"But that's just what I do. I might have saved her. I could have done so if I'd had the pluck, but you bought me off, and I hate myself for it. Do you know what I think?"
"No."
"You can have it whether you like it or not—I think you've done away with her."
Bellshaw stepped up to him in a threatening attitude.
"Stand back," said Garry, pulling out his revolver. "I found this near the big water hole when I was having a ride round."
He pulled a handkerchief and a piece of ribbon out of his pocket.
"Well?" Bellshaw asked.
"There'd been a struggle near the water hole, but she wasn't in there. I made sure of that, but you left her there, and she's as dead as if you'd shoved her in. She'd starve, die of thirst, go mad wandering about. It would have been more merciful to strangle her. I saw her tracks for some distance, but I couldn't follow them far; the ground soon dries up. She's no more in Sydney than I am, and you've done a brutal, cowardly act, Craig Bellshaw!"
Bellshaw made no answer, and Garry went on, "It'll come home to you some day, mark my words if it doesn't. If I thought she was alive I'd be mighty glad, for I feel as though I had a hand in it. When I saw her drive away with you something told me you meant mischief, but I never thought you'd kill her by inches. Hadn't she suffered enough at your hands that you must let her die such a terrible death?"
"Have you done?" asked Bellshaw quietly. His tone surprised Garry.