"Thinks himself a fine gentleman, it's plain," he muttered. Then he beckoned to Harding. "Do you know Princes Street, Adelaide, mate?" he whispered.
Harding nodded.
"No. 5 Princes Street, top floor. You give two knocks. Write that down."
Harding took out his worn pocket-book and wrote it down. The man lay staring up at him, then with a sudden effort, as if his mind was at last made up, he dragged a tattered scrap of yellow paper from his breast and held it up to Harding.
"Send it—there," and he feebly nodded at the pocket-book in Harding's hand.
Gray was still standing in the doorway, looking out over the level pastures. He half expected to hear the gallop of well-trained horses, the shout of authoritative voices; but all was still, the police had missed the track. He shut the door and came back into the hut.
"Make your mind easy, my friend," he said in a half-sneering tone. "It's all quiet outside."
The man gave him a dark look and raised himself towards Harding.
"Here, give it me back," he said, with a hasty snatch at it. "Your pal's no call to see it."