"When will you tell me?" she asked.
"The day before you are married," he answered.
Mrs. Allanby came purring towards her.
"Do go with them to-night."
"Very well," said Elsie, abruptly. "I have changed my mind, Horace. We will go."
They set out after an early dinner. Was there ever such a September night?—fragrant with aromatic gum and the white-cedar flowers, full of strange sweet noises and mysterious rustlings, and plaintive calls of curlew and swamp pheasant; and as they rode by the creek, the uncanny swishing of the wings of startled wild duck. The mountains stood forth clear against the sky. Lord Horace had exaggerated when he spoke of a moonlight ride, and Mrs. Allanby called him to account for inaccuracy. It was only a horned moon yet, but it was brilliant, and the stars were bright and the station horses knew the track well. But it was only when they crossed the little plains in the river-bends that there was any opportunity for tête-à-tête. For the greater part of the way the road was too narrow to allow of two riding abreast. Trant enlivened the night with his songs. He, too, seemed in a wild mood, but it did not direct itself especially towards Elsie.
Frank Hallett kept close to his fiancée. He had asked her if she would like him to ride with her. There were times when he almost maddened Elsie by his submission to her moods, and by his resigned acceptance of the fact that she loved Blake.
"Forget it, forget it," she had said wildly that very evening. "Yes, ride with me—don't leave me for an instant."
And so he remained near her bridle rein, and had Blake wished it he could not have talked to her. He fell behind with Trant, and for some little time the two carried on a low-toned conversation, in which there were dissentient notes born occasionally to Elsie, who was nearest in advance. Once in a sudden bend of the track, where the trees grew thick, her habit hooked itself to a jagged branch,
