Somehow several of the faces of those who stood looking at each other had gone white. A moment of silence, then, turning the handle, the Police captain entered. He was followed by Moseley and Tarrant.
Almost instinctively they made a movement as though to back out again, then with set faces advanced into the room. Those horrible remains—battered, mutilated—told their own tale. They were too late—too late by twenty-four hours.
Then Tarrant’s behaviour astonished the other two. Pushing past them he entered the other rooms, casting quick searching glances into every corner or recess. When he returned there was a look almost of relief upon his face.
“Miss Commerell is not here,” he said.
“Miss who?” asked Overton, quickly.
“Miss Commerell. A visitor. Moseley, can she have escaped?”
“I hope to Heaven she has,” was the reply. “Wait. We haven’t examined the huts or the stable.”
Quickly they went round to the back, and with sinking hearts began their search. In one of the huts the body of poor little Jimmie came to light; then the lock of the store-hut was battered off—the stable—everywhere. Still, no trace of the missing girl.
“She may have escaped into the bush,” suggested Tarrant, whose suppressed excitement, even at that moment, did not escape the others. “Quick, Overton! Send some of your men to scour it in every direction.”
“Not so fast,” said the Police captain. “Things can’t be done that way. We must go to work systematically.”