But the driver, instead of stopping, cleverly dodged him and his attempt to seize the rein. The horse dashed by, and the enraged constable, who was no mean sprinter, started in pursuit. At least he would find the number.
But the light from the first lamp they passed lit up the back of the cab only to show him the number was hidden.
On sped the cab, with no impediment, for the road at this time of night was clear and deserted.
The policeman to his surprise was fast losing ground, for he was ignorant that the black horse he was pursuing was within a head the winner of the Sydney Cup. On sped the cab, now unpursued, through Paddington, past Woollabra, past the Tea Gardens, and on, on into the darkness, where lamps and houses were few, and scrub lined the road; on till the sound of the ocean beating the high cliffs of Coogee and Bondi was audible in a monotonous roar.
Inside the cab the man with bushy whiskers had removed the muffler, and gazed with a look of gloating reverence on the pale and corpse-like features of Bertha.
“Did I give her too much chloroform?” he said to himself, as he felt her pulse. His look of anxiety passed away. There was still a feeble beat.
“Mine at last!” he cried, with an accent almost of worship, as he raised the lifeless hand to his lips.
“Mine, now and for ever!”
* * * * *
When the night passed and the following morning without bringing news of Bertha, surprise and astonishment began to trouble her friends and employer at the Golden Bar. A message was sent to Professor Norris, who was known to be her friend, but he knew nothing, and he returned with the messenger, his mind filled with dread and dismay.