“Do you think a man might have made his way through that hole before you broke the edges down?” he asked Harry.
“Well, yes, with some crowding I think he might’ve.”
“Yet the boy said he had to squeeze his way through. Did you notice if the opening had been enlarged recently? Were there indications of recent breakages?”
“Yes, the stone had been broken in places. I s’posed the boys did that.”
“Perhaps. Here, Dick.”
Dick was quite sure neither he nor any of his mates had increased the opening. They kept it small because it was easier to hide; besides, he said, it was more fun having to squeeze through.
“Which of your mates took that bag?” asked Downy sharply.
“None of ’em.”
“Why are you so positive?”
“’Cause I know they wouldn’t be game.”
“Afraid of the darkness or the mine?”
“No, afraid o’ me.” Dick squared his shoulders manfully.
“Get out—why should they be afraid of you?”
“Wasn’t I legal an’ minin’ manager an’ chairman o’ the directors? If one did what I told him not to he’d get the sack an’ a lickin’, too.”
“Oh, he would, eh? Well, you’d better give me their names anyhow. And now,” he continued after jotting down the names of the shareholders of the Mount of Gold, “show me the track you took when you dragged the hide bag through the quarry.”
Dick went back over his tracks, and Downy followed slowly on hands and knees, rescuing a hair or two from the edges of the rock or from a bramble here and there.
“Fortunately that bag of yours shed its hair freely, old man,” he said. “here’s corroborative evidence anyhow. The bag went down all right—now let’s see what proof there is that it came up again.”
He returned to the hole in the rock and commenced another search, with his nose very close to the ground, moving slowly, and peering diligently into every little cranny amongst the stones. At length, after travelling about ten yards in the direction of the spring in this fashion, be called sharply:
“Hi, Dick What were you doing with that bag here?”
“Never had it nowhere near here,” answered Dick.
“Come, recollect; you put it down for a spell.” “Didn’t,” said Dick. “Went straight along the side, an’ dropped it into the shaft.”
“But look—there’s hair on the top of this rock and a tuft on the corner. Mustn’t tell me a cow would roost there, my lad.”
“Don’t care—’twasn’t me.”
Downy sat on the rock for a moment in a brown study, and the crowd, which had made itself comfortable in one end of the quarry and up one side, sat in awed silence, watching him closely, like a theatre audience waiting for some wonder-worker to perform his feats of magic.
The detective did nothing astonishing. After collecting a portion of the hair he deposited it carefully in his pocket-book, deposited the book just as carefully in his breast-pocket, and then climbed out of the quarry and marched away towards the township; and the crowd, relieved from the restraint imposed by the law as personified in him, gathered about the stone and examined it wisely, discovering a much longer and more significant sermon in it than Downy had ever suspected, and finding marrow-freezing suggestiveness in the marks of rust upon the face of the rock, which were declared by common consent to be bloodstains. Waddy confidently expected the gold-stealing case to culminate in the discovery of a particularly atrocious murder, and Ephraim Shine was selected as the probable victim. It was held by many that so good a man as the superintendent had seemed to be could not reasonably be suspected of consorting with a sinner like Joe Rogers with criminal intentions, and the idea that he had been murdered by the real thieves under peculiarly shocking circumstances was held to be more feasible, and was, in addition to that, highly satisfactory from a dramatic point of view.
The investigations of the people stopped short at the entrance to the shaft, where Peterson mounted guard and warned them off in the name of the law, and meanwhile Hardy and McKnight were pegging out the land preparatory to applying for a lease.
Downy went straight from the quarry to Shine’s house, and, much to his surprise, found the missing man’s daughter there. Christina had altered much during the last few hours: her face was now quite colourless, grief had robbed it of its sweet simplicity, and the buoyant ingenuousness had fled from her eyes. A new character was legible there, a strength of will more in keeping with her fine presence. The almost childlike sympathy was gone, and in its place was a trace of suffering and evidence of the deeper forces of her nature. The detective eyed her keenly, with surprise and interest, and saluted her in his most respectful manner.
“You have had the—eh, misfortune to meet me before, Miss Shine,” he said.
Christina merely bowed her head.
“I am Detective Downy. I have a warrant for the arrest of Ephraim Shine. I wish to search the house.”
“Yes,” said the girl quietly, and stepped from the door to make way for him.
Downy entered and commenced his search at once. He examined the whole place minutely, foolishly it seemed to Christina, who stood by the door apparently impassive but following all his movements with her eyes. He was particularly careful in overhauling a coat that her father had worn, and having gone through the three rooms he walked out and round the house. There was no place near where a man might hide but in the tank, and that was full of water, as he cautiously noted. He faced Christina for a moment, as if with the intention of questioning her, but changed his mind, wished her “Good day,” and moved off.
