire, spreading the conflagration as they dropped. The smoke beat down in huge coils, eddying in the whirlwinds, caused by the terrific draught.

Blinded, scorched, and choking, Blake and Tinker tore along, hopeless of safety, yet, like true Britons, resolved to make a stern fight for their lives.

Scorched and choking, Sexton Blake and Tinker
tore madly along through the burning forest.

A bunch of tall grass flashed into flame beside the track. Another moment and they would be actually in the centre of the sea of fire. All hope seemed gone. Blake, trying to save his eyes with his coat-sleeve, felt a sharp tug at his breeches. He heard Tinker gasp hoarsely:

The dog, wiser than his master, was trying to lead them off the track to the left, and Blake, knowing of old the wonderful sagacity of the creature, followed. A few steps found them floundering down the almost precipitous side of a deep gully, which had been hidden from the path by the network of vegetation.

Was it a stream? If it was a dry bed only—as seemed more than likely after the long drought—nothing could save them. Already the flames were upon them.

Fiercer and fiercer came the gusts of scorching air. Human lungs could stand it no more. Blake felt his powers failing, Tinker was flagging. Yet, as in a ghastly nightmare, the two slipped and stumbled onwards down a long, shaky bank with the dog hurrying on ahead.

Suddenly Blake felt the ground slipping away beneath his feet. He grasped at the bushes to save himself. A mass of tangled vegetation broke away in front of him, and, hand in hand, as they had been running, he and Tinker dropped together into the deep, hidden channel of a narrow watercourse.

Joy, there was water! Shallow indeed, and more like liquid mud than anything else, but yet water. Blake stooped, and with both hands splashed the thick fluid over Tinker's clothes, which were actually burning, and then over himself. Pedro, whose hair was scorched away in patches, rolled in the mud till he was coated with it all over, and whined with relief and joy.

But the danger was not over yet. Far from it! The trees and scrub met overhead, and already a shower of sparks was driving through them. Unless they could find water deep enough to cover them they would never survive the passage of the main body of the flames. Waiting only long enough to soak himself and his companion thoroughly, Blake led the way as fast as the difficulty of the narrow, brier-hung channel would allow, down the bed of the stream.

There was terribly little water. It was barely over their ankles. Yet, hoping against hope, the little party pressed on. Now the bush above them was actually on fire, the air became absolutely unbreathable. Again they were literally at the last gasp.

Then, just when Blake felt that the next step must be their last, the banks fell away on either side, and they lopped, waist deep, into a small waterhole, perhaps twenty feet across and twice that length. The water was warm as new milk, but it felt cool and delicious to their scorched bodies. They ducked their heads under half a dozen times, and then Blake made Tinker wet his pocket-handkerchief and hold it across his mouth to breath through. He himself did the same.

Now the fire was all around them. But for finding this refuge they must have been burnt to death. They crouched down with their heads just above water and breathed as best they could, while the forest vanished into flame and smoke overhead.

Quantities of fish splashed on the surface, and one by one turned over and floated, belly upwards, dead from the heat and lack of oxygen. It was strange to see that many of the forest animals—hares, rabbits, wallabies, and even snakes—had taken refuge in the water beside them, terror of the fire having overcome their fear of man.

Time drew on, and the main body of the fire passed, but there seemed no diminution in the awful heat. The scene was now one of the wildest grandeur. Behind, all was blackened and charred ruins. Great trunks still smouldered, and now and then one fell with an appalling crash, sending up columns of sparks, But up to the north the whole forest was one red-hot tempest, which stretched as far as the fugitives in the pool could see, from one side of the horizon to the other. The ground rose steeply in that direction, and the hills had the appearance of volcanoes in full blast.

There was nothing for it but to remain where they were. It must be many hours at best before the burnt forest would cool sufficiently to allow them to cross it.

Day broke at last, but the whole sky was dim with smoke, and only a grey light filtered through the enormous canopy of darkness. The wind still blew strongly, but happily it was growing cooler. The two exhausted men were able to move to the edge and seat themselves on charred logs by the waterside.

As the morning wore on it grew darker rather than lighter, and the sky more black. Then suddenly thunder crashed, and down came the rain in torrents, hissing on the smouldering trunks and almost red-hot soil.

The change of temperature was amazing. The two began to shiver in the heavy downpour. But it did not last long, and as soon as it was over they both started back afoot for Taroomba, hoping to get news of their comrades.

The distance was not great, but it was slow work, for the ground was lumbered with fallen half-charred logs. It was past midday when they at last emerged from the burnt forest and found, to their intense relief, that Taroomba had escaped the flames.

But when they reached the place it was empty and desolate. Not a soul was to be seen.

"I don't think so. Here are tracks of horses coming back. See? Pedro, seek 'em out! Good dog!"

The bloodhound sniffed at the trail, and almost at once started away in the direction of Garrison Downs. Blake called him back.

The idea of trudging nearly twenty miles back to the town in his present exhausted condition did not appeal to him.

"Stay here for the present," replied Blake promptly. "We can surely find a little food somewhere. After a meal we shall know better what to do."

They went into the wrecked house. Both were black as sweeps with the fire, and their first job was to find a couple of buckets and some soap and water. These they took out on the back verandah, with the intention of stripping and having a thorough wash.

Blake had just laid aside his carbine, and was pulling off his coat, when a voice near by sang out fiercely, "Bail up!"

A wild-eyed man, with a bandage round his head, had suddenly sprung out from behind a large umbrella-tree which grew close to the back door, and was covering the detective with a heavy-bore Navy revolver.

THE TWELFTH CHAPTER.

"Do you mind if I finish my wash?" inquired Blake mildly. "You can see I'm not armed."

"If there wasn't quite so much charcoal on my clothes you might see that my uniform is that of the Queensland Police," answered Blake, laughing.

"My word, I took ye for two of Glyde's gang!" exclaimed the man, in tones of deepest relief.

"I thought as much. At first I paid you the same compliment; then I perceived that you were one of the station hands."

"By your face. Aren't you a brother of one of the poor chaps who was killed last night?"

"That's true," was the answer. "The cowardly blackguards! They shot poor Ben down first. Then I got a crack on the head from a spent bullet as I ran out to get a horse for Mr. Callendar. That was just as the bushrangers were leaving. I only came to a few hours ago."

"I reckon he rode off after Glyde. You see, he and I got out of the house the back way just before the bush-rangers rushed it. We weren't strong enough to hold the house, so the boss said we'd better get out to the storehouse there behind, where the two of us might have a chance. The rum thing was that the beggars never attempted to tackle the storehouse. They cleaned out the house and left at once."

"Maybe they did. You've got here quick. We didn't expect you for another hour or more."

"As soon as Glyde's fellows had left Mr. Callendar, he slipped back into the house. He was out again in a minute, and his face like thunder. 'My word, Phillips,' he says to me, 'they've got more than the shearing money!' (That's what we'd reckoned they was after). 'I'm going after them, Get a horse up as quick as you can.' I thought he was crazy, an' I told him so. But, bless you, he ain't a man to be contradicted. I had to go and get that horse; an' while I was doing it a bullet come out o' the scrub an' hit me on the head, as I told you, and that's all I knowed till an hour or so ago, when I came to and found myself lying out in the paddock, with my head all over blood."

Blake was much moved. He had taken a great fancy to the big, golden-bearded Australian. This exploit appealed to him strongly. He turned to Tinker.

But Blake forbade this. The man was badly hurt, and not fit to travel. He would be much better at Tarcomba, looking after the station. They made him comfortable, got some food, drove up a couple of horses, and by two o'clock Pedro was on Callendar's track, and Blake and 'Tinker, well mounted and equipped, were riding steadily after the dog.

They crossed the burnt forest again, to the spot where the bushrangers had fired it, and there Pedro picked up the trail, and soon led up into wild, hilly grasslands to the south. They did not see a soul all the afternoon, and at night camped under an overhanging rock by the side of a waterhole.

A good night's sleep did wonders for them, and next day they travelled much more rapidly, Pedro kept the trail steadily across the hills, and at last they reached the top of the ranges, and looked down upon the most desolate country they had ever yet seen.

Low hills rolled away towards the horizon, covered with coarse grass or scrub. Not a tree of any size was to be seen, nor any trace of water; and, beyond a few kangaroos, and the usual crows, which seem to find food in any desert, there was no sign of life. Fortunately, their water-bags were full, and they had provisions for a week. Mile after mile they travelled at a steady pace, the hardy horses keeping up wonderfully, in spite of the intense heat.

At last, just as the sun was setting over the desert scrub to the west, Pedro suddenly ran on ahead sharply, and then stopped, uttering a low, mournful howl. Blake spurred forward, and as he did so a cloud of crows rose with loud croaking. There, in the middle of a little patch of thin scrub, lay a dead horse. It had been shot through the head, and the crows had already picked out its eyes.

There was no doubt about it. Both of them recognised the animal as the same which Callendar had ridden on the day when he drove the mob of cattle down the pass and rescued them from the bushrangers.

As they stood there, staring down at the poor dead beast, the sun dropped below the horizon, and the quick tropical darkness fell like a curtain over the lonely land.

There was nothing further to be done that night, and, sick at heart and dispirited, the two camped, to wait till morning. They did not dare light a fire, with the evidence of murderous work so near them, and there was no water. As they ate their cold food, they discussed in low tones the probable fate of the unlucky squatter.

At earliest dawn they were up, and, after a mouthful of breakfast, started again. They moved very cautiously, keeping a sharp look-out all the time. Pedro picked up a trail, which seemed to be that of several horses, though the ground was so dry and hard that it was very difficult to distinguish marks of any kind.

They had not gone very far, when the trail led them into a track of rocky ground, covered with loose stones, in which crystalline quartz gleamed white.

So he had; and there, beneath the shadow of a huge boulder, they found the dog standing by the body of the man they had been following.

"He's dead!" cried Tinker, springing from his horse, and throwing himself on his knees beside the body.

To all appearance he was right. Poor Callendar lay still as death. There was clotted blood on his cheek, and his golden beard was black with it. There was not the least movement of the chest to show that he still breathed.

But Blake, who had picked up more than a smattering of medicine in his long and varied experiences, fancied he detected some signs of life, and set to work to endeavour to revive him. For a long time his efforts met with no response; but at last there was a flicker of an eyelid, then a slight sigh, and presently Callendar opened his eyes, and stared vaguely up into the faces of his rescuers.

