By the time Trafford had recovered from the emotion which had produced the inaction of stupor, Esmeralda and Norman had ridden out of sight and sound. Trafford got into his saddle and rode after them, but he was inexperienced in Australian locomotion, and before he had ridden very far in blundering haste across the thick and knotted undergrowth, his horse made a false step and threw him.

[317]

There was no great harm done, and Trafford picked himself up, shook himself, and mounted again. But by this time the pair he was pursuing had completely vanished and had left no clew behind them. His horse, though uninjured by its fall, was not rendered more cheerful by the mishap, and did not evince any very great interest in the proceedings, but went along rather sullenly for a time. Presently, however, he pricked up his ears and quickened his pace. It was evident that he had been made aware, either by the sense of smell or hearing, of the proximity of some human being or friendly animal.

Trafford, quivering with excitement and a mixture of emotions, let the horse have its head, and the animal trotted quickly down the slope to the valley below. At a sudden bend in the track—if it could be called track—Trafford caught sight of a small stream, the ground near which had been broken and disturbed by the hand of man. He conjectured that this must be the site of an abandoned camp or gold-digging, and the conjecture proved correct, for he came presently upon a ruined hut standing amidst some deserted claims.

He pulled up, or rather the horse stopped of its own accord, and Trafford looked round. He appeared to be alone, amidst the débris of the camp. Here and there were signs of life and activity which had ebbed away; a broken wheelbarrow, a rusty pick, shovels bent and twisted, and planks half hidden by the weeds that had grown round them, lay about in dismal confusion. The whole place, with its air of desertion, was weird and depressing, and Trafford, in his weary and high-strung condition, could scarcely repress a shudder. He wondered why the horse had brought him there, for though he listened intently and looked about him keenly, he could neither see nor hear any sign of the presence of any human being save himself.

He dismounted, and loosely fastening the bridle to a tree, so that the horse could feed, entered the hut. It was in ruins, and looked as if it had been left hastily. Trafford half hoped that he might find some remnant of food, but there was nothing of the kind. He went down to the stream and got a drink of water, and threw himself down to wait until the horse had rested and he could resume his journey.

He felt that he would be wise to remain the night there, but the place depressed him, and it seemed to him that he could know no rest until he had found Norman and Esmeralda. He lay, with his head upon his hand, watching the horse and still[318] feeling half stupefied, when suddenly he knew that something alive was approaching him. It was dusk now, it would soon be dark. He peered into the shadow of the bush from whence the sound came, and his hand sought his revolver. A moment or two later a tall, well-built figure emerged from the bush and approached the hut, a horse followed at a little distance with drooping head, as if too weary for anything save following in his master’s footsteps.

Varley, for it was he, walked to the hut and entered.

He came out a moment afterward, and Trafford, who could now see his face plainly, was struck by its well-bred air as well as by its pallor and the expression of stern resolution which seemed to mask anxiety.

Varley looked round about him searchingly, then sunk on to the upturned wheelbarrow, sighed, and removing his hat, wiped the perspiration from his brow. He had all the appearance of waiting for some one.

Trafford watched him closely, and he felt convinced that this man was neither a bushranger nor a common digger. At this moment Trafford’s horse neighed a greeting to Varley’s, and Varley sprung to his feet.

Trafford, knowing that concealment was no longer possible, rose and walked toward the hut. At the sound of his footsteps, Varley turned and confronted him.

He had expected to see Simon, and he stared at Trafford with surprise for a moment, as if too astonished to speak. Then he raised his hat, and said, in a voice husky with the dust of the long journey, but with his usual languid manner:

“Good-evening.”

Trafford raised his hat in response.

“Good-evening,” he said.

The two men stood looking at each other as two men meeting, perfect strangers and in such a place, must necessarily look; and though neither touched his revolver, each was ready to draw and fire.

It seemed to Trafford that he had seen the tall, well-knit figure before, but he did not identify it, for the moment, with the horseman Johnson, the driver, had pointed out.

He was the first to speak; the silence between them was becoming unendurable.

“I am a stranger here,” he said, “and I have lost my way.”

Varley glanced round.

“That is not at all difficult,” he said.

“No,” assented Trafford. “What place is this?”

[319]

“It is called Raven Claim,” answered Varley.

As he spoke, it flashed across his mind that Simon had stipulated that only one person should be sent with the ransom. No doubt he had Esmeralda concealed somewhere near, and was waiting to see what the presence of two men meant.

He, Varley, must get rid of this stranger as quickly as possible.

“May I ask what place you were making for?” he said.

“Three Star Camp,” replied Trafford.

Varley did not start, but he glanced keenly from under his long lashes at the worn and weary face.

“Three Star Camp?” he repeated. “You are a long way from there.”

“I feared so,” said Trafford.

“Yes,” said Varley. “Are you anxious to reach it to-night?”

He looked, as he spoke, at the dust-stained figure and pale face.

“I am very anxious to do so,” said Trafford. “I wish to reach it at the first possible moment, and I shall be extremely obliged if you will direct me.”

“It is not easy to direct you,” said Varley, “but I will endeavor to do so. You appear to have had a long ride?”

“I have,” said Trafford, “and I am almost knocked up; but I must reach Three Star to-night.”

Varley drew a silver flask from his pocket and held it out.

“Will you have a drink?” he said.

Trafford took it gratefully.

“Don’t spare it,” said Varley; and he rolled up a cigarette and watched Trafford, who had seated himself upon the trunk of a felled tree, and was sipping the spirit as a tired man sips who is seeking a stimulant and tonic to enable him to undergo fresh exertion.

“Will you have a cigarette?” asked Varley in his slow and languid way.

“Thank you,” said Trafford, with a faint smile. “I think that will do me as much good as your excellent whisky.”

Varley handed him the pouch and paper, but Trafford’s hands were shaking, and Varley, saying, “Permit me,” took them from him and rolled a cigarette, offering his own for a light, and watched Trafford smoke, with that sense of satisfaction which we all feel when we are playing the part of the Good Samaritan.

“I am very grateful to you,” said Trafford, after a silence,[320] broken only by the breathing of the two horses and the shrill cry of a bird fishing in the stream. “May I ask your name?”

“My name is Howard—Varley Howard,” said Varley.

Trafford started, with his cigarette half-way to his mouth.

“Varley Howard?” he echoed. “Of Three Star Camp?”

“Of Three Star Camp, and very much at your service,” said Varley, with his little drawl. “May I ask the same question?”

Trafford rose.

“My name is Belfayre,” he said.

Varley’s fingers closed over his cigarette, and the red flamed in his face for a second, to leave it deathly pale.

“The Duke of Belfayre?” he said in a perfectly expressionless voice.

“Yes; I am the Duke of Belfayre,” said Trafford.

There was a moment’s silence, Varley breathing hard and looking just above Trafford’s head. The blood was beginning to burn in his veins as Esmeralda’s wrongs rose before him. This man standing there was the man who had deceived her and wrecked the child’s life.

“It seems I am not unknown to you, Mr. Howard.”

Varley drew a long breath.

“You are not,” he said. “I have heard of you. Will you think me impertinently inquisitive if I ask your business in Three Star?”

The blood began to mount to Trafford’s face.

“You have every right to ask me that question, Mr. Howard. It is my duty to answer. I have come in search of my wife.”

“My ward—adopted daughter?”

Trafford inclined his head.

“Yes; I am in search of her, Mr. Howard,” he said.

“What do you want with her?” asked Varley; and if Trafford had known him he would have recognized the ominous significance of his quiet, languid tone.

It was a st............