Up to six o’clock next day nothing had been heard of Shine; he had disappeared in a most astonishing manner. The police of the whole country were alert to capture him, and it was thought that escape for him was impossible, if only on account of his physical peculiarities, which should have made him a marked man anywhere in Victoria or in either of the neighbouring provinces. Sergeant Monk and several troopers were stationed at Waddy, and were kept busy hunting in the old mines and all the nooks and corners of the district. Harry Hardy joined in the hunt throughout Tuesday. He had a feverish desire for employment—occupation for his mind which, in spite of the efforts he made to dwell upon the villainies of Ephraim Shine and the wrong he had done Frank, and the good reasons he had to hate him, would revert again and again to Christina; and then a wish, a cowardly wish, traitorous to his brother, cruel to his mother, and false to himself, stole into his heart, and he felt for one burning moment a hope that the searcher might escape for her sake, for the sake of sweet Chris, whose victory over him he acknowledged and nursed in secret with a wealth of feeling that amazed him, with a passion he had never dreamed himself capable of. He fought this wish furiously, as if it had been a tangible thing: grappling with it, choking it in his heart, and stirring up in his soul a wilder hatred for his enemy.
Harry saw Chris for a moment on the morning after the arrest of Joe Rogers; the change in her startled him, his love flamed up, and pity tore at his heart strings. His triumph must mean suffering and shame for her. Had he stood alone he would ten thousand times rather have borne what misfortune might have fallen to his lot than see her shamed and sorrowing. It was thoughts like these that rose up to make him his brother’s enemy, and they were conquered in sweat and agony; and since his loyalty to his own kin could only be maintained at a fever heat, he stood forth as the most bitter and implacable foe of Ephraim Shine.
Coming from Mrs. Hardy’s gate on that night at about nine o’clock, Dick Haddon collided with a breathless boy running at top speed in the direction of the Drovers’ Arms, and the two went down together. When Dick had quite recovered he recognised the other, whom he had gripped with ’vengeful intentions, as Billy Peterson.
“Lemme go,” cried Billy. “Quick, can’t yer! I’m goin’ fer the troopers.”
“Who for?” asked Dick, hanging to his friend.
“Find out.”
“Oh, right you are; but you won’t go, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m goin’ to tell ’em that Tinribs is up at his house.”
“How d’yer know?”
“I was sneakin’ round to get a shot at a cat, an’ I heard ’em. Lemme go ’r he’ll be gone, you fool.”
“Won’t,” said Dick, masterfully. “You ain’t goin’.”
“Who’ll stop me?”
“I will.”
“’Tain’t in yer.”
A struggle commenced between the boys and rapidly merged into a stand-up fight. When Harry Hardy appeared on the scene, attracted by their cries, he found the combatants locked in a fierce embrace, each clinging desperately to a handful of the other’s hair and hammering vigorously at his opponent’s ribs. Harry pulled them apart as if they had been terriers.
“Here, here, what’s all this about?” he cried.
“Dick stopped me goin’ fer the troopers,” said Billy indignantly.
“The troopers?”
“Yes, fer Mr. Shine. He’s up in his house. I heard him—he was talkin’ to Miss Chris in the dark.”
“Stop!” said Harry; but Billy, who had broken away, picked up his heels and ran.
Harry did not linger, but turned and sped off to wards Shine’s home, leaving Dick cowering against the fence. The young man had no defined intention—he did not know what he should do if he found Shine in the house. His divided interests left his mind confused at the crucial moment, but he did not relax his speed until he was within a few yards of the searcher’s door. Then, to his astonishment, he found lights burning in the house, and Christina confronted him in the doorway as he was about to enter. He drew back a step and his eyes sought the ground. He stood panting and speechless.
“What do you want, Harry?” she asked.
Had she been bitter or angry it might have been easier for him, but her voice was low and kindly, and he was abashed. He was compelled to force himself to his purpose, as he might have pushed a backing horse at a stiff fence.
“I want your father. He is here.” His voice was harsh and strained.
“My father is not in here.”
“He has been seen. Let me pass.”
“No, Harry, you have no right.” She barred the way, tall and calm and strong.
“No right? No right to take the man who has gaoled my brother—who would have murdered me?” His blood had mounted to his head; he had put aside his love as something that tempted him to evil, put it aside by an almost heroic effort of renunciation. “I will have him,” he cried; “the would-be murderer, the thief.”
“No,” said Christina firmly facing him.
“Then he’s here—he is here?
“No.”
“You lie thinking to save him, but the troopers are coming.” He pointed back into the night. From where he stood the back door was visible, and he watched it intently.