"All right, old chap; don't try to talk yet," advised Blake. "Wait till I've tied your head up and made you a bit comfortable."

Callendar made a motion towards his lips. They were black, and his tongue horribly swollen, Blake understood, and poured a little of their precious water into his mouth. The man gasped with relief, and presently dropped off into a doze. Blake set to work to build a little bough-hut over him to shelter him from the burning sun.

Blake was doubtful. He had a sort of idea that some of Glyde's gang might be still hanging about in the neighbourhood. But Tinker argued that this was not likely. There was nothing to keep them in this uninhabited country. They had probably gone back to one of their strongholds in the ranges. So, rather reluctantly, Blake gave his consent, and Tinker started off.

Two hours later he returned with a full water-bag, and the welcome intelligence that he had discovered an old mine shaft, with a half rotten, but still usable, ladder down it. In a "sumph" at the bottom was about six feet of drinkable water.

They were now able to give Callendar all the water he needed, and he grew so much better that by evening he was able to tell them his story.

THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER.

"IT was just before sunset three nights ago that a native boy brought news that a dozen mounted men were coming down from the ranges," began Callendar, "I had about three hundred pounds in the house, which I'd drawn from the bank at Garrison Downs, so I knew what they were after.

"There were only five of us altogether at the station, and, as I sent one off as fast as he could ride to Garrison Downs, for help, that left me with only three—the two Phillips and a man called Mason. We barricaded the house as well as we could, and by the time Glyde's gang were on hand we were ready for them.

"Glyde rode up, cool as you please, on that big bay horse of his, and ordered us to bail up. I told him a few home truths, and riled him considerably, Then the fun began. It was as hot a thing as ever I saw. The fools tried to rush us, but we plugged two of them, and the rest fell back, and began shooting from the scrub in front of the house. But we were too snug for them to touch us, and I began to feel pretty pleased, and to hope that we'd really be able to hold them off till help came. Then, just when we least expected it, there came a volley from somewhere close in, and killed poor Ben Phillips and Mason on the spot. The brutes had crept up close without our noticing them.

"That settled it. Two of us couldn't hold the house, and so the other Phillips and I slipped out at the back and posted ourselves in the storehouse, which is a little iron-roofed building."

"Yes, I saw it," put in Blake. "Phillips told me about that part of the business. Then they raided the house, I suppose?"

"Yes; we saw them at work there, and expected an attack every minute. But they didn't come, and suddenly we heard. Glyde give the order for them to mount and ride off. No doubt they had a scout posted somewhere in the distance to warn them of the police coming. As soon as they were gone, I went back to the house to see if I could do anything for the fellows who'd been shot. But they were both dead. Then I found some thing else. Not content with stealing the money, the brutes must needs have burst open my desk, and stolen a lot of private papers. They couldn't be any possible use to them, but they were all important to me. It made me so angry I simply lost my head, and made up my mind to go after them at once. It was a crazy thing to do, but, of course, I didn't know you people were so near, or I'd have waited."

Blake was listening with the utmost intentness. It was too dark to see Callendar's face, but every word was of the most intense interest to the detective.

"Yes; and after that I heard one shot, and he did not come back. I went to look for him, but it was so intensely dark I could not find him. I fancy one of Glyde's men must have been left behind as a sort of rear-guard, to ride after and tell them if the police were going to follow, and that poor Phillips must have run into this man."

Callendar went on in a voice which was growing weaker. He had been badly hurt, and was hardly fit to talk yet. Blake would not have allowed him to, except for his great anxiety to know how his friend had got into this terrible state. "I was close on their heels," he said, "when they fired the scrub, so close that I was easily able to keep on the right side of the fire. Fortunately, I know the ground like a book, and I kept on a parallel track, I flattered myself that they had no idea anyone was after them, and I rode along in an awful rage, planning how I could get among them and get back my papers.

"But I was wrong. Glyde is a good general. He has his scouts—native boys mostly—all over the country, even in a beastly desert like this. Yesterday morning, as I was following the tracks through a bit of scrub a little way behind here, someone hidden in the thick stuff suddenly shot my poor horse, and as I came down with him, popped out and gave me a crack over the head with the butt end of his gun that ought to have settled my hash. Probably he thought it had, but, luckily, my skull's pretty thick, and I was wearing a heavy cabbage-tree hat. I must have laid there a long time, but at last I came to with a most awful pain in my head. I fancy I was a little bit off my chump, for all I remember is a wild idea that I had to follow the trail at any cost. I started off on hands and knees, got as far as this, and that was the end of it, I collapsed, and if you two good Samaritans hadn't come along, here I should have stayed till the crows picked my bones.

Callendar had tried to speak lightly, but as he uttered these words his voice broke slightly, and he weakly stretched out his big brown hand to Blake, who took it and clasped it warmly.

"My dear chap," said the detective, "I'm jolly glad we did get here in time. But it's Pedro you must thank, not us. He followed the trail."

The dog, hearing his name, got up and thrust his cold nozzle affectionately into his master's hand. Callendar tried to pat him, but the effort was too much.l "I say, I'm awfully tired,' he said, in a weak voice. I'd better sleep a bit."

And Blake, though he was desperately anxious to question Callendar further, promptly agreed. He himself took first watch, and presently heard Tinker and Callendar breathing deeply, while, rifle in hand, he watched over their slumbers, Pedro crouching at his side. Twice during the five hours of Blake's vigil the big dog stirred, and, sitting up, growled slightly. But Blake, though his ears were keen beyond the common, could hear nothing, and knowing that dingoes (wild dogs) were not uncommon in this scrubhy country, paid little attention.

At one he roused Tinker, and slept himself the rest of the night. It was the sun shining full in his face that woke him. He sat up. Callendar was still asleep under the little brush shed which they had built over his head. Tinker was nowhere to be seen.

But this did not disturb Blake. The canvas bucket was gone, so no doubt the boy had gone to the old mine-shaft to fetch water for breakfast. Blake wondered if they might light a fire. He was sick and tired of cold food, and he knew how much good a cup of tea would do to Callendar. He decided that it might be done if he got twigs dry enough to burn without smoke, and set himself to collect a quantity. This took some time, and, to his great surprise, Tinker failed to return. Blake remembered the rotten ladder which Tinker had mentioned. "I wonder if it's broken?" he muttered.

Callendar was still asleep. Blake whistled up Pedro, and started out on Tinker's tracks. He himself had never yet been to the mine.

THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER.

IT was easy enough to follow the tracks to the mine, for Tinker had been there three or four times already for water for themselves and their horses. The place was not more than a quarter of a mile from the camp, but hidden from it by rocks and patches of heavy, dull mulga scrub. Blake soon found it. It had evidently been sunk a good long time ago, and by prospectors in search of gold, for there were traces of a quartz ledge above ground, while scrub had grown upon the dump (earth thrown out), and the top of the shaft was no longer regular in shape, large pieces of rock and earth having fallen inward in the course of years.

Blake hurried back to camp, and, leaving Callendar still peacefully sleeping, soon returned with the two ropes which they used for picketing their horses. These he tied together and made fast to the old windlass, which still remained fairly sound, and dropped the other end into the black depths.

"Wait a minute, Tinker!" he called. "I'm coming down to have a look round. Seems to me there's a lot of likely looking rock here. I wonder why they stopped working it?"

It was only about thirty feet to the bottom. The air was deliciously cool down below. On lighting a match, Blake saw that the original miners had evidently been interrupted in the middle of their work, for though they had reached what looked like a vein of good ore, they had only just begun to tunnel it. The cross-cut was not more than ten feet long. He told Tinker this, and the boy watched with interest while the detective knocked off a few small samples of the quartz for future reference.

"Now we'd better get back to camp," he said, after a minute or two. "If Callendar wakes up he'll be wondering what's become of us. You first, Tinker. Leave the bucket. You can pull it up afterwards, and then drop me the rope again."

Tinker obeyed, and, gripping the rope with hands and legs, began swarming up, while Blake steadied it from below. The detective was watching the small, active figure outlined against the patch of sky at the top of the shaft when suddenly he saw the boy stop, and then come sliding down again at a tremendous pace.

"It's a big seven-foot snake, coiled in a cleft just below the top of the shaft," he answered, in a shaking voice. "The brute would have struck me if I hadn't dropped quick."

"That's bad. It's a Queensland mulga snake. A very bad sort. Deadly as a puff adder, and vicious, too!"

It was odd that this boy, who before this had faced a mad murderer, unarmed, grew white and shivered at the danger which now threatened them. But they say that everyone has one unconquerable aversion. Tinker's was a snake.

"Steady, old chap!" said Blake kindly. He was not the man to sneer at the boy for his terror. "You stay here. I'll go up with my pistol and shoot the brute!"

"You can't do it!" cried Tinker, in uncontrollable excitement. "The shaft's so narrow that he could strike right across it. He'll get you in the face before you have a chance to shoot, and if you miss he'll fall down on top of us."

"All the same, I must try, Tinker," answered Blake, in his quiet, resolute way. "We can't stay here for ever, you know. Even now poor Callendar will be wondering what has become of us!"

"I tell you, there's no chance!" repeated Tinker fiercely. "It's certain death for you; and then, if the snake falls to the bottom, for me, too!"

"Look here, Tinker! If, as you say, the snake falls, you'll be in serious danger. But suppose you get back into the tunnel, and pile up some mullock* in front of you, then you'll have a chance of polishing him off with big stones before he can get at you!"

Tinker did his best to conquer his fright, and agreed. Blake helped him to pile up a three-foot dam of clay at the mouth of the tunnel, so that if the snake did not happen to fall into the sumph, or waterhole, in the middle of the shaft bottom, Tinker would be able to stone it before it could strike at him.

Tinker kept looking up. He was absolutely shivering with horror. At last all was ready. Blake, with his pistol between his teeth, took hold of the rope. Then Tinker showed himself a hero. He pulled Blake aside.

"Shake hands, boy!" he said. And there was something in his deep, quiet tones which made Tinker thrill all over. "You're a plucky chap; but I'm going. Get back into the tunnel."

Without another word, he started on his perilous mission. Tinker crouched behind the clay-bank, with his head out, and watched his friend go steadily up, the rope swinging slightly with his weight. There was a deadly fear at the boy's heart, but it was no longer for himself.

