constabulary law, which, I take it, is pretty much the same in most
countries where there are white settlers and native races.'

She looked up at him, letting him feel that she was relying on his
astuteness and his strength. He went on:

'Ninnis is mustering with Moongarr Bill and the others, a good way off,
and they're camping out to-night.... That leaves only Joe Casey and the
other extra hand. Ninnis put me in authority here. Somebody has got to
take command, and it must be either you, Lady Bridget, or myself.
Perhaps I'm the best qualified of the two....'

She laughed shakily in assent.

'Anyway, I fancy that I know how to deal with this sort of affair
better than you do,' he said. 'Will you let me manage it my own way?'

She nodded.

'I suppose I may assume that your husband left me in a position of some
responsibility. And if I seem to be taking too much on myself--or, on
the other hand, deferring too much to Harris, you'll trust me and not
interfere?'

There was no time for discussion, had she wished to go against him.
Oola was shrieking and pointing frantically to the track down from the
upper slip rails, along which Harris and his prisoner were to be seen
riding.

The Police Inspector, uniformed, burly, triumphant, exhaled the Majesty
of the Law as he rode slightly in advance leading the black-boy. Now,
as they pulled up at the fence, Wombo presented a sorry spectacle--a
spear wound in his left shoulder, a spear graze on his leg, his wrists
handcuffed and his feet tied to the stirrup-iron with cords so tight
that they cut into his tough, black flesh.

Harris dismounted, tied Wombo's horse securely to the veranda post and
then made his statement which coincided with Bridget's idea of what had
happened. It was too late to push on to Tunumburra. He proposed to lock
up his prisoner at Moongarr for the night. Could he have the hide-house?

Not long before, the Police Inspector had locked up a horse stealer,
whom he had in charge, in the hide-house for a few hours while he took
a meal.

To Bridget it seemed an irony that Wombo should be imprisoned in the
very room he had so lately shared with his stolen gin.

She was quivering with indignant pity at sight of the sores on the
black boy's legs made by the raw hide thongs, and Oola, who had crept
up the off side of the black-boy's horse, was wailing anew. Maule
checked with a look the angry protest on Lady Bridget's lip and
answered the Police Sergeant i