It was hard on Moya that he was not listening, for she had used no such tone towards him these four-and-twenty hours. And listening he was, but to another sound which reached her also in the pause. It was the thud and jingle of approaching horsemen. Another minute and the white trappings of the mounted police showed through the dusk.
"That you, Mr. Rigden?" said a queer voice for the sergeant. "Can you give us a word, please?"
Rigden had but time to glance at Moya.
"I'll ride on slowly," she said at once; and she rode on the better part of a mile, leaving the way entirely to her good bush steed. At last there was quite a thunder of overtaking hoofs, and Rigden reined up beside her, with the sergeant not far behind. Moya looked round, and the sergeant was without his men, at tactful range.
"Do they guess anything?" whispered Moya.
"Not they!"
"Sure the others haven't gone on to scour Big Bushy?"
"No, only to cross it on their way back. They've given it up, Moya! The sergeant's just coming back for dinner."
His tone had been more triumphant before his triumph was certain, but Moya did not notice this.
"I'm so glad," she whispered, half mischievously, and caught his hand under cloud of early night.