It seemed years before Blake reached the level of that horrible ledge. Every instant Tinker expected to see that deadly head, driven by the long, whip-like body, flash over the edge, and strike with venomed fangs into the face of his friend. At last Blake stopped climbing, and twisted one leg firmly in the rope. Then Tinker saw him thrust out the other foot, and, kicking gently against the side of the shaft, deliberately set the rope swinging. What could he be doing? Tinker watched, with cold chills crawling up and down his spine.

Blake allowed himself to swing gently to and fro until his body touched the side of the shaft on the other side from, and a little below, the cleft where the snake lay. Just here a spur of rock projected a foot or more from the side. Out shot the detective's left arm, and hooked round the spur. It held him safely, and Tinker saw the brave man pull himself up very slowly and cautiously until he was astride the pointed rock.

It seemed a horrible risk, but yet it was a wise one. The shaft, being fully six feet across, Blake was now out of reach of the strike of the venomous monster; for a snake, as all who are familiar with these reptiles know, can, when coiled, only strike an object half its own length away from it.

As Blake settled himself astride the rock, some earth and pebbles fell, and Tinker's heart was in his mouth; but the rock held firm. Now, Blake, still holding tightly to the rope, took the pistol from his mouth, and raised himself gradually as high as he could. Ah, the serpent was roused! Tinker saw the hideous head come flickering over the edge. But Blake was well out of reach, and the snake drew back. Very deliberately Blake raised the pistol and took careful aim. Of course, he could hardly fail to hit the snake at so short a range; but Tinker realised that he meant to kill, not merely maim.

Blake's right forefinger tightened. In the confined space the crash of the report seemed to shake the very ground, and sent a torrent of loose stuff clattering to the bottom. The smoke filled the shaft, and left the bottom in darkness.

Very carefully, Blake raised the pistol and took aim.
His forefinger tightened, and there was a sharp report.

Tinker, who, at the report, had sprung back to the furthest limits of his narrow refuge, endeavoured, with fingers that shook horribly, to find a match and strike it. At last the tiny flame burnt up, and there, on the bare rock at the bottom of the shaft, and just outside his refuge, wriggled and squirmed horribly the long, grey body of the deadly reptile.

But it was harmless. Blake's fatal bullet had smashed its venomous head into pulp.

"You bet!" cried back Tinker exultantly. "You've smashed his head to smithereens!"

At that moment a deep, heavy growl came from above. It was Pedro. The dog never gave this warning sound without good cause.

THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER.

TINKER steadied the rope for Blake, who swung from his perilous perch, and was quickly at the top.

Tinker obeyed. Everything seemed perfectly quiet. There was no sign of movement in any direction, yet the bloodhound was plainly uneasy. He kept lifting his great head, and sniffing the air, as though he perceived some unaccustomed odour.

Blake knew that his favourite never deceived him, and there came back to him the recollection of the dog's growls in the early part of the previous night. As soon as ever Tinker had arrived safely at the top of the shaft Blake, full of secret anxiety, led the way rapidly back to camp.

There was the big stone, there stood the little bough-shed undisturbed. It must have been some wild animal that had startled Pedro. But, no! What was the dog doing? He had run on before, and, reaching the bough-shed first, suddenly turned up his head with a low, miserable howl. Blake, reaching the spot a moment later, saw Callendar was gone!

At first the detective and Tinker were almost stupefied. They had left the squatter far too ill and weak to move more than a few yards without help. Yet he had vanished as completely as though the earth had swallowed him.

It was true. Blake had left both animals tied by their halters to mulga stumps close to the camp. They were gone, like Callendar. The last straw was when they found that their saddle-bags, with all their provisions and their carbines, had been taken as well. They had absolutely nothing left but the clothes they stood up in, the rope, one bucket, and Blake's revolver.

Most men would have been stunned by such a calamity; for it must be remembered that they were two full days' ride from the nearest inhabited country. Two days' ride meant eighty miles at least. It would be four days' hard walking; and how could they possibly hope to do that without food?

Meantime, Blake was on his knees, examining the ground for tracks. Though not so expert as the native Australian tracker, yet he had had plenty of experience in such work, and, so long as the ground would hold a mark at all, he was not easily foiled. Presently he got up.

"Two men have been here," he said, in his quiet, decided way. "I think they lifted Callendar on to one of our horses, and then, leading the other, went away to the north-west."

"Only two!" exclaimed Tinker. "Where's the rest of the gang? And how came two of them to be hanging about till now? If they meant to do for Callendar, why didn't they finish him at first? And if they didn't want to kill him, why did they leave the job half done, and then come and carry him off like this?"

"All these questions have occurred to me already, Tinker, and I confess that I'm puzzled. You are taking it for granted that it's some of Glyde's gang's work; and I must say I agree with you. The whole business is most puzzling. How I wish that poor Callendar had told us more last night! You see, there must have been some very strong inducement—stronger than the mere loss of his money—to make him follow the gang single-handed. Was it possible that he still had something about him which Glyde wanted, and which made him send back two of his men to get it?"

"That seems most likely," answered Blake thoughtfully. "The only other alternative is that Callendar had some information which Glyde wanted."

"In that case, they'll not hurt him. They'll take him straight back to their headquarters," said Tinker.

"Strikes me we're in such a hole ourselves that it doesn't much matter which way we go. It's the bold game pays. Yes, I vote for following the fellows that have kidnapped Calendar!"

* * * * *

FORTY-EIGHT hours later two figures, following a dog, were walking slowly across a waste of spinifex scrub, which stretched mile after mile in every direction towards the glaring horizon. Only in one place was the skyline broken. That was by a conical blue hill, and it was towards this hill that the travellers were making their way.

But the hill was still many miles away, and the two men were plainly very near exhaustion. They staggered as they walked, and now and then the smaller of the two would stumble. Their faces were haggard and pinched, their cheeks blistered by the terrible sun, and their lips were cracked and dry with thirst.

Their once smart uniforms were covered all over with the fine desert dust, which rose like powder at every step, and their feet and the calves of their legs were almost raw with cuts from the terrible points of the spinifex. There was absolutely no sign of life in this horrible desert. The very crows shunned it. It was like a dead world except for the dust-devils which spun across it, whirling solemnly in dark columns across the blazing white sand.

Tinker stumbled again, and would have fallen had not Blake seized him. The elder man unslung his water-flask, held it up, and shook it. There were still a few drops of warm, muddy fluid in the bottom. They were the last, and more precious than gold.

Blake hesitated. Then he raised the cup, and apparently sipped a little. It was only a pretence. Not a drop passed his parched lips. Tinker, almost blind with the frightful glare from the sand, never noticed this self-sacrifice on the other's part. He gulped the water down, and felt new life flow into his sluggish veins. Then the two tramped on again.

Mile after mile, and the heat beating back from the white surface of the desert till pain became agony. Mile after mile, till their walking became a mere mechanical action. Yet the distant blue mountain seemed no nearer.

Blake made a hoarse sound in his throat. He was trying to speak, but his swollen tongue made it impossible. He pointed to a patch of what had once been mulga scrub, but was now a mere line of dead and blackened stumps. Tinker understood, and turned towards it. As they neared it they saw that it marked the line of a long-dried-up watercourse. Blake moved to the deepest depression in its bed and began to dig, Tinker helped. For an hour they worked hard, and at the end of that time the sand was just as dry as at the top.

Suddenly Tinker, whose back was turned to Blake, heard a slight, choking sound. Turning, he saw his friend lying in a heap at the bottom of the hole. With infinite trouble he pulled him out and dragged him under the scrub, and piled some withered branches over him to shelter his head from the fierce sun. Then he went back to his digging. The afternoon drew on, but the sun's heat increased rather than diminished. Still Tinker toiled, though he was now very near exhaustion. The sand was a little moist, and he felt that if he could only get another foot or so down he might reach a few drops of water.

But it was not to be. Suddenly the plucky youngster felt his head going. He was just able to crawl out of the hole, and stagger across to where Blake lay. Then he collapsed completely, and the two lay there side by side, with Pedro crouching beside them.

Hours passed, and the sun dropped slowly towards the west. It was just sinking crimson below the sharp line of the desert horizon when a solitary horseman, riding across the great plain, was startled by a long, low, mournful howl, coming from a patch of mulga scrub. It was not a dingo's bark—it was too deep for that. He turned his horse, and rode towards the scrub patch. As he neared it a great bloodhound came out and staggered towards him, whining hoarsely, then turned, as if to lead him back. He followed, and there on the parched ground lay the two figures, apparently dead. With a startled exclamation the boy—for he was hardly more—sprang off his horse, flung the bridle over its head, and knelt beside the prostrate figures.

A short inspection proved that life still flickered in both, and the young fellow blessed his luck that his water-bottle was almost full. Drop by drop, he poured a little of the life-giving fluid between Blake's dry lips, and presently the detective opened his eyes and looked up into the face which bent so anxiously over him.

"What, you, Tom Field!" he gasped faintly. And then, as Field turned his attention to Tinker, Blake lay still again.

THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER.

IT was Tom Field who dug out the waterhole until a few cupfuls of brackish but drinkable fluid collected at the bottom; Tom Field who gathered sticks and made a fire; Tom Field who pulled out from his saddle-bags a goodly parcel of bread and cooked mutton, and fed the other two. And all the time he had not offered a word of explanation, nor had the others asked a single question.

At last the boy remarked suddenly: "I suppose you're wondering how on earth I came to turn up just at the right minute?"

"I should think you'd be wondering what we're doing in this beastly desert," put in Tinker.

"Merely by putting two and two together. When we last saw you at the bush inn you were in some way in Glyde's power. If I'm not much mistaken, Glyde and Griffiths are the same man?" He paused.

"They are," answered Field shortly. "And you're right. I've left him. I couldn't stand it any longer. I know he'll follow and finish me, for I know too much. But I don't care," he added recklessly. "That's why I took to the desert."

"I think you've acted very wisely," said Blake, in his quiet way. "Then I need hardly ask you whether this is a forgery." And he took from his pocket a letter, and handed it to the boy.

The effect was startling. "Maurice Hammond!" cried Field, in a tone of intense excitement. "What do you know about him?"

