The last piece of information was calculated to fetch Mr Barrington at once; and it did. He came as he was, in his flannels, his thick hairy arms bare to the elbow: a bronzed, leonine man of fifty, with the hearty, hospitable manner of the Colonial ‘squatocracy.’ Alfred explained in a few words who he was, and why he had come. He had but one or two questions to ask, and he asked them with perfect self-possession. They elicited the assurance that nothing had been heard of Gladys in that quarter, beyond the brief message received on the Saturday. Mr Barrington found the telegram, and handed it to his visitor. It read: ‘Prevented coming at last moment. Am writing—Gladys.’ By the time of despatch, Bligh knew that it was the message she had written out in his presence.
‘Of course she never wrote?’ he said coolly to the squatter.
‘We have received nothing,’ was the grave answer.
‘Yet she started,’ said Alfred. ‘I put her in the train myself, and saw her off.’
His composure was incredible. The Australian was more shaken than he.
‘Did you make any inquiries on the line?’ asked Barrington, after a pause.
‘Inquiries about what?’
‘There might have been—an accident.’
Bligh tapped the telegram with his finger. ‘This points to no accident,’ he said, grimly. ‘But,’ he added, more thoughtfully, ‘one might make inquiries down the line, as you say. It might do good to make inquiries all along the line.’
‘Do you mean to say you have made none?’