“The troopers are the officers of the law. I can not deny them, you I can. Harry, you are fierce and cruel—fierce and unforgiving.” The reproach was not spoken fretfully; it was quite dispassionate, but it struck him like a blow and he bent before it, conscious of its injustice but not daring to deny it. They remained so in silence for a few minutes, and then heard the rush of the troopers” horses coming up the grass-grown back road at a gallop.
“They’re coming,” said Harry in a low voice.
Christina neither stirred nor spoke, and Monk at the head of four horsemen swept up to the house.
“To the front, Donovan and Keel,” cried Monk. “He may make for cover in those quarries if he bolts.
“Casey, stay here. Managan, follow me.”
He dropped from his horse and led the animal to Harry, to whom he threw the rein. Christina did not attempt to bar his passage, and he and Managan passed into the house. Chris stood by the door jamb, facing Harry, erect and pale; Harry leant against the big galvanised-iron tank, absently fondling the head of the trooper’s horse. Suddenly, a moment after the troopers had entered the house, he heard right at his elbow the sound of something striking upon the iron of the tank inside. He started forward with a low cry, and his eyes flew to the face of the girl. She, too, had heard the sound, and their eyes met. The terror in hers told him that he had discovered the truth.
“He’s there,” he whispered.
Christina staggered back, supporting herself against the wall, and fell into a seat under the window, the light from which streamed upon her fair hair and illumined her as she sat, crushed by her misery into an attitude of profound despair, her head bowed upon her breast, her clasped hands thrust out rigidly be yond her knees.
Harry stood silent and motionless, his eyes fixed upon the grief-stricken figure of the girl, his brain in a tumult. His heart was driving him to forget everything but that he loved her, to take her in his arms and swear to shield her and cherish her, come what might. At this moment Sergeant Monk came from the house.
“Not a sign of him,” he said. “Did you see any thing of him, Hardy?
“Not a glimpse,” answered Harry mechanically.
“Did you go inside?”
“No; Miss Shine refused admittance.”
“Why are you here, miss?” asked Monk, turning sharply to Christina.
“I am here because it is my home,” she answered unsteadily.
“But don’t you live with the Summers family?”
“People may not care to shelter the daughter of—of one suspected of robbery and almost murder.” The girl’s head sank lower still and a convulsive sob shook her frame; but she controlled herself with a brave effort of will and sat immovable.
Monk’s horse was nosing in the bucket under the tap of the tank, and Harry stooped and turned the tap. The water ran swiftly, filling the bucket in a few seconds. While the horse drank the sergeant gave whispered orders to Casey; and Christina, with steadfast eyes and locked fingers, sat waiting for Harry to speak the dreaded words, wondering at his silence. Monk moved round the house, peering into all the corners, and came to the tank again. It stood on a small platform raised on four uprights, and all was open underneath. The sergeant examined it. He climbed to the top, removed the lid and, striking a light, looked in. The tank was full of water.
“I am going to hunt over the quarries,” said the trooper in a low voice, as he mounted. “Donovan and Keel are taking a run in the paddock, Casey will try the houses about here. You might keep your eyes open, Hardy. Perhaps that boy was mistaken, but we mustn’t miss a chance.”
Harry nodded, scarcely comprehending what the man said, and Monk rode off leaving the two alone. For a minute or more they continued in the same position; then Harry stole to Chris, and kneeling in the shadow by her side took her hand firmly in his.
“He is there,” he whispered.
“What are you going to do?” she added in a strange voice.
“Why don’t you get him away?”
“Away?” she murmured vaguely.
“Yes, yes; I will help you.” His left arm clasped her closely, and his breath was on her cheek.
She turned her face towards him, and there was a new hope in it, another spirit in her glorious eyes.
“You are not going to give him up.”
“I can’t—I can’t do it!”
“Thank God!” she murmured, and there was some thing more than relief for her father’s sake in her tone. He had made a revelation that filled her with a passion of joy which for a moment drove out the fears and anxieties that had possessed her heart.
“I love you—I love you, dear,” he continued in a voice ardent, caressing; “an’ I can’t bear to see you suffer.”
She let her face sink to his and kissed him on the mouth, and he clasped her to his breast and held her, repeating again and again expressions of his devotion that love made eloquent. Her pale face turned to him seemed luminous with the ecstacy of the moment. For a brief sweet minute she abandoned herself to that ecstacy and forgot everything beside.
“I have always loved you, my darling! my darling!” she whispered—“always. That night at the gate I thought you cared and I was happy, but afterwards I was afraid. I thought you might hate me for his sake, and I was wretched.”
“I did try to, Chris—I tried to hate you. I was a fool. I couldn’t do anything but love in spite of myself, an’ now I’ll help you, dear.”