"Not much," he answered. "Only I want to meet him. But did you write the letter?"

"I? No. I can spell a bit better than that," retorted Field, recovering his self-possession with an evident effort.

"I told you so," said Blake to Tinker. "It was a trap to get us up to Taroomba."

"So you are police?' remarked Field curiously. "I didn't know you were when we first met. I took you for new chums."

"We only joined lately," he said. Then he paused, and looked hard at Field. "Does it occur to you that if you're afraid of Glyde's vengeance it would be the best thing for you to follow our example, and join the force?"

"No, I saw them leave, but I came away before they got in. I saw their trail, though—crossed it. They had two led horses with them—yours, I suppose?"

Blake nodded. "Exactly," he said; and proceeded to explain how their camp had been raided in their absence, and how Callendar had been carried off. Field listened with a puzzled face.

"It's not like Glyde to take a man to the Roost," he said at last, when he had heard the whole story. "I can't imagine what he wants with him unless it's to get a ransom. All I know is that when he came in from the last raid—the one on Taroomba—he left two men behind, two of the biggest blackguards in the gang. They came in next day, but three days ago he sent them out again. They were the two whose tracks I told you that I crossed."

"Oh, he's got spies everywhere," put in Tom Field. "Scores of 'em. He always knows what's going on anywhere for a hundred miles round."

"I'd like uncommonly to know how he ever heard anything about Maurice Hammond," remarked Blake thoughtfully. And his quick eye did not fail to notice that at the name Tom Field started again, but more slightly than before.

The talk then turned to their plans for the future, Blake suggested that the best thing to do was to make the best of their way back to Garrison Downs, and, turning to Tom Field, asked him plump and plain whether he would be willing to guide a force to the robbers' stronghold, the Roost, as it was called.

"They'll probably do something unpleasant to you, anyhow, if they catch you. Look here, Field, so long as that gang is in existence, so long are you in danger. Surely the best thing, from your point of view, is to guide us to the Roost. With your knowledge and a strong party we ought to be able to wipe them out for good. Then you and the country, too, will be safe."

At first Field flatly refused. He seemed to have a sort of horror of Glyde, and his one idea was to get away as fast as he could, and put the utmost distance possible between himself and the man he stood in such fear of. So Blake said no more for the present, and, leaving Pedro to watch, they took a short sleep. It was decided that they should start before day-break, and try to get back to Garrison Downs.

THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER.

The speaker was Tom Field. Blake had at last, with the greatest difficulty, persuaded him to act as guide to a large force of police which had been sent out quietly from Garrison Downs to attack the Roost. Tom Field's terror had surprised Blake a good deal, for the young fellow was certainly not a coward in the ordinary sense of the word. Yet before he would consent to act as guide he had insisted upon a complete disguise and a change of name. Nor would he let Blake, who seemed to be the only person whom he trusted, breathe a word to any of the others as to who he was or where he came from. It was only on these conditions that he would consent to guide the party to the Roost. And Blake, who was anxious above all things to find out what had become of Callendar, had consented.

Certainly Glyde had chosen his retreat well. Guarded in the front by the wide stretch of desert where Blake and Tinker had so nearly died of thirst, the Red Oak Range, as it was called, was backed by the Never-Never Country—that is to say, a barren and totally unexplored region. The Roost, so Tom Field said, was a flat table-land high up in the centre of a small, compact range of hills, and was only approached by one pass, which was guarded night and day. What was more, this road was so narrow and steep, and so hidden by thick forest and scrub, that one might pass and repass it a hundred times without ever suspecting its existence. Its entrance was a mere crack or rift between the enormous rocks, and the robbers had been most careful to cover up their tracks whenever they entered, and those of the cattle which they drove off from the Garrison Downs district.

It was the mouth of this rift in the rock that Sergeant Tracy and his force had just halted. All was quiet as death. It was a moonless night, and in the faint starlight the entrance to the pass had an intensely dark, gloomy, and forbidding appearance. The sergeant passed the word quietly to dismount, and leaving two men to look after the horses, the rest entered the rock gateway and cautiously began the long climb.

It was everything to move quietly and not alarm the robbers. Tom Field led the way with Blake and Tinker, one on each side of him. The sergeant came immediately behind and then the men, two by two, in a long line.

The path, very steep and covered with stones, wound up among great rocks and thick trees. What with the intense darkness and the necessity for caution, progress was very slow. Not a sound was to be heard, and no one could possibly have imagined that within less than a mile were camped between twenty and thirty of the most cruel and bloodthirsty blackguards in the whole Australian Continent.

Now and then a stone, loosened by the feet of one of the men, went tinkling away down the hillside, but on the whole the silence in which the force moved was worthy of all praise. Up and up they climbed, and still not a sign of life, Blake marvelled that the bushrangers should have left the path to their stronghold so utterly unguarded. For one moment there flashed through his mind a bare suspicion that Field might be wilfully leading them into a trap, but he dismissed the idea at once. It was rare indeed that he ever made a mistake in his man.

At last they reached the summit of the ridge, some hundreds of feet above the plain, and the path here, narrower than ever, dropped again steeply into a defile with steep, rugged rocks on either side.

"We're quite close now," muttered Tom Field, in Blake's ears. "When you get round the next corner you'll see their fires."

At last they reached the summit of the ridge, some hundreds of feet
above the plain. "We're quite close now," muttered Tom Field.

As he spoke he slightly quickened his pace, with the result that he, Blake, and Tinker passed round the corner which he spoke of a few yards in advance of their companions.

Instantly, with a loud crash, something fell behind them. Blake swung round. A sort of gate of solid planking had dropped out of a slot in the rock wall and cut them off from the rest. Before he could so much as call out, half a dozen figures had flung themselves out of some hidden recess in the side of the pass upon him and Tinker, blankets were thrown over their heads, and they were lifted and carried off bodily. In that moment of suffocating captivity, Blake's most miserable thought was that Tom Field, whom he had trusted so absolutely, had played him false. Behind him he heard a volley crash out, but whether from friends or foes he had no means of knowing.

Presently he felt himself flung roughly to the ground, the blanket was torn from his head, a noose-rope flung round his body, pinning his arms to his sides, and he found himself standing in a large cave, dimly lit by the crimson flare of torches stuck against the walls. Tinker, bound like himself, stood beside him.

"Here they are, cap'n," jeered one of their captors, and with his open hand brutally smacked Blake in the mouth.

It was Griffiths, the sinister landlord of the bush inn, who faced them, a smile of savage satisfaction on his dark face.

"Well, Mr. Baker, we meet again," he said, with affected cordiality; "and you, my young friend," turning to Tinker. "Ha, and in uniform, too! So you belong to Tracy's brilliant blunderers. Always running your heads into traps. This time I hardly think you will get away so easily as last."

"Your friends are impatient!" he remarked, with a bitter sneer. "I must go and welcome them. Afterwards"—and his face was a study in cruelty—"I shall have time to attend to you."

So saying, he gave his satellites orders to tie the two prisoners firmly to ring-bolts in the walls, and then stalked off out of the cave.

"Cheerful look-out!" he observed, with an attempt at lightheartedness. "That fellow Griffiths, or Glyde, or whatever his name is, looks capable of anything. "I wonder what it will be—something with boiling oil in it, I shouldn't wonder."

"There's hope yet, lad," answered Blake firmly. "Tracy is not the man to give up without a big try. Listen!"

As he spoke the firing broke out again tremendously heavily. They could hear men running and shouting, and the sound of heavy blows. Then slowly the sounds died away and all was still again.

"Tinker, my dear boy, I'm precious sorry for getting you into this hole," said Blake, at last.

"It was my fault as much as yours," exclaimed Tinker, quite indignantly. "Who'd have dreamed of Field playing us a blackguardly trick like this?"

"Absolutely," was the reply. "Never was so deceived in my life, What a clever young brute he has been!"

"After all, he saved our lives in the spinifex," remarked Blake thoughtfully. "There are several points about the whole business that puzzle me a good deal."

But what these were Tinker was not fated to hear, for at that moment there was a sudden, tremendous report like the firing of a heavy gun. Then came dead silence again.

As Blake and Tinker listened with intense eagerness, suddenly out burst the firing again with tremendous fury. Volley after volley rang through the night air.

For the prisoners the suspense was positively hideous. What had happened? Had Tracy managed to burst through the barrier, or had the bushrangers sprung some fresh trap? They could not tell. Minute after minute passed, minutes which seemed as long as hours. Still the firing went on, at times in volleys, and then again dropping to scattered shots. For Blake and Tinker the worst of it was that they did not even know where they were. They could not see the mouth of the cave. They only knew that they could not be very far from the pass, for the firing sounded so distinct.

Shouts again, and then a rush of feet. Blake strained violently at the rope, but if was too tight. He could not get free.

"Sergeant!" shouted Blake and Tinker, both together, at the top of their voices.

Next moment the welcome clatter of troopers' spurs was heard on the rocky floor of the cave.

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER.

"It's all right,' responded the trooper jubilantly. "We stuck a cake of gun-cotton under that precious door of theirs and blew it to blazes. Then we rushed 'em. Half of them are down, and we've caught four or five. Come on! We've got to collar the rest. That beggar Glyde is still loose."

He led the way out of the cave, and Blake and Tinker, snatching up their rifles, which lay on the floor, followed at a run. When they got outside they found to their amazement that it was dawn. In the early grey light they saw a small, flat plain covered with beautiful grass and surrounded by tall cliffs. Fighting was still going on. A remnant of the bushrangers—desperate fellows all of them—were holding their own behind rocks and trees, and firing at the troopers who,in open order, were skirmishing across the plain. Here and there a dark uniformed figure lay flat on the green grass.

But where was Glyde? That no one seemed to know. He had been seen during the fight at the mouth of the pass, but then had disappeared.

And, avoiding the open, he led the way under the shelter of the trees and scrub, which grew thick beneath the cliffs, towards the far end of the plain.

Twice they were fired at, and once Blake returned the compliment with his usually deadly aim. Then Tinker, whose eyes were sharp as a needle, suddenly exclaimed:

Blake saw it almost at the same moment—a squat, slab-roofed hut, almost hidden among thick trees.

"That will be where they've got Callendar shut up," continued Tinker hopefully; and broke into a run.

