Old McLeod paused for a moment, and then, looking me full in the face, said,—
'James, while ye have been away inquiries have been made concerning the disappearance of the Sydney detective, Jarman, who was here at the time of the races last year, and who has never since been heard of.'
'But what has that got to do with me?' I asked, feeling all the time that my face must be giving damning evidence against me. 'Do they accuse me of having murdered him, or what?'
'No, no! Not quite as bad as that! But they say he was last seen walking through the township towards Whispering Pete's house in your company; and that he has never been seen since.'
'Of course, he was seen with me,' I said. 'He dined and spent the evening with us at Pete's house. But I don't see anything suspicious in that—do you?'
'Not at all,' said the old man. 'But what became of him afterwards?'
'How can I tell you?' I cried impatiently. 'I was told that he went after the horse up North. He did not make me his confidant. Why should he? I had never seen him before that day, and I have never seen him since.'
'Don't be angry with father for telling you what people say, Jim, dear,' said Sheilah, looking into my face with her beautiful eyes. 'Remember, none of us have ever doubted you for a moment.'
'Thank God for that, Sheilah,' I answered. 'It would not be like you to believe ill of an innocent man.'
Colin McLeod was the next to speak, and what he said was to the point—straightforward and honourable, like himself.