For two days more the police hunted in every direction, but neither the keen eyes of the blacks nor the senses of the dogs were of any avail, and at last the search was given up.
“We shall find him back here some day,” said the head policeman, “if he’s still alive. But,”—the man looked significantly at Nic—“they don’t always have life left in ’em when we do find ’em. Good day, sir. We may look you up again.”
They rode off, and the station was free of them, for they had made a sort of barrack of the wool-shed, where the fleeces made most satisfactory beds; and as they grew less and less, Nic turned away, to see the light all at once blaze, as it were, into his darkened mind.
“How stupid!” he said, half aloud. “Why, I know where he is hiding, after all.”
He looked up, and there was Brookes watching him with curious eye.
Chapter Thirty Three.
In a Trap.
Sleep did not come very readily to Nic’s eyes that night, and he looked very heavy and thoughtful at breakfast time next morning.