"You'd better go at once," said Jim, "she's bad, very bad."
Glen stood thinking for a few minutes, then asked, "You'll not leave her while I'm gone?"
"No, I'll sit by her as I found you sitting. See?" and he sat on the log, placing his hand on her breast. "That'll soothe her."
Without another word Glen Leigh left the hut.
He whistled Ping, and obediently the horse came to his call. Glen saddled him, and rode off towards Boonara. Jim Benny sat looking at the woman. He heard the hoof beats gradually dying away, then with a sudden movement got up and kissed her on the lips. She moaned.
"I couldn't help it. I meant no harm. She reminded me of—never mind names. I loved her, and she married him—that's all done with."
He remained quite still until Spotty, Glen's dog, half dingo, came sniffing round. He had been on the prowl for a day or so, and returned repentant. The predatory instinct was uppermost, which was not to be wondered at considering the wild stock from which he descended, and he made excursions to some land of which his master knew nothing.
The dog knew Jim, on the fence, but had not seen him in Glen's hut. Then there was the woman. Spotty had never come across one. Jim knew the nature of these dogs, their faithful savageness, and scented danger in the air. He had seen the dog on the fence with Glen, but had always been on horseback, and Spotty had never really scented him. He didn't even know the dog's name.
Spotty eyed Jim, then looked at the woman on the bed. Here was something he did not understand. He came forward, crouching, like a panther ready to spring, and Jim set him with his eyes, not daring to move, on her account.
Spotty sniffed at her dress, turned round, faced Jim and growled, a low rumbling sound. Then he lay on the floor, paws outstretched, head erect, watching.