“No, no, no, Harry; no—you must not!” She put him from her with her strong arms. “It is wrong. I cannot let you. It is right that I should fight for him—he is my father. He has been a good father to me, and I have loved him and believed in him. It is my duty to fight for him, but you must not, my dear love. In you it would be a wrong, a crime.”
“He is your father—I love you!”
“Yes, yes, and oh, I am glad you love me; but you must leave me to do what I can alone. It is not your duty to help him. Think of your mother, your brother, your own honour.”
“We can save Frank now without this.”
“You cannot be sure of that, Harry—you only hope so.”
“Am I to tell the troopers, then?”
“No, no—oh, no; I am not brave enough to say that! I cannot bear to think of you as his hunter, his bitterest foe. ’Twas that thought made my shame and my sorrow so terrible a burden; but I can carry it better now.”
“My poor girl! my poor girl!”
He bent his lips to the white hand upon his shoulder and kissed it tenderly.
“God bless you, Harry!” she faltered, tears springing to her eyes. “I know how generous you are. As a boy you had a big brave heart, and I admired you and loved you for it; but I can take no sacrifice that might bring more sorrow upon your mother, that might wrong your brother and bring shame to you.”
“But Frank’s innocence will be known. Dickie Haddon heard them as good as admit it.”
“Yes, I know the story. I made Mrs. Haddon tell me all, and I know that they left you to drown; and now for my sake you would save him, run the risk of being discovered assisting him to escape from justice—and the risk is great, dear. Think what it would mean if that became known, how it would blacken poor Frank’s case. People would say they had all been in league to rob the mine; you would be despised, your mother’s heart would break. Harry, that must not be. The shame is mine now; you and yours have borne enough. I cannot drag you into it again. I cannot have your precious love for me made a source of danger and dishonour to you. No, no; I love you too well for that—much too well for that, dear.”
She spoke in little more than a whisper, but there was the intensity of deep feeling in every word.
He drew her to her feet and into his arms again with tender reverence, and softly kissed her tired eyelids. She was only a girl, and the strife of the last two days had told upon her strength. It was sweet to rest so, knowing and feeling his strength, confident of his devotion.
“But I love you—I love you, Chris,” he said.
“Yes, you love me and I love you.” Her hand stole to his neck. “Ah, how happy we might have been!
“Might have been? We must be happy—we must!” he said vehemently. “I love you, an’ your sorrow is mine, your trouble is mine. I won’t let anything interfere. I must help you!”
“No, Harry, I will not take your help. You do not stand alone. Before I would have you do that I would tell the truth myself. My father is ill; he may never get away. I think he will not. What would be left to me if he were taken after all, and you were known to have assisted him in his endeavours to elude the police? I could not bear it. No, no, dear, you must leave us alone to that. Promise.”
They were standing in the darkness by the wall. He drew her more closely to him and his only answer was a kiss.
“If he does escape,” she said, “I will go into court and tell what I know, if it will help your brother. Perhaps I ought to tell the truth now in justice and honour, but I cannot desert my father. There is something here will not let me do that,” She pressed a hand to her bosom.
“No, you can’t do that. I’m sorry for you, Chris. It’s a hard fight. I want to fight with you. By Heaven! you don’t know how I could fight for you.”
Her head had fallen upon his breast again; he felt her sob, and broke into vehement speech—passionate assurances of love half spoken, ejaculations, fierce endearments, tender words—then was as suddenly silent again, and stood over her with his lips amongst her hair until her mood passed.
“I will come to-night,” he whispered, when at length she ceased weeping.
“No,” she said, and she was strong again. “In asking you to be silent I make you false to your people. I do ask that, but no more. Harry, you must not come again. Promise me you will not.”
“You’ll come to me—we’ll see each other?”
“No, dear. Better not, till this terrible business is over.”
“Chris, I can’t part like that.”
“You must, you must. Would you make it harder for me? Would you give me a new burden of shame and grief?”
“I’d die for you! There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you!”
“Then do this, my true love. Promise me you will not come here again.”
“Will it be for long?”
“No, it cannot be for long. Promise me. Promise me. Promise!”
“You know if he’s taken an’ tried I will have to give evidence against him.”
“I do,” she answered, shuddering.
“An’ that’ll make no difference to our love?”
“I will always love you, Harry.”
“This trouble’s making a great change in you, Chris,” he said yearningly. “You’re pale and ill. It’ll wear you out.”
She felt herself weakening again, but summoned all her resolution and stood true to her purpose.
“I can bear it,” she said. “I must! Promise me. Harry, the troopers are coming—your promise!”
“I promise.” He held her a moment caught to his heart, they exchanged a long kiss, and she slipped from him and into the house.