And as the boy pulled up, there suddenly swept through the trees, from the direction of the hut, two mounted men, who came galloping hard right across in front of the detective. They were Glyde and Dick Callendar.

But Callendar paid no attention. Not so Glyde! He turned in his saddle and, whipping out a heavy revolver, fired at Blake.

The bullet smacked upon a great tree-trunk just over the detective's head, and, dropping on one knee, Blake raised his carbine to his shoulder and rapidly returned the shot. For once his aim failed. The pinch of the ropes with which he had been so long tied had cramped his muscles. But it was a close call. The bushranger's hat flew from his head, and with a yell of pain he clapped one hand to his skull, which the bullet had scored from side to side. Then, with a furious oath, he fired again at Blake, missed a second time, and before the other could pump a second cartridge into the breech, had disappeared at full speed behind the trees.

"Hi, Callendar, stop!" roared Blake. But Callendar paid
no attention. Not so Glyde! He turned in his saddle and,
whipping out a heavy revolver, fired at Blake, who raised
his carbine to his shoulder and rapidly returned the shot.

Blake and Tinker followed at full speed. They saw the two horsemen, riding abreast, make for the cliff which towered like a wall at the end of the plain.

Straight at the cliff galloped the captain of the bushrangers. What was he going to do? For the life of him Blake could not understand. Ha, he turned a little, swinging to the left. For an instant he and Callendar both were lost to sight, cut off by another clump of trees. When Blake and Tinker had reached open ground once more the two horsemen had disappeared as completely as though the ground had swallowed them up.

For an instant the two pursuers stopped, staring at one another in blank amazement. Then Tinker shouted:

A moment later the mystery was solved. Before them yawned an opening in the rock wall that had seemed so solid—an opening which had been entirely hidden from the eyes of Blake and Tinker by a projecting wing of rock. A pass led downwards from this opening, widening as it went, and down it Captain Glyde was galloping at reckless speed, with Callendar still beside him.

He was right. Now it was all clear. The unfortunate Callendar was gagged, and fastened to his saddle by ropes, and Glyde tied his horse by a leading-rein. That was why the squatter had made no attempt to escape.

Pursuit without horses was perfectly hopeless, and the attacking force had left their animals at the foot of the other pass. Yet Blake and Tinker, hoping against hope that Glyde's horse might come down, or something unforeseen happen, ran onwards at full speed.

And presently something did happen. Out of the scrub by the side of the tree a figure sprang up in front of the bushranger, and, pistol in hand, yelled "Bail up!" Imagine the amazement of Blake when he recognised the face as that of the traitor, Tom Field!

But it is very doubtful whether, going at the pace he was, and downhill, too, Glyde could have pulled up. Anyhow, he showed no sign of doing so, but swept on, the loose stones flying beneath the clattering feet of the two horses. As he neared the spot where Field stood resolutely pointing his pistol, Blake saw the bushranger duck, lying flat on his horse's neck. By so doing he placed Callendar's body between himself and Field's pistol.

Blake, still running at the top of his speed, saw Field hesitate, saw his pistol hand drop. A change came over his face. He gave a curious, shrill cry.

At that moment Glyde lifted his right arm. A flash of fire darted out, and young Field flung up his arms, and fell backwards among the thick stuff in which he was standing, while the echo of the heavy report drowned the hammering of the flying horses' feet. Next moment Glyde and his captive had vanished from sight round a curve of the pass.

It was no earthly use chasing them any further. With one accord Blake and Tinker pulled up, and turned to see whether or no Field was badly hurt.

Blake's face was grave as he knelt and examined the lad. The bullet had struck him high up on the right side of the chest. He was insensible, and breathing thickly.

By this time others of the police had come up, and were eagerly questioning Tinker. They were all bitterly disappointed at Glyde's escape, but brought the welcome news that practically the whole of the rest of the gang had been rounded up and made prisoners. Eight had been killed outright, and four of the police. Many of the rest were wounded, and all were pretty well tired out with the night's work.

They carried Field back to the cave which had been the robbers' headquarters, and then prepared to start after Glyde. Just then in came Sergeant Tracy. When he heard what had happened, he said outright that it was mere foolishness to follow Glyde now. By the time they got their horses he would be miles away. Besides, they had twenty or more prisoners, and a number of wounded to take back with them.

It would be best, he told Blake quietly, to get these back to Garrison Downs, and then to organise a new expedition of half a dozen specially well-mounted men, and, with King Billy to show them the way, ride down Glyde and his victim.

"He can't possibly get away," declared the sergeant. "I shall warn the whole country by wire from Garrison Downs, and everyone will be on the alert. You know, there's a Government reward of a thousand pounds on Glyde's head."

"That's all very well; but how about Callendar?" replied Blake. "The brute may murder him!"

"He won't," answered Tracy confidently. "He'd have done it already if he'd been going to. Depend on it, Callendar will be all right."

Blake was not satisfied, but he could do nothing alone. Besides, he was intensely anxious to find out from the unlucky Field what he had meant by that sudden exclamation, "My brother Maurice!" Was it—could it be true that Callendar was actually the man he had so long been searching for, and that Tom Field was the younger brother Robert, who was "wanted" by the English police on the charge of murdering his uncle?

But when they at last reached Garrison Downs again Tom Field was so desperately ill that it seemed extremely unlikely that he would live to give any information. Blake was forced to start on the hunt after Glyde without hearing anything further. But he left Tinker to look after the patient, with instructions to do his best to pull him through.

THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER.

WHEN, six weeks later, Sexton Blake staggered into the lodgings in Garrison Downs where he had left Tinker, his best friend would not have known him. As an actual fact, Tinker, his devoted companion for more than three years, was almost unable to believe that the man who sank wearily into the opposite chair was really the smart detective. Blake was shrunken, shrivelled, heavily bearded, and burnt almost as black as a native. He looked quite ten years older than when Tinker had seen him last.

One glance told the boy that the detective's search had been a vain one, and, with a tact that did him credit, he only said:

"Tinker," he said quietly, "I've failed. Glyde has got away. We have found absolutely no trace either of him or of Callendar."

Tinker was silent. He knew what such an admission meant to the great detective. Instead of talking, he got up and bustled round, making some tea. Then his eyes fell on a yellow envelope upon the chimney-piece.

Blake read it, and an expression of stupefaction came upon his face. Without a word, he handed it back to Tinker. This was the message:

TO SEXTON BLAKE, GARRISON DOWNS, NARRAGOOLA, QUEENSLAND.—MAURICE HAMMOND ARRIVED IN LONDON TODAY. (Signed) SIMONDS AND CLARK.

Tinker stared at the message as though he could not believe his eyes. At last he muttered:

Blake made no reply. He sat, with his chin in his hands, deep in thought. Some minutes passed. Then suddenly the detective sprang to his feet with all his old energy.

"Better—yes; but precious bad still," said Tinker, leading the way into another room.

If Blake was altered, Field was much more so. He looked hardly alive as he lay there, with his eyes closed, and the bones almost sticking through his drawn, white cheeks. In spite of the trick the boy had played them at the Roost, Blake felt a pang of pity.

And, indeed, if ever truth shone in anyone's face, it was in that of poor Field. At Blake's words a look of intense relief came into the boy's eyes.

"Don't talk about dying," retorted Blake cheerily, "Look here, I want you to answer some questions."

"Don't be scared," said the detective. "Believe if you can that Tinker and I are your very good friends, and want to get you out of your trouble, whatever it is. And first let me tell you, my name is not Baker, but Blake—Sexton Blake."

"Just so," said Blake pleasantly. "But not after you. I came out here to find Maurice Hammond, the lost heir to the great property of the late Mr. Greenfield."

"On the contrary, I know nothing, except that our vanished friend, Griffiths or Glyde, had some hold over you, and that when you met him carrying Dick Callendar off down the pass you cried out, 'Maurice, my brother!'"

There was another long pause. Blake waited with outward calm, but secretly consumed by anxiety. At last Tom Field burst out:

"It doesn't make much difference. I shall be dead before they can hang me. I'll tell you."

"My name is not Field," said the invalid; "it's Robert Hammond. And Glyde, or Griffiths, as he called himself when he first came out, is really Arnold Grice, who used to be my uncle's private secretary."

"Yes, I know the story of your uncle's death, and saw the 'Hue and Cry' offering a reward for your arrest," answered Blake. "Then, I take it, Grice traded on your fear of apprehension to make you do his dirty work. 'Pon my soul, he's a very pleasant gentleman!"

"That was it!' cried Bob Hammond. "He gave me money to get away. He told me Australia would be the safest place. I'd no idea he was coming here. Then one day he found me in Sydney. He told me he could give me work up here. Like a fool, I believed him. He got me to that bush inn down by the river, and then threw off all disguise. I was simply potboy and receiver of stolen property. But even then I didn't know about the Roost until a few weeks before I first saw you. That's why I'd never heard of that door in the pass."

"After you and Tracy raided and burnt the bush inn I had to go up to the Roost. It was simply beastly. I had to be camp cook. Glyde treated me worse than a dog. At last I got reckless. I didn't care what happened. I stole a horse and cleared, taking the track across the desert, because I thought they wouldn't be so likely to look for me there. That's how I came to find you and Tinker."

"When that door fell behind us in the pass I knew you'd think I'd let you into a trap on purpose. I swore to myself I'd either get you free or kill Glyde. I managed to escape in the darkness, and hid among the trees. I must tell I knew nothing then of that other pass that Glyde escaped by. I heard the gate blown up, and then the police came pouring in. Presently two of the bushrangers, trying to escape, passed quite close to me where I lay hid. I heard one say to the other, 'The cap'n's killed those two chaps he caught at the gate. it's a hanging job, I'm going to try for the pass out at the back.'"

"Then I knew you were dead, and I swore I'd kill Glyde. I felt pretty sure he'd take this back road, so I followed the two fellows, and hid in the scrub, where you saw me. You know why I failed in my plan. That man that Glyde had tied on to the horse beside him was my elder brother, Maurice Hammond, who left England four years ago."

Bob ceased speaking. Tinker was staring at him in a sort of stupefaction. Blake's forehead was knitted with deep thought. He got up and took Bob's thin hand.

"You've filled up all the gaps nicely, Hammond," he said. "I had already a pretty good idea of your identity, and that of your brother. But I do not know about Glyde. Believe me, you sha'n't be sorry for being open with me. I'll see that you come to no harm. Now, tell me, who do you think murdered your uncle?"

