Durham sat silent for a time.
"Come out for me to-morrow, will you, Brennan?" he said presently. "I can't wait for the doctor. This has got to be dealt with promptly, unless we are to lose the game."
When Brennan had gone, Durham sat on the verandah alone. Now that he had taken hold of the case again, all the fascination his work had for him returned. He became so engrossed in the contemplation of the problem that unnoticed the sun went down to leave the young crescent moon shedding a fitful light over the silent bush. Unnoticed, also, were the sound of footfalls as Mrs. Burke came out on to the verandah.
For a time she stood watching him. Had he turned quickly he might have seen in her eyes something of the expression for which he had looked so often. But reading the riddle of the robberies was too enthralling a subject, and so he missed his opportunity, for when she crossed to the hand-rail against which he was sitting, every suggestion of the expression had gone from her face.
Standing where the moonlight fell upon her, she leaned against one of the verandah posts without speaking. It was then he saw her, and from within the shadow he feasted his eyes upon the beauty of her face and form so clearly outlined against the soft-toned evening sky.
"Brennan has gone?" she asked, suddenly turning towards him.
"Yes. Brennan has gone. And this—this is my last evening here," he answered in a low voice. "To-morrow I resume duty."
He waited for the remark he hoped she would make, but she merely looked away over the silvery haze of the bush apparently unmoved, nay, even uninterested in the announcement he had made.
"Don't you ever feel compassion for the poor creatures you are chasing to their doom?" she asked presently.
"Why should there be compassion for them?" he asked in reply.