r....' she
began hastily and then stopped.

'You call that a service! Yes--to humanity, if you like. Oh, I know.
After yesterday evening. NOW, you blame me for being true to myself....
All that has got to be settled between us, Bridget--for good and all. I
thought it out as I rode behind the tailing-mob to-day. But for the
moment,' he fingered the key agitatedly, 'Bridget, you MUST let me do
this thing for you. Don't refuse me that small privilege, even if you
deny me all others.'

She wavered--yielded. 'Very well. You can manage it better than I
could. So I will accept this last favour.'

'The first, not the last. What have I done but cause you pain? ... If
you knew the torture I have been going through....' He checked himself.
She was staring at him, half frightened, half fascinated.

'No, no. There must be an end.'

'Yes. There must be an end. Later on, we'll decide what the end is to
be.'

He went out to the veranda carrying the key. Bridget did not follow
him. She had no power either to resent or to compel him. She sat
waiting. When, after about a quarter of an hour, he came back, she was
still in the office as he had left her, seated by the rough table on
which were the station log, the store book, and branding tallies.

He came in triumphantly, exhibiting the key.

'Harris wanted to take possession of this. It was lucky I had put it on
my chain. However, he's satisfied that Wombo is securely locked up and
an extra glass of grog and a hint that, as he hasn't provided himself
with a warrant there's no obligation on him to stand over his prisoner
with a loaded gun, eased his mind of responsibility. The man is in a
beast of a temper though, he evidently expected to be entertained down
here. I hope Mrs Hensor will give him a good dinner. He insists on
sleeping in the little room off the store veranda where he says he can
keep watch on the hide house. I suppose it's all right?'

Bridget nodded. 'I'll tell Maggie.' Maule asked for ointment with which
to dress the black-boy's wounds and abrasions, and she gave it and left
him.

The afternoon was drawing in. Then came the sound of the herded beasts
being driven to the yard at sundown and, by-and-by, of Joe Casey's
stockwhip as he got up the milkers. The shorthandedness and disturbance
of Harris' arrival made everything late, and the goats which should
have been penned by now, were busy nibbling at the passion vines on the
garden fence. But all this made littl