“Peste! I could shoot you all if I cared to, Mr. Officer, but, being a fool, I will not break a promise to a friend.” Then the sharp crack of a rifle rang out.
Spurring his horse through the scrub, Monk dashed over the rough ground and up the hill. In front of the cave were a sub-inspector of black police, a white sergeant, and eight black troopers. They were looking at Kellerman, who lay on the ground with a bullet through his heart—dead.
“Confound the fellow!” grumbled the sergeant; “if I'd ha' known he meant to play us a trick like that I'd ha' rushed in on him. I wonder how he managed it? I could only see his head.”
“Leant on the muzzle and touched the trigger with his naked toe, you fool!” replied his superior officer, sharply.
Twelve months afterward Monk left North Queensland a rich man, and went to Europe, and spent quite a time in France, prosecuting certain inquiries. When he returned to Australia he brought with him a French wife; and all that his Australian lady friends could discover about her was that her maiden name was Kellerman.