He dismounted, and loosely fastening the bridle to a tree, so that the horse could feed, entered the hut. It was in ruins, and looked as if it had been left hastily. Trafford half hoped that he might find some remnant of food, but there was nothing of the kind. He went down to the stream and got a drink of water, and threw himself down to wait until the horse had rested and he could resume his journey.
He felt that he would be wise to remain the night there, but the place depressed him, and it seemed to him that he could know no rest until he had found Norman and Esmeralda. He lay, with his head upon his hand, watching the horse and still feeling half stupefied, when suddenly he knew that something alive was approaching him. It was dusk now, it would soon be dark. He peered into the shadow of the bush from whence the sound came, and his hand sought his revolver. A moment or two later a tall, well-built figure emerged from the bush and approached the hut, a horse followed at a little distance with drooping head, as if too weary for anything save following in his master’s footsteps.
Varley, for it was he, walked to the hut and entered.
He came out a moment afterward, and Trafford, who could now see his face plainly, was struck by its well-bred air as well as by its pallor and the expression of stern resolution which seemed to mask anxiety.
Varley looked round about him searchingly, then sunk on to the upturned wheelbarrow, sighed, and removing his hat, wiped the perspiration from his brow. He had all the appearance of waiting for some one.
Trafford watched him closely, and he felt convinced that this man was neither a bushranger nor a common digger. At this moment Trafford’s horse neighed a greeting to Varley’s, and Varley sprung to his feet.
Trafford, knowing that concealment was no longer possible, rose and walked toward the hut. At the sound of his footsteps, Varley turned and confronted him.
He had expected to see Simon, and he stared at Trafford with surprise for a moment, as if too astonished to speak. Then he raised his hat, and said, in a voice husky with the dust of the long journey, but with his usual languid manner:
“Good-evening.”
Trafford raised his hat in response.