“You’ll leave within an hour,” said Stonor, consulting his watch. “I’ll see you off. Better get your things together.”
The man still lingered, and Stonor saw an unspoken question in his eye, a desire to ingratiate himself. Now Stonor, under his stern port as an officer of the law, was intensely curious about the fellow. With his good looks, his impudent assurance, his command of English, he was a notable figure in that remote district. The policeman permitted himself to unbend a little.
“What are you travelling in?” he asked.
“Dug-out.” Encouraged by the policeman’s altered manner, the self-styled Hooliam went on, with an air of taking Stonor into his confidence: “These niggers here are a funny lot, aren’t they? Still believe in magic.”
“Why, they’re always talking about a White Medicine Man who lives beside a river off to the north-west. Ernest Imbrie they call him. Do you know him?”
“No.”
“He’s been to the post, hasn’t he?”
“No.”
“Well, how did he get into the country?”