"I'm inclined to agree with you," answered Blake. "Hence his anxiety to get you out of England. It was a pity you went."

"Of course. Well, the next thing to be done is to prove your innocence. And if I had only managed to lay hold of Grice, or Glyde, we could no doubt have made him own up. One more question: What do you think of this?" And he handed Bob the telegram he had just received.

Blake grunted doubtfully. "I think I'll go and see," he remarked quietly. "Hammond, I shall leave you here in charge of Tinker. I leave for England to-night. You'll hear from me soon."

He called Tinker out, gave him money and certain directions, then packed his valise, and in less than an hour was away.

THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER.

ONE morning about six weeks after Bob Hammond had told his story, Mr. Simonds, of the well-known firm of solicitors, Simonds & Clarke, was sitting in his handsome office in Chancery Lane, when the telephone-bell on his table rang, and a clerk called up from below to ask if he would see a gentleman.

Presently the card arrived, enclosed in an envelope, and the two magic words, "Sexton Blake" were enough to gain their owner speedy admittance.

Privately, Mr. Simonds was of the opinion that the detective had proved a costly and useless luxury, but when Blake entered the room the lawyer's greeting was cordial enough. As for Blake, he was quite himself again, and in well-cut tweeds, carefully groomed and shaven, looked a very different man from the burnt and half-starved trooper of six weeks ago.

"Yes; you were quite on the wrong track, Mr. Blake," answered the lawyer, with a slightly sarcastic smile. "Mr. Hammond was not in Australia at all, but in America."

Blake's carefully trained face merely exhibited a polite surprise. All he said was, "It's odd he was so long in replying to the advertisements."

"Ah, he was in a very out-of-the-way place—a rancho up in the mountains of California. He tells me he rarely saw a paper."

At that moment a whirring sound was heard outside the window, which was on the first floor, facing the street. It ceased exactly opposite.

Blake looked out. A handsome electric brougham had just pulled up outside, and a tall man stepped out. Next minute there came a tap at the door.

Blake's heart beat quickly, but outwardly he was as cool as usual. He stepped a little to one side, so that the big roll-topped desk concealed him from the door.

"Come in!" cried Mr. Simonds cordially. And there entered a tall, finely-built man. He was smooth shaven, save for a fair moustache, and his hair was of a reddish gold. He was exquisitely turned out, from the glossy silk hat and perfectly-cut frock-coat to the top of his varnished, patent-leather boots.

For a moment Blake was nonplussed. Was this Callendar? Civilisation and clothes alter a man marvellously.

The beard, too, was gone. When the new-comer answered the lawyer's greeting, his voice, too, was marvellously like that of Dick Callendar. Certainly any man less trained to notice small differences in manner, speech, and gesture would never have doubted his identity. But Blake was not satisfied.

"Mr. Blake, let me present you to the gentleman whom you have so long been looking for. Mr. Hammond, this is Mr. Sexton Blake, the detective. He has been in Australia for several months past, endeavouring to find you."

Maurice Hammond bowed gravely. Not a muscle of his face betrayed the slightest emotion of any kind.

"Very glad to meet you, Mr. Blake. I'm afraid I've given you a lot of unnecessary trouble. It really isn't my fault. I was up at a little uncivilised place called Delgada, in Southern California, where I never saw a paper from one month's end to another. Jolly life, though. Lots of hard work, but lots of sport. I don't know but that I really preferred it to London, with its fog and conventionalities."

"'Pon my soul, you're a cool card, whoever you are!" was Blake's unspoken thought. Aloud, he made some polite reply, and then took up his hat to go.

But Mr. Simonds stopped him. "We have a little business to finish," he said. "All Mr. Hammond wants is a certain deed, which my clerk will give him."

The self-styled Hammond assented, and after a few words more, left. Mr. Simonds took out a cheque-book and politely inquired what he owed Blake. The latter presented his accounts, and took the opportunity of making some cleverly-veiled inquiries as to how Hammond had proved his identity. He learnt that the latter's papers were all in perfect order.

"Of course," added Mr. Simonds, "it is difficult to recognise a man who was a mere boy when one last saw him. But I did so, and so did Mr. Clarke. And both of us can swear to his handwriting."

"Yes, indeed, And it is marvellous how he takes to it. For a man who ran away from home rather than enter his uncle's office, it is extraordinary to see what his business capacities are."

"Ah, America is a good school for that sort of thing," remarked Blake carelessly; and took his leave.

All the rest of the morning he sat in his rooms, running over all his notes of the case, and carefully considering the facts. "I only wish," he muttered at last to himself, "that I could get a chance of making this fellow's better acquaintance, I'd like uncommonly to have a look at the top of his head."

As if in answer to his wish, at that very moment a district messenger boy appeared with a letter. This was how it ran:

If you are not otherwise engaged, I should be glad if you could call on me to-morrow morning at Greenfield Hall. I am anxious to make inquiries as to what has become of my poor brother, Robert. You may remember that he fled the country under suspicion of being concerned in the death of our uncle, the late Mr. Greenfield. Personally, I believe him to be guiltless, and you, if anyone, I feel sure, are the right man to undertake this task. If you will wire me your train, I will have you met at the station.

"Well, I should like to know what his little game is," he muttered at last. "At any rate, I mean to see." He scribbled a telegram:

TO HAMMOND, GREENFIELD HALL. EXPECT ME BY TRAIN ARRIVING GRENDON STATION AT 11.32.—BLAKE."

This he took himself to the office, and at the same time despatched another message, this to Australia.

Then he went to a restaurant, ate a good luncheon, and afterwards took a cab to a little out-of-the-way shop in Soho, where the window was full of second-hand clothes. He went through the shop into a room behind, where a sharp-faced, black-eyed boy met him. After a short talk the boy said: "All right, sir, I understand. I'll be there in good time." Blake handed him some money, and left.

THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER.

IT was only an hour by train to Grendon, the station for Greenfield Hall, and when Blake arrived there he found a small dogcart, with a tall chestnut horse between the shafts, waiting for him. The groom touched his hat, Blake stepped in, and the big horse jumped forward with a spring.

The groom, a young fellow who looked as if he had all his work cut out for him to hold the animal, replied:

"Yes, sir; he's a new one, only came last week, and a fine stepper. Pity he's such a powerful puller; but he'll sober down on Wildrake Hill."

The man was right. The hill, a long and steep one, seemed to take it out of the fiery chestnut, and he jogged peacefully enough up the long slope, between high hedges with beautiful woods behind them, It was a lovely day in late autumn, calm and still and sunny, though with a suspicion of frost in the air, and Blake, in spite of certain ill-defined suspicions in his mind, thoroughly enjoyed the drive.

All the way down he had been wondering what the new owner of Greenfield Hall was up to. If he were in truth Maurice Hammond his letter was natural enough, but if not—and Blake did not for one moment believe that he was the man he pretended to be—this looked like a counsel of desperation. He must know the danger he ran at Blake's hands, and the detective shrewdly suspected that some plot was afoot against him. "I'll be precious careful what I eat and drink inside that house," was Blake's secret resolve; and then, by an effort of will, he dismissed the whole business from his mind and gave himself up to enjoyment of the lovely English surroundings, so different from the gloomy grandeur of the Australian scenery in which he had recently spent so many weary weeks.

They had reached the top of Wildrake Hill, and a magnificent view lay before them. The road dropped into a deep, wide valley, at the bottom of which ran the River Marway, here a tidal stream, a quarter of a mile broad, calm and shining in the sun. It was fringed with heavy woods, which were reflected in its glassy surface, and the road crossed it upon a stone bridge of light and airy appearance.

"There's the Hall, sir," said the groom, pointing to a fine old red-brick building bowered in trees on the far side of the valley, and fronted by long, smooth lawns, which sloped gently to the waterside.

At that moment the toot of a motor-horn was heard, and, glancing back, Blake saw a heavy canopy-covered car which had just topped the hill behind them. It was rapidly catching them up. There was only one person in it—the driver—and he was unrecognisable with his goggles and fur cap and coat.

"Better get a good hold on him," said Blake to the groom, at the same time holding up his hand to warn the motor driver to pull up.

But the latter paid no attention. And as the great mass of machinery came whirring on, the horse made one desperate leap forward and was off at full gallop down the hill.

The groom lay back and pulled with all his might, but it was no earthly use. The beast had the bit well between his teeth, and his driver might as well have pulled on a stone wall. There was nothing for it but to sit tight and trust to luck or good steering.

How the tall cart rocked! The gravel flew in showers and the hedges flew by at a positively frightful speed. They neared the bottom of the hill with appalling rapidity.

Then Blake saw—what had been hidden before by trees—that the road and bridge were not exactly in a straight line. The road curved quite sharply to the right on to the bridge. He realised that it would take the nicest possible steering to escape an accident, and wished devoutly that the reins were in his own hands. But it was too late to change now. He must trust to the groom.

Near the bottom the hill was steepest. The pace became terrific. The horse galloped as hard as he could lay legs to the ground. Each second Blake expected the wheel to mount one bank or the other, but more by good luck than good management they escaped.

Now the water was gleaming almost beneath them. It lay a long way below the bridge. Blake saw the groom, whose face was white and set with terror, yet who kept his wits to some extent, shorten his grip on the right-hand rein and give a violent wrench.

Too violent! With a loud crack the rein parted in the middle. Blake saw that all hope of averting a catastrophe was gone; and as the horse raced straight for the head of the bridge he flung the rag off his knees and stood up. Utterly maddened with fright, the horse tore straight on to the bridge and drove with an appalling crash into the left-hand rail, which broke and smashed under the force of the impact. At the same instant Blake, seeing that his only chance for life was to clear the wreck, made one vigorous leap out of the cart right over the parapet, and, shooting downwards with the skill of a practised diver, struck deep water, and vanished with a slight splash.

Next second, cart and horse together, with a twisted mass of broken parapet, came whirling through the air and plunged into the river only a yard or two behind him.

Sexton Blake leapt out of the cart right over the parapet. Next
moment cart and horse together came whirling through the air
and pliunged into the river only a yard or two behind him.

