LITMIR.BIZ

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a match-box, he struck a light and bent low. The whites of the staring eyes, fixed and glassy in the light of the match, and the terrible wound at the crown of the man’s head, left no room for doubt that the man was dead.

      Yet the appalling discovery was not so acutely registered on Frank Dugdale’s brain as was the vision of a white-clad figure dimly seen at the garden gate not thirty yards distant.

      Chapter Five

      A Wet Night

      From the river to the west boundary of Barrakee Station was about eighty-three miles. The area that comprised the run was roughly oblong in shape.

      For administrative purposes it was divided into two unequal portions, the longer and western division being governed by George Watts, the overseer, who resided at the outstation at Thurlow Lake. The river end of the run was managed by the sub-overseer, Frank Dugdale.

      But while Thornton overseered Frank Dugdale, he rarely instructed George Watts, who deserved, and had, his employer’s implicit faith. Every evening at eight the squatter repaired to his office, where he telephoned in turn to each of the boundary-riders in his division, obtaining their reports and outlining the work for the succeeding day. Even on Saturdays and days preceding holidays he rang up at the same time; for these men lived alone in their huts, and in the event of no reply being received to his ring it could be assumed that some accident had happened and that the man lay injured out in the bush. In the squatter’s time it had been necessary to send out search-parties on three occasions.

      When he had finished with his riders, he habitually rang up Thurlow Lake to discuss with the overseer the conditions of the stock and kindred topics, and advise on, or sanction, any matter that might be submitted to him.

      He was in high fettle because George Watts had reported steady rain when communicated with on the evening Dugdale caught the forty-one-pound cod. And, since no rain had fallen for nine months, a good rain at this time meant green feed for the coming lambs, as well as an abundance of surface water, which would prevent heavy ewes having to travel miles to the wells to drink and back again to feed.

      Whilst he still talked to the overseer, the rain reached the river, pouring in a continuous roar on the office roof of corrugated iron. From the telephone he turned to the task of writing several personal letters. He was so engaged when the door opened, and the dripping sub-overseer almost bounded in.

      “Good rain, Dug, eh?” Mr Thornton said cheerfully.

      He could not distinctly see Dugdale’s face until the latter entered the circle of light cast by the electric bulb over the desk. When he did observe the unusual expression on his subordinate’s face, he added: “What’s gone wrong?”

      Dugdale recounted the landing of the fish, with the help of the strange black fellow, his return to the mooring-place, what he heard or fancied he heard, and his discovery of the dead man.

      “Are you sure the man’s dead?” pressed Thornton.

      “Quite.”

      “We’ll go and examine him. Better get an overcoat.” “Not for me. I can’t get wetter than I am.”

      “Well, I am not going to get wet for all the dead abos in the Commonwealth,” announced Thornton. “Wait till I get a waterproof and a torch.”

      He was back in a minute, and together, with the brilliant circle of the torch lighting them, they made their way past the tennis-court and down into the billabong to where the corpse lay.

      A first glance settled the question of death.

      “The rain coming just now will make things difficult for the police, Dug,” remarked Mr Thornton gravely. “Already most of the tracks have been washed out. But from those that are left it is evident that there was a struggle. Even those tracks will be gone by morning.”

      “It is a terrible thing,” Dugdale said, and thankfulness filled his heart that the rain had come.

      “It is. But we can do nothing for him. Go along to the men’s quarters and ask some of them to come and carry the body to the carpenter’s shop. Lay it on one of the benches and cover it. Think you can feel your way in this damned darkness?”

      “Yes, I believe so. But stay a minute with your light on till I get to the pumping-engine, will you?”

      “All right.”

      Guided by the ray from the squatter’s torch, Dugdale at last reached the engine, where the going became easy, since he was then on a beaten path. He shouted that he was all right; and Thornton, satisfied that his sub was beyond danger of slipping down the now dangerously greasy bank of the river, made his way back to his office.

      There he telephoned to the police at Wilcannia.

      “Good evening, Sergeant,” he said, when the senior officer answered his call. “Great rain we’re having.”

      “What! Raining up your way?” ejaculated the gruff-voiced sergeant. “Quite fine here, Mr Thornton.”

      “I am sorry to hear that. I was hoping it was a general rain. Must be only a local storm. In any case, we have had a murder.”

      “Excuse me! A what?”

      “A m-u-r-d-e-r,” Thornton spelled slowly.

      “Oh, is that all?”

      “Isn’t it enough for you? I’m not joking.”

      “You’re not? When did it happen? How did it happen?” came the rapid and now seriously-asked questions.

      The squatter answered them in sequence, and reported that he had ordered the body to be removed to the carpenter’s shop.

      “I don’t think there’s anything more for me to do, is there?” he inquired.

      “No, I think not,” agreed the policeman, adding: “I’ll ring up later to find out if it is still raining your way. If it is, I’ll be obliged to ride a horse. I’ve got so used to a motor that I don’t fancy sixty miles on horseback. Damn the rain!”

      “Now, now!” Mr Thornton reproved. “Remember that I’m a Justice of the Peace.”

      “Sorry, Mr Thornton,” the sergeant chuckled. “But why the devil couldn’t the black get himself murdered some night that was fine?”

      “I couldn’t say. Ask him when you get here tomorrow.” And, chuckling, the station-owner rang off—to ring up George Watts and transmit an item of news to news-hungry people.

      Later, Frank Dugdale entered. “We shifted the body,” he reported.

      “Good!” The squatter nodded to a vacant chair. “It would be as well,” he said, “as you are—or will be—the most important witness, for me to take down in writing the incidents which led to your discovery. Tell it slowly, and try to miss nothing, Dug.”

      Frank Dugdale retold his story of the significant sounds he had heard when in the boat and when mooring it. When he had finished, Thornton leaned back in his chair, selected a cigarette, and pushed the box across the desk.

      “It seems,” he said thoughtfully, “that the killing was just at the time you were mooring the boat.”

      “Yes. It’s my belief that the sickening thud I heard was the striking of the blow.”

      “You saw nothing?”

      The two were looking straight at each other. Dugdale said, without hesitation:

      “I saw nothing, nor did I see anyone.”

      “It is surprising that the murderer could have got away in the time. What space of time do you think it was between the sound of that blow and the moment you saw the corpse in the lightning?”

      Dugdale pondered for a moment or two. He felt elated at having told one of the few lies in his life. His gaze, however, was centred on the brass inkstand.

      “Difficult

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