The car was travelling over the fine last stretch of road at fifty-five miles an hour. But Kate was insensible to the speed. A soft blush suffused her cheeks when she met the direct gaze of her companion.
“I don’t love him that way, Uncle,” she said. “Or at least I don’t think I do.” She added reproachfully: “You really should not have drawn that confession from me.”
He saw her embarrassment, took her nearest hand in his two and pressed it. His voice was only a whisper when he said: “Perhaps not, Katie. But never keep any secrets from your old uncle. Some day you will love. Some day Ralph will fall in love. Your aunt and I would be happy if you were to fall in love with each—But no matter, my dear. Whoever is Mr Right—and the man you choose will be Mr Right—be assured, Katie, that you and he have in me a lovers’ friend and confidant. I only want you to be gloriously happy.”
Looking into the beautiful face, he wondered as he always did at the purity written upon it. Just then her eyes were moist and her lips a little parted. She was about to speak, but refrained. Her eyelids fell and the blue liquid pools were hidden. Putting her other hand over his two, she clasped them with a tight, affectionate squeeze.
When they reached the homestead dusk was falling. Their explanation of Ralph’s absence given, they saw a momentary flash of disappointment in the Little Lady’s face.
“Well, well, don’t keep him out there long, John,” she said, putting her arm through his. “You see, he will always ride the most outrageous horses, and sometimes I am afraid.”
“Afraid you needn’t be. Ralph can ride anything,” replied her husband with conviction.
After dinner he left his wife reading in the long drawing room, and Kate playing soft airs on the piano, and proceeded to his office to read the mail arriving that day, and to ring up his riders. For an hour he lounged in the swivel chair behind his desk and was thinking of rejoining the ladies when someone knocked on the door.
“Come in,” he answered, and reached for a cigarette.
A man entered, closing the door again softly. Striding to the desk, he came into the light from the low-hung bulb, and proved to be a stranger.
“Mr Thornton?” he asked in faintly drawling tones.
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
The squatter saw before him a man, whose age he guessed to be between thirty-five and forty. His features were those of the white man; his complexion was a ruddy black, not the jet-black of the thoroughbred aboriginal. He was dressed as a bushman.
“I have a letter for you, Mr Thornton, which will explain my presence.”
The station-owner noted the accent and the grammar, which spoke of constant association with whites from an early age. He accepted a long blue envelope. It contained a sheet of foolscap, headed, “Police Station, Wilcannia”, and read:
Dear Mr Thornton,
The case of the recent murder near your house presents a problem, now no nearer solution. Murders of, or by, aboriginals generally are difficult to investigate, for as you well know the mind of the aboriginal baffles the intelligence of the white.
The baptismal names of the bearer are Napoleon Bonaparte, but he may be persuaded to adopt a nom de plume. In any case, he is entitled to admiration for his powers of observation and deduction, as proved by many past successes in the solving of mysteries concerning aboriginals. In short, he is the finest bush detective in the Commonwealth.
HQ have loaned his services from Queensland, and I have been instructed to ask the favour of your assistance, which is necessary. He himself suggests that you give him employment about the homestead, such as painting your two boats, which I observed required paint. Although he stands much higher in the Force than I do, he will want to dine and live with your hands.
The letter was signed by Sergeant Knowles, and was marked “Strictly Confidential”. Thornton glanced up and regarded his visitor with interest.
“Sit down, Mr Bonaparte,” he said, indicating the chair on the far side of his desk.
The man smiled, revealing gleaming teeth. His blue eyes—the only other indication of the white in him—were twinkling when he said:
“My name, Mr Thornton, is Bony, without any ‘Mister’. Everyone calls me Bony, from my chief to my wife and children in Brisbane.”
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