“I wouldn’t worry with the Aurora bunch, Victor,” he said. “The oil boom coming is going to clean up most things. Maybe they’ll go along with the rest. You see, when the government realises the thing Beacon can hand them there’ll be no room for white shirts and hanging bees.”
Outside the bank the girl made no further effort to restrain the questions that were flooding her mind.
“Tell me, Ivor,” she cried, the moment they reached the sidewalk again. “This man? This Cy Liskard? Oh, I remember him. I’m never likely to forget him, and the way you smashed him that night for his insult to me. Who is he? Why did they hang him? I’ve got to know things now. Is he——?”
“The man who killed your brother Jim. The man who murdered and robbed him. Julian Caspar, the man who was trading Jim’s gold into that bank.”
Claire drew a deep breath. They had turned into one of the almost undefined side roads, which was little better than a track, in order to avoid the crowd on the main street. They were making their way in the direction of the girl’s home again. McLagan observed her closely. Then a half smile lit his eyes.
“It’s time you knew things,” he said. Then he asked gently, almost anxiously: “What does that just mean, kid? Are you worried?”
Claire looked up. Her gaze was full of trust, full of confidence, full of pride in the big creature who had laboured so hard to capture her heart. She shook her head.
“No, dear, I’m not worried—now,” she said. Then a smile full of radiant love replaced the seriousness in her eyes. “Like you, I’ve a hunch for those white-robed folk. I sort of feel there’s no harm in them for those running straight. There’s no ‘hold-up’ in them. But I’m wondering. When your folk have got along, and you go down country——”
“We go down country,” the man corrected.