ad reason to
believe Colin unworthy of her--that her husband had led the life of an
ordinary bushman, and had fully availed himself of such material
pleasures as might have come to his hand. The veiled questions he asked
about Mrs Hensor and her boy, brought back a startled remembrance of
the scene outside the Fig Tree Mount Hotel and Steadbolt's vague
accusation. She had almost forgotten it--had never seriously thought
about it. Yet now she knew the midge-bite had festered.

Could it be that there was a chapter in Colin's life of which she knew
nothing? Was it not too much to believe that he had always been
faithful to his ideal of the camp fire? Ah! Maule would have jeered at
that--would have been totally incapable of understanding the romance of
that dream-drive--a dream in truth. But how beautiful, how sane, how
uplifting it seemed, compared with the feverish haschisch dream in
which she was now living. Restless under the obsession, she wandered up
the gully and, as she sat among the rocks, wrestled with her black
angel--and conquered. Clearly there was but one thing to do. She must
send Maule away at once before Colin came back. As for Colin, that
trouble must be faced separately. Maule must ride back to
Tunumburra--he knew the track. Or, should he wish to explore the
district further, Harry the Blower was due with the mail to-morrow, and
could guide him to any station on the post-man's route which might
appear to Maule desirable.

Bridget knew that Maule would leave the tailing-mob before the other
men that afternoon, and would probably come to look for her here. So
having arrived at her decision and wishing to put off the inevitable
scene as long as possible, she set forth by another route for the
head-station.

CHAPTER 3

But she had only gone a few steps, when out of the gidia scrub, came
Oola the half-caste, her comely face bruised, her eyes wild with grief
and terror, her head tied up in a blood-stained strip torn from Lady
Bridget's lacy undergarment, the gaily-flowered kimono hanging in dirty
shreds upon her brown bosom.

'White Mary! Lathy-chap!' she cried. 'Plenty poor feller Oola. Plenty
quick me run. Me want 'em catch Lathy-chap before pollis-man come. That
feller pollis-man take Wombo long-a gaol. Mithsis'--the gin implored.
'BUJERI you!--Mithis tell pollis-man Wombo plenty good blackfellow. No
take Wombo long-a gaol.'

'What has Wombo been doing?' asked Lady Bridget. 'Did he steal the