And his thoughts ran on something like this:
"Suppose I had found this map, not knowing whose it was, and had gone to dig in Deadman's Gully on the chance, what a wonderful and blessed change it would have made in my life? No more hateful stock-riding; no more dreary days spent with this dull-witted Harding; but a glad return to civilized England, and a rich cultured life in congenial society. If it only had happened so! Yet, even now—?"
But there Gray's thoughts took pause. The secret was not his alone. It was shared by Harding. Even if Harding would allow him to— But Harding would not, and there was an end of it.
They arranged at breakfast next morning that Gray should ride over to the station the day after and carry the paper with him. From the station it could be easily sent in to the inspector of police with the report of Dearing's death.
Gray got the paper down for another look at it.
"I believe I've heard you speak of Deadman's Gully, Harding."
"That's most likely, old man. I know the place well. I was stationed within a mile of it once. You know Rodwell's Peak?"
"Haven't the honour," said Gray flippantly. He got up and put the paper back in the desk. "Rodwell's Peak and Deadman's Gully! The Australian mind isn't gifted with imagination in regard to names."
"Deadman's Gully got its name rightly enough. It was the haunt of a gang of bushrangers. A track runs right by the mouth of it, and they buried the travellers there that they waylaid. That wasn't in my time, but I've heard old Jebb speak of it. He went with the police there once. A lonely dismal spot, he said, between high rocks, with a few trees in the middle."
"Our friend Dearing knew the spot well, it seems."