The dust cloud occasioned by the arrival of the vehicle presently subsides, and, amidst a crashing of breakers suddenly applied and a volley of blasphemy, a pair of reeking horses are pulled back on to their haunches. Then a red-faced, burly form clambers slowly down from the trap, and after kicking an attendant “boy” gives him some directions, and waddles hurriedly towards the house.
“Well, Puttis, I’ve found you at last.”
“Morning, Giles. Want me particularly?” inquires the police officer.
“Want you? Yes, by Jupiter! Haven’t I driven all night from Bulla Bulla to try and catch you?”
“Indeed!” observes the smaller man, keenly observing the excited face of Mr. Giles, as he mops it with a red silk handkerchief. “Come in and have a nip.”
The squatter half turns, by force of custom, towards the door, then he stops, and says hurriedly, “No, I won’t. Here, come outside. I want to speak to you first.”
“You’ve had good news, Giles,” remarks the Inspector, his sun-dried cheeks wrinkling up into a grin, and exposing his large, canine teeth.
“How the devil do you know?”
“Never mind, old friend. What have you to tell me?”
The men stroll out by the kitchen garden, where Giles takes a seat upon a low, rustic gate, beneath a sweetly scented gum-tree. Looking nervously round about to be sure that they are alone, the owner of Murdaro turns to his companion, and in a low voice asks, “What have you done about Angland?”