LITMIR.BIZ

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the foot of the tree-and-scrub-massed slope of the range rising to the sheer granite face. The skirting creek also turned right, and shortly afterwards the track began gently to rise diagonally up the slope, proceeding to a white-painted set of gates barring the way.

      The gates were netted and of tubular steel. They were locked by a heavy padlock and chain, and beyond them the track went on up the slope and could be seen continuing along the foot of the rock face. Standing at the gates, Bony could see that the netted and barb-topped five-foot fence extended to the left as far as the granite cliff. To the right it dipped downward in the direction of the creek, and because a line had been cleared through the scrub to build and maintain it, he followed it downward and with no little astonishment saw that it ended at the creek. It was merely a wing and could serve no purpose excepting that the creek itself was a barrier.

      Instead of returning along the fence to the track, he made his way down the creek bank, at first having considerable difficulty in progressing. Now and then he could see the vineyard fence beyond the track he had followed, and when almost opposite the divisional fence between vineyard and open grass paddock he came to a path which skirted the creek and gave easy walking.

      As always, the ground interested him. On this narrow, winding path beside the creek he observed the imprints of birds’ feet, wallabies, a fox, at least two dogs, and, presently, the footmarks of a large man. They were the imprints of Glen Shannon’s boots.

      He had come more than once along the path from the hotel and then had left the path where grew several smooth-barrelled white gums between the creek and the track.

      A mark on the trunk of one of these trees attracted Bony, and on reaching it he found that the mark was actually a number of small wounds from which the tree had bled. There were at least thirty such wounds to be encompassed by a circle having a diameter of twelve inches.

      The tree had been used as a target. The weapons making the wounds had not been spears, neither had they been arrows. That left knives. Glen Shannon had come here to practise knife-throwing, and that he was expert was all too obvious. He had thrown from a distance of twenty paces, and not one knife had sunk into the bark outside the imaginary circle, and not one knife had made impact against the tree save with its point.

      Chapter Five

      A Terminological Inexactitude

      At dinner that evening the Simpson family and the American yardman occupied the other table, old Simpson in place at the head and being accorded reasonably sympathetic treatment by his family. Afterwards Bony joined the invalid on the veranda.

      “You don’t smoke?” he said.

      “They wouldn’t let me after I caught the bed afire.” The old man was beginning to cry, when they heard the sound of an approaching car. “It’ll be the Bensons,” he announced. “No time for ’em. The present man ain’t like his father. His sister’s stuck-up too.”

      The car glided to a halt and Simpson emerged from the hall and hurried down the steps. Bony, seated parallel with the creeper festooning the front of the veranda, gently parted the vines that he might see without having to stand. He was in time to observe the male passenger open the door and invite the licensee to enter the vehicle and occupy a drop seat with his back to the driver. The door was left open.

      Mr. Carl Benson occupied the corner nearer to Bony and thus presented his face in profile. He was a well-conditioned man of perhaps forty-five, his hair grey and close-cut. His face was strong and, although at ease, he did not smile.

      “More brass than the King,” whispered old Simpson. “Don’t know what he does with it. Ain’t spent much these last two years. Uster entertain a lot. Uster have big parties over at Baden Park. Down at Portland he has a large boat, but they haven’t used it much these last two years.”

      The licensee was doing the listening, occasionally nodding in agreement with what was being said. The woman beyond Benson stifled a yawn with a gloved hand. She would be, Bony thought, several years younger than her brother.

      “Can’t be broke,” muttered the old man. “Sold twenty rams for an average of nine hundred quid only the other day. Not like his father, who was a good friend to me. The father uster come in for a drink. Never passed by without coming in to see me and the old woman. You goin’ to slip me a drink tonight?”

      “What did you promise—last night?” countered Bony.

      Simpson was leaving the car. He closed the door and said something Bony could not overhear. Benson’s face was turned now to Bony. It was a cold, quiet, strong face. For the first time he smiled frostily, and the licensee stood back and watched the machine until it vanished round the end of the building.

      “What are the guest-house people like at Lake George?” Bony asked.

      “Don’t know much about ’em,” replied the invalid, as Simpson came up the veranda and entered the hotel. “Lund and his wife’s staying there longer than I thought they’d hang out. Pretty desolate over there. I give ’em six months, but they been there three years. Place was shut up for nigh on five years afore they went there.”

      “They didn’t build the place then?” Bony pressed, although he knew the details of the guest-house occupiers.

      “No fear, they didn’t,” replied the old man. “The present Benson’s father built the house as a sort of fishing camp. Lund’s only renting the place. Any chance of you sneaking me out half a bottle of whisky?”

      Bony leaned forward and touched a palsied leg.

      “Can your son fight?” he asked.

      “He! He!” tittered old Simpson. “Can he fight! Can he hell and galoots. Uster be the champ of the Western District.”

      “Then I’m not sneaking you out half a bottle of whisky,” Bony said with exaggerated solemnity. “I’ll bet that Ted O’Brien didn’t risk having his head knocked off.”

      The rheumy eyes opened wide and the voice was stronger.

      “I’ll lay you a bottle of whisky to nothing that Ted O’Brien risked it more’n once. Now! What about half a bottle to nothin’?”

      “Then he deserved getting the sack.”

      “He didn’t get the sack for that. He got it for finding the door of the spirit store open and getting drunk inside. Leastways, that’s what Jim told me.”

      “Where’s his home, d’you know?” asked Bony.

      “He! He! He’s at home when he’s got his hat on. Never had no home. Got a sister living at Hamilton, but he never writ to her, never went to see her for years. Sound man, Ted was. Nothin’ flash about him. Always done his work. He——” The tears rolled down into the whiskers. “He never come to say good-bye to me. They musta told him a lot of lies about me. Or they wouldn’t let him come and say good-bye, knowing I’d kick up hell’s delight.”

      “Did they tell you how he left, who took him to Dunkeld?”

      “He went away like he come here three years afore,” answered the invalid. “On his two feet, that’s how he went away. Rolled up his swag and got—like I would if only I could get meself outa this ruddy chair.”

      “Tell me——” Bony began, when music swelled swiftly into ponderous volume, died away, came in again strong and clear. Bony at first thought it was the radio. Someone within was playing an organ, and not a cheap instrument, but one having an extraordinary range. The old man became still, appeared to shrink lower into his chair. The music continued. The organist was a master.

      “Who is playing?” Bony asked.

      The old man raised a shaking hand and with the back of it brushed away tears from eyes which appeared to be ever ready to shed them.

      “Jim,” he said. “That organ cost a thousand pounds. Benson give it to him years ago. He got it all the way from Germany. He got two. It was afore the war.”

      They

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