The driver, too, had jumped, but on the other side, and, falling heavily on the hard roadway, lay there stunned. A moment later up shot the motor and stopped abruptly at the entrance to the bridge. A man sprang out. It was the owner of the Hall. Oddly enough, instead of at once attending to the prostrate driver, he rushed to the left-hand rail, and stared over into the river with glaring eyes.

Seconds passed. The ripples died away. The horse and cart both had gone to the bottom. But where was Blake? There was not a sign of him, and the tidal current rippled gently past the bridge piers with never a sign of life on its placid surface.

The man was only stunned, and soon came to himself. His master helped him into the motor, and they drove away together in the direction of the Hall.

The car was hardly out of sight among the trees on the far side of the river when a dripping figure emerged from the water among the piles which protected the land-ward pier of the bridge, and, climbing quickly up, gained the bank. He clambered quietly up the grassy slope and entered the trees, where he took off his soaked coat and wrung it out. It was Sexton Blake, quite unhurt, and with an odd smile on his keen face.

"I thought as much," he muttered. "It was a clever scheme. A scary horse, a motor—pure accident, of course. My friend, you've overreached yourself this time. The trick's mine. You think I'm dead, and that's just what I wanted."

He walked to the hedge and peered through. Ah, here came a sharp-faced boy down the hill, carrying a small hand-bag. Blake gave a low whistle, The boy answered, and, slipping through the hedge like an eel, handed the bag to Blake.

A few minutes later an elderly labourer, with a grey beard and bent with rheumatism, emerged into the road and took his way across the bridge in the direction of Greenfield Hall.

THE TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER.

A TALL figure, in a long macintosh, strode along a road in the late dusk of a winter evening. His collar was turned up over his ears, big cap pulled down over his eyes, and every now and then he glanced from side to side with quick suspicion. But in spite of the keenness of his glances, he never saw a figure which shadowed him with marvellous skill, now trotting sharply, bent double behind a hedge, and again taking advantage of a curve in the road to cut across the sticky surface of a ploughed field.

The agility of the second man was marvellous, for to all outward appearance he was an elderly labourer, dressed in corduroys, heavy boots, and with a battered wide-awake hat on his grizzled head.

It was blowing hard, and the keen wind brought sharp gusts of cold rain, which grew heavier and more frequent as darkness settled over the lonely scene.

The road went trailing up the side of a tall, chalk down, and presently hedges were left behind and the full force of the storm swept fiercely in the faces of the travellers. But still the tall man kept on at a steady pace, never faltering even for the fiercest squalls, while his pursuer, taking advantage of the gathering darkness, came gradually nearer. So they reached the top of the hill, and there the wind was so strong that number one was forced to put his head down and lean all his weight against the gale. Somewhere, far down in the dark valley below, a single star of light shone steadily, and suddenly, turning off the main road, the man in the macintosh struck into a rough cart track, which seemed to lead straight towards the light.

Another mile, and he came to a rough wall of flints which surrounded a good-sized building, apparently a farm. He passed through a broken gate, up a weed-grown path, and tapped sharply at a door. The labourer arrived at the gate just as the door opened, and saw the tall man pass inside, and the door closed at once behind him.

"No dog, that's one comfort," muttered the labourer; and, lightly leaping over the wall, he began a cautious tour round the building. It was now quite dark, and a curtain had been drawn over the lighted window. The ground was littered with stones and rubbish, and the labourer, otherwise Sexton Blake, stumbled once or twice.

It was a ramshackle, ruinous sort of place, but Blake very soon found out that the back door was locked and all the ground-floor windows securely fastened. Some of them were boarded up. He came round to the front window, where the light had been, and put his head close to it. From inside came a faint murmur of voices, but the moaning of the wind and the lash of the rain on the roof drowned the sounds so that he could not distinguish a single word. Only one thing he made out—that one voice, quite a strange one to him, was occasionally raised in tones of expostulation.

It seemed a hopeless task to do so without being heard. But it took a good deal to stop the detective when he had once made up his mind, and, after a moment's thought, he turned towards the farm buildings, which lay at the far end of the walled enclosure. By the aid of a pocket electric torch, which he always carried, he found his way into a large barn, and a gleam of delight flashed in his eyes as he caught sight of a ladder hung against the wall on staples.

He tried to lift it, but it was far too heavy for one man to tackle single-handed. But this did not discourage Blake. Out came a big pocket-knife with a saw in it, and in a very few minutes he had cut off the lower ten feet. The other part, which was only about twelve feet long, he carried easily, and shortly had it leaning against the back of the house, with its top close below a window.

Ah, this was better! This window was only fastened with an ordinary catch, which yielded in a few seconds to Blake's clever manipulation. The casement swung open, and the detective stepped inside. The rotten boards creaked beneath his weight.

He flashed his torch, and by its light saw that he was in a bare, ruinous room, Not a stick of furniture, the plaster sealing from the walls, and the rotten boards of the floor deep in dust. He crept cautiously over to the door, opened it, and found himself on a landing. Several doors opened on to this landing, and at the far end was the head of the stairs, the hum of voices below, but not what they were saying. He paused, wondering what was best to do.

Blake had been hanging about the neighbourhood of Greenfield Hall for several weeks in various disguises; but he had been forced to confess that up to the present he had got no nearer to the object of his search. The sham Hammond had given him no clue to work on, though he had shadowed him with unwearying steadiness. To all appearance the new owner of the Hall was a model country gentleman and business man. He went to town three days a week and attended to business, and on the other days shot and hunted.

He seemed to have no suspicious acquaintances, and as the days passed Blake had felt more and more puzzled. Yet he never wavered in his conviction that the tenant of Greenfield Hall was a mere pretender, although he had to confess that he had never seen a man play the game more cleverly.

The question was, what had become of Dick Callendar? And it was Blake's conviction that the key to this mystery was in the hands of the sham Maurice Hammond. It was a peculiarity of Blake that, once he had taken up a case he never abandoned it until he had solved it to his own satisfaction—and that quite irrespective of whether his employers were satisfied or not. In the present case, he was the more keen to straighten out the tangle because Maurice Hammond once, and Bob twice, had saved the lives of himself and Tinker.

Blake had just made up his mind to take the risk and go down the stairs, when a slight sound in the room immediately in front of the one he had come out of attracted his attention. He went nearer, and listened at the keyhole. A low groan broke on his ears.

Out came that marvellous knife, and presently the screws of the lock were loosened, and the detective softly opened the door and peered in.

Out of the darkness came another groan. Blake hesitated no longer. He passed in, closed the door, and flashed his torch, The room was small, filthily dirty, and the window heavily barred. The only furniture was a chair and a truckle-bed. On the latter was stretched a human figure, motionless, breathing heavily, and at times uttering the low groan which had first attracted Blake's attention.

The detective went nearer, and held the light close to the man's face, Then he started back with a muffled exclamation of extreme surprise. He took a second glance. Yes, there was no doubt about it. This poor, living skeleton was no other than Dick Callendar, the real Maurice Hammond.

But how came he in this terrible state? Was it illness, or—Blake rapidly examined the unfortunate man, who showed no signs of consciousness.

"I thought as much," he muttered grimly, "Drugged! It's that Australian stramonium. They've kept him under it for months, no doubt."

The question was, what to do next. It was quite plain that, single-handed, he could not get the fellow away, for he could not walk. Blake tried him with a little brandy, but it was no good. It went to his heart to leave him at the mercy of these scoundrels for ever so short a time; but there was nothing else for it. They might come up at any minute, and if they found him there, and realised that their secret was a secret no longer, neither his life nor Callendar's would be worth a minute's purchase.

So, leaving Callendar where he lay, Blake turned back towards the door. At that very instant the door was flung suddenly open, and a burly man, with the most villainous-looking face that Blake had ever seen in his life, strode in.

THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER.

FOR a second the new-comer stared in stupid surprise. Then he made a grab at something in his pocket—a pistol, no doubt. That moment's hesitation lost him his chance. Blake was on him like a thunderbolt, and, seizing him by both shoulders, flung him aside with such force that he fell with a crash against the wall, the candle which he carried going out in the fall. Leaping over him, Blake darted back across the landing and into the room by the window of which he had entered.

As he closed the door he heard a volley of furious oaths, as the man picked himself up; and then a shout: "Hammond, 'ere, quick!"

Blake could have chuckled as he opened the window. If there were only those two in the house, he was now quite safe. He stepped out on to the ladder into the wind and rain, ran down it with the speed of a lamp-lighter, and, as he sprang to the ground, was suddenly gripped by a pair of powerful arms, which closed round his body like a vice.

And the voice was strangely familiar in Blake's ears. He knew that if the farmer got there before he could get free he was done for, and he struggled with all his force to break away. With a clever dodge, he succeeded in tripping his captor; but the man kept his hold, and, locked in one another's arms, the two rolled over and over in the mud of the neglected garden. Blake had a pistol, but he could not reach it, for his arms were pinned to his sides.

He saw a light come flashing round the corner of the house, and made a last desperate effort. He was fighting for dear life, and he knew it. But the other was a far bigger man than he, and held him in a grasp of iron.

"Quick, hit him on the head!" he heard the man yell. "I can't hold him much longer!"

He saw a stick flung up, there was a crack, stars flashed before his eyes, and he knew no more.

* * * * *

WHEN Blake came to himself again he was lying on the floor of the barn where he had found the ladder, and voices came dimly to his stunned senses.

Blake restrained the impulse to move, and remained lying quite still, with his eyes shut. His face was stiff with mud and dried blood, and his head was aching savagely. But he was his own man again, watchful, ready to snatch the slenderest chance of saving himself.

"You fool, what's turned you so squeamish?" retorted the other savagely. "We've got to get him out of the way—that's flat!"

"I don't deny it," returned Gubbins. "All I say is, I won't have him killed here!"

"What do you propose?" answered the big man, in tones of concentrated fury. "Do you want me to take him back to the Hall and butcher him there?"

"I don't care what you do," answered the farmer obstinately. "Do the job any way as pleases you, only not here!"

"Who'll be the wiser? The longer we go messing about the more risk there is. Why not knock him on the head now, and bury him in the ploughed field? You can run the harrow over it in the morning."

Blake could hardly restrain a shiver—not of fright, but of rage at the cold-blooded talk of the brute. But he knew his only chance was to play 'possum, and he did it to perfection. Both of the ruffians supposed him still insensible.

