"The chap I chiv'd was as fat as a pig, anyway," said the crooked-mouthed murderer, as he attempted to rub out the guilty stains with a dirty piece of rag. "The blood spurted all over me as soon as I pulled out the knife."

"Take it off, man; it looks as bad as a slaughterman's," said the leader of the gang. "Throw it in the fire."

"I consider I did my man beautifully," said Carnac. "I told him to say his prayers, and while he knelt I just shot him behind the ear. Now, I call that a very pretty method of dying--no struggling, no fuss, no argument, simply a quick departure in an odour of sanct.i.ty." And the gentlemanly murderer laughed quietly and contentedly.

"The blanky banker went ratty when he saw my gun," said Sweet William.

"I had to fair yank 'im through the supple-jacks an' lawyers. It was something horrid--it made my arm ache. At larst I says, 'Look 'ere, are you goin' to walk, or am I to shoot you?' An' he kept on sayin', 'All the gold is on the horse; don't take it all, please,' till I felt sick.

'Up you git,' I says, an' I dragged 'im through the bush, and then bli'me if 'e didn't sit down an' cough an' cry. Such dam' foolishness made me lose patience. I just 'squeezed' 'im where he sat."

"My bloke was the devil to die," said Garstang. "First I shot him one way, then I shot him another; an' at larst I had to chiv 'im with the knife, though it was the larst thing I wanted to do."

"They should all have been 'squeezed,'" said Dolphin, "and nothing's easier if you've got the knack--noiseless, bloodless, traceless, the only scientific way of doin' the work."

"All of which you've said before, Dolly." Sweet William rose and groped his way to the mouth of the cave.

"It's the blamed horses that bother me," said Carnac. "We left their carcases too near the track. We should have taken them a mile or more along, and have shoved them over a precipice, down which they might have fallen by accident in the storm. As it is, they'll be putrid in a fortnight, and make the track impa.s.sable."

"By which time," said Dolphin, "we shall be out of reach."

"What about the Bank?" Garstang asked the question almost insolently. "I thought you 'ad such wonderful plans of yer own."

"The thing's easy enough," retorted Dolphin, "but the question is whether it's worth while. We've made a haul to be proud of; never did men have a better streak o' luck. We've taken hundreds of ounces from a strong escort, which we stopped at the right place, just in the right way, so that they couldn't so much as fire a shot. It would be a crying shame to spoil such a job by bein' trapped over a paltry wooden Bank."

"Trapped be sugared!" said Garstang.

"The inference 'll be"--Sweet William had returned from the cave's mouth, and took up the conversation where he left it--"everybody with any sense'll say the escort an' the banker made orf with the gold--nothin' but blood'ounds could ever find their bodies."

"It's bin a wonderful time," said Dolphin, "but we can't expect such luck to foller us around like a poodle-dog."

"I'm for havin' a slap at the Bank, anyway," growled Garstang.

"Imagine the effect upon the public mind--the robbery of an escort and a bank, both in one week!" This was how the gentlemanly Carnac regarded the question. "It'd be a record. We'd make a name that wouldn't easily be forgotten. _I'm_ for trying."

"Well, it's stopped raining, blokes," said Sweet William, "but outside it's dark enough to please an owl. If we want to get into Timber Town without bein' seen, now's the time to start." So saying, he picked up his "swag," which he hitched upon his back.

The other men rose, one by one, and shouldered their packs, in which each man carried his gold.

With much lumbering, stumbling, and swearing, the murderers slowly departed, groping their way to the mouth of the cave by the light of the fire, which they left burning.

Tresco waited till the last sound of their voices had died away, then he stretched his cramped, benumbed limbs, heaved a deep sigh of relief, and rose to his feet.

"My G.o.d, what monsters!" He spoke under his breath, for fear that even the walls should hear him. "If they had found me they'd have thought as little of cutting my throat as of killing a mosquito. If ever I thanked G.o.d in my life--well, well--every nerve of me is trembling. That's the reaction. I must warm myself, and have a bite of food."

