ringing.

"Missis," he whispered piercingly, "Beelzebub see the white man
yesterday."

She stared at him.

"What white man, Beelzebub? What do you mean?"

"White man from Bowker Creek," said Beelzebub.

Her breathing stopped suddenly. She felt as if she had been stabbed.
"Where!" she managed to gasp.

Beelzebub looked vacant. There was evidently something that she was
expected to understand. She forced her startled brain into activity.

"Is he the man who is ill--the man Mr. Curtis is taking care of?"

Beelzebub looked intelligent again.

"White man very bad," he said.

"But--but--how was it you saw him? You were told to leave the parcel by
the fence for Mr. Curtis to fetch."

Beelzebub exerted himself to explain.

"Mr. Curtis away, so Beelzebub creep up close and look in. But the white
man see Beelzebub and curse; so Beelzebub go away again."

"And that is the man you thought Boss killed?" Sybil questioned, relief
and fear strangely mingled within her.

Her brain was beginning to whirl, but with all her strength she
controlled it. Now or never would she know the truth.

Beelzebub was scared by the question.

"Missis won't tell Boss?" he begged.

"No, no," she said impatiently. "When will you learn that I never repeat
things? Now, Beelzebub, I want you to do something for me. Can you
remember? You are to ask Mr. Curtis to tell you the white man's name.
Say that Boss--do you understand?--say that Boss wants to know! And then
come back as fast as you possibly can, before Boss gets home to-night,
and tell me!"

She repeated these instructions many times over till it seemed
impossible that he could make any mistake. And then she watched him go,
and set herself with a heart like lead to face the interminable day.

She thought the hours would never pass, so restless was she, so
continuous the torment of doubt that vexed her soul. There were times
when she felt that if the thing she feared were true, it would kill her.
If her husband--the man whom, in spite of almost every instinct, she had
learnt to love--had deceived her, if he had played a double game to win
her, if, in short, the man he had fought at Bowker Creek were Robin
Wentworth, then she felt as if life for her were over. She might
continue to exist, indeed, but the heart within her would be dead. There
would be nothing left her but the grey ruins of that which had scarcely
begun to be happiness.

She tried hard to compose herself, but all h