light—and I hope so for Mr. Hallett's sake too. This is not a public race-course. The people here are his friends."
Trant laughed again in a sort of sotto-voce manner. Blake was evidently thinking of something else. His brows were knit, and his eyes gleamed darkly from beneath them. They went up the wooden slope to the woolshed, and Hallett showed Elsie and Lady Horace their places. He put himself on one side of Elsie. Blake took the seat on the other. He had lingered to say a word or two to Trant.
"Are you going to run Osman for the cup?" Elsie asked.
"I am not sure. He is entered, but I believe Trant has withdrawn him. Tell me who is that opposite—the man with the sprouting beard, who looks like a jockey?"
Before Elsie could reply the question was answered by a young Irishman from a station over the border—Mick Mahoney he was named—who called across.
"And is it after the Scriptures that ye are taking a pattern, Captain Macpherson, and are ye making a vow not to cut your beard till Moonlight's brought to justice? I'm thinking that at this rate ye'll have it to your waist."
"Come, I've had enough of chaffing about Moonlight," answered Captain Macpherson, good-humouredly, "and you might let a chap enjoy his day off once in a way. I've scoured the Luya from top to bottom, not a trace of him have I found."
"And been in some pretty queer places, I'll be bound," remarked an elderly squatter. "It's an awful rough country in the Upper Luya."
"Captain Macpherson," put in Elsie Valliant, "did you go to the Baròlin Fall?"
"As near as we could get, Miss Valliant, and I wish I might catch Moonlight making for that blind alley. But he is too cute, and knows the country far too well."
"It's a cul-de-sac, is it?" asked Mr. Blake, bending forward, and courteously addressing the police officer. "I believe you have been at Baròlin Gorge, Captain Macpherson, and know my partner, Dominic Trant."
"Oh, to be sure. Mr. Blake, is it? Allow me to con-