After carefully scattering the murderers' fire, he groped his way to his inner cell, and there he made his best endeavours to restore his equanimity with warmth, food, and drink.

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

The Perturbations of the Bank Manager.

The windows of the Kangaroo Bank were ablaze with light, although the town clock had struck eleven. It was the dolorous hour when the landlord of The Lucky Digger, obliged by relentless law, reluctantly turned into the street the topers and diggers who filled his bar.

Bare-headed, the nails of his right hand picking nervously at the fingers of his left, the manager of the Bank emerged from a side-door.

He glanced up the dark street towards the great mountains which loomed darkly in the Cimmerian gloom.

"Dear me, dear me," murmured he to himself, "he is very late. What can have kept him?" He glanced down the street, and saw the small crowd wending its way from the hostelry. "It was really a most dreadful storm, the most dreadful thunderstorm I ever remember." His eye marked where the light from the expansive windows of the Bank illumined the wet asphalt pavement. "Landslips frequently occur on newly made tracks, especially after heavy rain. It's a great risk, a grave risk, this transporting of gold from one place to another."

"'Evenin', boss. Just a little cheque for twenty quid. I'll take it in notes."

The men from The Lucky Digger had paused before the brilliantly lighted building.

"Give him a chance.... Let him explain.... Carn't you see there's a run on the Bank."

"Looks bad.... Clerks in the street.... All lighted up at this time o'

night.... No money left."

"Say, boss, have they bin an' collared the big safe? Do you want a.s.sistance?"

The Manager turned to take refuge in the Bank, but his tormentors were relentless.

"Hold on, mate--you're in trouble. Confide in us. If the books won't balance, what matter? Don't let that disturb your peace of mind. Come and have a drink.... Take a hand at poker.... First tent over the bridge, right-hand side."

"It's no go, boys. He's narked because he knows we want an overdraft.

Let 'im go and count his cash."

The Manager pulled himself free from the roisterers and escaped into the Bank by the side door, and the diggers continued noisily on their way.

The lights of the Bank suddenly went out, and the Manager, after carefully locking the door behind him, crossed over the street to the livery stables, where a light burned during the greater part of the night. In a little box of a room, where harness hung on all the walls, there reclined on a bare and dusty couch a red-faced man, whose hair looked as if it had been closely cropped with a pair of horse-clippers.

When he caught sight of the banker, he sat up and exclaimed, "Good G.o.d, Mr. Tomkinson! Ain't you in bed?"

"It's this gold-escort, Manning--it was due at six o'clock."

"Look here." The stable-keeper rose from his seat, placed his hand lovingly on a trace which hung limply on the wall. "Don't I run the coach to Beaver Town?--and I guess a coach is a more ticklish thing to run than a gold-escort. Lord bless your soul, isn't every coach supposed to arrive before dark? But they don't. 'The road was slippy with frost--I had to come along easy,' the driver'll say. Or it'll be, 'I got stuck up by a fresh in the Brown River.' That's it. I know. But they always arrive, sometime or other. I'll bet you a fiver--one of your own, if you like--that the rivers are in flood, and your people can't get across. Same with the Beaver Town coach. She was due at six o'clock, and here've I been drowsing like a more-pork on this couch, when I might have been in bed. An' to bed I go. If she comes in to-night, the driver can darn well stable the 'orses himself. Good night."

This was a view of the question that had not occurred to Mr. Tomkinson, but he felt he must confer with the Sergeant of Police.

The lock-up was situated in a by-street not far from the centre of the town. The Sergeant was sitting at a desk, and reading the entries in a big book. His peaked shako lay in front of him, and he smoked a cigar as he pored over his book.

He said nothing, he barely moved, when the banker entered; but his frank face, in which a pair of blue eyes stood well apart, lighted up with interest and attention as Mr. Tomkinson told his tale. When the narrative was ended, he said quietly, "Yes, they may be weather-bound.

Did you have a clear understanding that the gold was to be brought in to-day?"

"It was perfectly understood."

"How much gold did you say there was?"

"From fifteen to twenty thousand pounds' worth--it depends on how much the agent has bought."