"Look here, I'll put the horse in, and we'll cart him out to the old chalk quarry on Merripit Down. Shove him over the edge, and I'll warrant he won't give any more trouble. It's a lonely spot, and if anyone does find him, why, it'll be 'accidental death.'"

Blake hoped that now he would get his chance; but the big man never left him, and he was forced to go on shamming dead.

At last the horse and cart were brought round. Blake's limp body was flung in behind, and the vehicle creaked and groaned away through the rain and darkness, After a bit it turned off the road up a hill. The big man swore at the weather and the darkness the whole time.

"Here we are!" said Gubbins at last. "We won't take the cart right up; we'll carry him the last bit."

As the cart stopped, Blake took one long breath, and made a leap for life. Alas for him, the tailboard was higher than he had thought! He caught his toe in it, and came smash on his face on the soaking turf.

He heard a yell of surprise and rage, and then, before he could gain his feet, the big man was on top of him.

Blake fought like a fury, and, doubling himself up, kicked out with all his might. One foot caught the big man in the stomach, and he rolled over; but he still held Blake by one arm.

And, before the detective could jerk himself free, the other brute had hold of him.

And as he spoke he kicked at Blake with all the force he was capable of. But in the darkness he missed his aim, and his foot only grazed Blake's side.

Gubbins growled: "Don't waste time. And make less noise; someone may hear. Catch hold!"

Blake, breathless and exhausted with the terrible fight, felt Gubbins seize his legs, and the other his shoulders. They lifted him and hurried forward.

"You fool!" muttered Gubbins. "Look out, or you'll be over the edge! Now then, one swing!"

Even in that awful moment, hanging over the edge of that black gulf, Blake did not lose his head. He knew that he was doomed, but he vowed to himself that one of his murderers should go with him. As they swung him, he grabbed fiercely at the big man's coat-sleeve. Before the latter could cry out, the swing was ended, and Gubbins had let go. Blake shot forward, his weight came on the other; there was one ghastly shriek, and he and his murderer went over the edge together.

Gubbins, left alone on the top of the great chalk cliff, was so appalled by the sudden catastrophe to his accomplice that for a moment he stood quite motionless. Then, as power of thought came back, he realised what this meant to him. For weeks he had been living on the money paid him for keeping Callendar. Now all this was at an end. Worse; though a mere labourer—for that was what he considered Sexton Blake—might disappear without question, it was different with the owner of Greenfield. There would be a terrible outcry. He must be brought into it. Instantly he made up his mind to go down and see what had happened.

To the left he knew the descent was easy. First tying the horse to a bush, he began to climb down, and soon reached the bottom in safety, and crept along under the bushes which grew thick at the bottom of the long-deserted quarry.

It was pitchy dark, and he could not tell where he was. At all costs, he must have a light. It was calm down here out of the wind, and surely it would be safe, for he was far below the level of the downs, and on such a wild night, and in so lonely a spot there was no risk of being seen. He crouched beneath a bush, and, striking a match, held it in the hollow of his hands till it burnt up.

The faint glimmer flickered on white lumps of chalk and the withered leaves of hazel and blackberry. It showed, too, a dark mass a few feet in front of him. Gubbins took two steps forward and held the tiny flame over the object. It was the body of his companion in crime. The eyes were shut, and the white face seamed with a ghastly cut, which ran from eye to lip, and from which the blood was still welling.

Gubbins shook him by the shoulder. "Hammond, are you alive?" he muttered, in the man's ear.

As he spoke, a great jagged lump of flint hurtled down from above, and, catching Gubbins fairly between the shoulders, stretched him flat on the body of his accomplice.

* * * * *

SOME minutes passed, and then there was a flicker of light on the rugged face of the chalk some way above, and a man came clambering slowly and stiffly down. With great pain and difficulty he reached the bottom, and stood over the two bodies.

It was the elderly labourer, otherwise Sexton Blake, who, by a sort of miracle, had escaped the fate which had overtaken his would-be murderers. The fact was that in the darkness Gubbins had mistaken his ground, and instead of taking his prisoner to a point where the quarry side dropped sheer, had stopped short of that spot, and flung Blake over where the bank was not quite perpendicular, and was, into the bargain, thickly covered with brush.

By a happy chance, Blake had dropped square across a fair-sized young ash-tree, the springy stem of which had bounced him back, at the same time tearing Hammond from his hold. From the ash-tree Blake had rolled rather than fallen into a regular thicket of holly and bramble-bushes, where he had stuck fast, without injury of any kind except many scratches and loss of breath.

This clump of holly grew on a ledge some twelve or fourteen feet from the bottom, and Blake, crawling quietly out of the tangle, had emerged safely on this edge, where, not knowing how far he was from the bottom, or what Gubbins was doing, he had remained. Presently he had heard Gubbins's heavy steps beneath him, and then seen him strike a light and bend over the sham Hammond's body.

This had given him his chance. He knew that in his weak state he was no match for the burly farmer, so, making up his mind with his usual lightning rapidity, he had picked up a handy flint, and, with this deadly missile, finished off his other enemy.

Neither of the men were dead. That Blake saw in a moment. Gubbins, indeed, was only stunned by the spinal shock. So the detective's first care was to tie the farmer up so securely that he could not move hand or foot.

His next proceeding was an odd one. He took Hammond by the hair and pulled sharply. Off came a most perfectly built fair wig, disclosing a crown covered close with short-shaven black hair, and seamed from side to side with a long, bare, white scar.

"Captain Glyde, otherwise Arnold Grice, your day is done!" he said slowly. Then he set to work and staunched the awful cut on the man's face, and tied up the wound.

Leaving the bodies where they lay, he climbed back up the opposite bank and made for where the cart was still standing.

THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER.

TWO men sat before the fire in the luxurious smoking-room at Greenfield Hall. They were Sexton Blake and Maurice Hammond. Not the sham Hammond, but the man whom Blake had known in Australia as Dick Callendar the squatter, owner of Taroomba. He was thin and pale, a mere shadow of his former burly self; but his eyes were clear, and he was fast recovering from the awful effects of the abominable drug under which he had been suffering when Blake found him in the lonely farmhouse. He had just come home from London, where he had been undergoing treatment.

"There's nothing to thank me for. You saved my life in the first place, and, in the second, you've paid me very well. What I want to know is what happened when Grice rode off with you from the Roost."

"He took me to a cave in the hills," replied Maurice. "There I lay down and was so fagged out that I went to sleep at once. Then I fancy he must have drugged me, for after that everything is very vague and indistinct. I have some recollection of travelling in a train in queer sort of clothes—I think they must have been a parson's—and then of a long sea voyage, on my back all the time in a bunk."

"Ah, just so!" put in Blake. "I have since found that a man answering Grice's description brought an invalid home three months ago on the Serapis."

"Sometimes," went on Maurice, "he would come into the cabin and make me sit up and write to his dictation, I didn't seem able to help myself."

"No, you couldn't. That's one of the effects of that Australian stramonium. It causes complete loss of will power."

"After that I remember less than ever," said Maurice. "I think I must have been taken straight to that house where you found me. I should have been dead," he added, with some emotion, "if you hadn't tracked me."

"The whole thing is pretty clear now," replied Blake. "At first I wondered that Grice hadn't finished you off when he had the chance. I believe he sent back two of his men to do so when you chased his gang across the desert. But, then, it must have occurred to him that, though he had all your papers which he stole from Taroomba, he could not hope to personate you successfully unless he got your signature to certain necessary documents. Also, no doubt, he wished to study your peculiarities of manner and speech. Certainly he was as clever a scoundrel as ever I had to do with. Upon my word, he almost deceived me when I first met him in Simonds & Clarke's office."

"No; the fall has brought on paralysis. He is in the prison infirmary, and there he will remain until he dies. He can't live many weeks. As for Gubbins, he's safe in Dartmoor for the next ten years."

"And I'm here safe and sound, and owner of all this lovely place," said Maurice thoughtfully. "If it wasn't for poor Bob I should be quite happy."

"Supposing we write and tell your brother to come home?" suggested the detective quietly.

"I'm sure he didn't." As he spoke, there was a ring at the front door bell. "Hallo, who's that?" continued Maurice, in surprise. It was past ten at night, a queer time for callers.

"Wait, and I'll see," said Blake, leaving the room. Next minute he was back, and with him came two young men, muffled in heavy overcoats.

The elder Hammond jumped from his seat, an expression of absolute consternation on his face.

"Just so," replied the detective. "I cabled to Tinker to bring your brother here."

"Don't excite yourself, my dear fellow!" said Blake. "It will be all right, I promise you. That interesting scoundrel Grice was not quite so clever as he thought himself. It was he, Maurice, who murdered your uncle. He killed him because he caught him rifling his safe. Among the plunder were a number of banknotes. Of the numbers of these there were, fortunately, two memoranda. One was in the safe. That Grice took, and thought himself safe. But the other was in your uncle's desk. Through this, Scotland Yard traced several of the notes, and if Grice had not escaped when he did he would have been arrested for stealing them. Your brother, therefore, is perfectly safe."

"Blake, you're a wonder!' he exclaimed. "Now, Bob, you must be starving. You and Tinker come and have some supper."

All four trooped into the dining-room, where a cold meal was speedily brought in. It was a most festive occasion, and even Pedro the bloodhound, cracking a large bone under the table, plainly enjoyed himself. Nor was it the last that Blake and Tinker enjoyed at Maurice Hammond's hospitable table. There are no more welcome guests at Greenfield Hall than the detective and his clever young assistant.

THE END

ANONYMOUS (T.C. BRIDGES)

SEXTON BLAKE IN AUSTRALIA

STIRRING TALE OF THRILLING ADVENTURE

TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE FIRST CHAPTER.

THE SECOND CHAPTER.

THE THIRD CHAPTER.

THE FOURTH CHAPTER.

THE FIFTH CHAPTER.

THE SIXTH CHAPTER.

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER.

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER.

THE NINTH CHAPTER.

THE TENTH CHAPTER.

THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER.

THE TWELFTH CHAPTER.

THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER.

THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER.

THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER.

* * * * *

THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER.

THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER.

THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER.

THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER.

THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER.

THE TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER.

THE TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER.

THE TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER.

THE END

ANONYMOUS
(T.C. BRIDGES)