The Bushranger's Secret

by Mrs. Henry Clarke

IN QUEST OF TREASURE.

Gray's spirits rose when he had left the station behind him and found himself riding along the well-worn track towards the hills, that showed themselves in clear outline against the brightening morning sky.

With a good horse under him and the fresh wind blowing on his face, he found it easy to convince himself that it would not have made any difference if he had gone back with the dog. He found it easy to look forward instead of backward, to make resolutions about using the money well, instead of indulging in vain repentance for the past.

It was a clear beautiful morning. The country Gray was riding through was very unlike the level pastures he had lived on for months. It was undulating and richly wooded. Here and there a stream, full and strong in this joyous spring-time, flashed white in the dawn. Westwards rose the great hills, blue in the distance, the hills towards which Gray was riding. It was a country to make glad the heart of man, where he might richly enjoy the fruits of his labour.

It was not thickly settled as yet. Gray passed but few houses in that day's far ride, and it was long past dusk when he rode up to Mr. Macquoid's, who owned the run next to Mr. Morton's, and where Mr. Morton had advised him to stop that night.

Gray received a warm welcome. Tea was brought for him into the pleasant sitting-room, where Mr. Macquoid's wife and daughters were eager to hear Gray's account of Harding's disappearance. Mr. Macquoid had sent out a search-party on his own account, for he knew Harding well.

It irritated Gray savagely to find how warm and eager an interest they all took in the lost man. He could have spent such a delightful evening in that charming house, with those pretty girls. The piano was open, and Gray was fond of music and could sing well. It would have delighted him to prove to them his musical abilities. And the books in the low book-cases, the etchings and engravings on the walls, the periodicals and newspapers fresh from England, that lay heaped on the round table by the window, showed that the Macquoids had a keen cultured interest in literature and art. Gray could have talked to them of so many things, showed them so easily how wide his knowledge was, how correct his taste.

But they would talk of nothing but Harding. They seemed to think it was the only subject Gray could feel any interest in just then. He was thankful when the evening was over.

His next resting-place was a small station close under the shadow of the hills. Here only vague rumours of Harding's loss had come, and Gray found it easy to say nothing of his connection with the lost man.

A strange thing happened to him that night. He was put to sleep in a small room opening on the rough verandah that ran round the house. It was a hot still night, and the window was left open. Gray lay awake for the first part of the night. He was restless and excited and could not sleep. But towards morning he fell into a heavy dreamless slumber, from which he was roughly awakened by a sharp, sudden noise.