In about half-an-hour back comes the same cabman and puts a note into Bill Dawson’s hand. He looks at it, stares, swears a bit, and then crumples it up and puts it into his pocket.

Just as it was getting dark, and the last race just run, back comes Sir Ferdinand and all the police. They’d ridden hard, as their horses showed, and Sir Ferdinand (they say) didn’t look half as good-natured as he generally did.

“You’ve lost a great meeting, Morringer,” says the Commissioner. “Great pity you had to be off just when you did. But that’s just like these infernal scoundrels of bush-rangers. They always play up at the most inconvenient time. How did you get on with them?”

“Get on with them?” roars Sir Ferdinand, almost making a hole in his manners—he was that tired out and done he could hardly sit on his horse—” why, we’ve been sold as clean as a whistle. I believe some of the brutes have been here all the time.”

“That’s impossible,” says the Commissioner. “There’s been no one here that the police are acquainted with; not that I suppose Jackson and Murphy know many of the cross boys.”

“No strange men nor horses, no disguises?” says Sir Ferdinand. Here he brings out a crumpled bit of paper, written on—

If sur firdnand makes haist back heel be in time to see Starlite’s Raneboe win the handy capp.

BILLY THE BOY

“I firmly believe that young scoundrel, who will be hanged yet, strung us on after Moran ever so far down south, just to leave the coast clear for the Marstons, and then sent me this, too late to be of any use.”

“Quite likely. But the Marstons couldn’t be here, let alone Starlight, unless— by Jove! but that’s impossible. Impossible! Whew! Here, Jack Dawson, where’s your Indian friend?”

“Gone back to the inn. Couldn’t stand the course after the handicap. You’re to dine with us, Commissioner; you, too, Scott; kept a place, Sir Ferdinand, for you on the chance.”

“One moment, pardon me. Who’s your friend?”

“Name Lascelles. Just from home—came by India. Splendid fellow! Backed Darkie for the handicap—we did, too—won a pot of money.”

“What sort of a horse is this Darkie?”

“Very grand animal. Old fellow had him in a tent, about a mile down the creek; dark bay, star in forehead. Haven’t seen such a horse for years. Like the old Emigrant lot.”

Sir Ferdinand beckoned to a senior constable.

“There’s a tent down there near the creek, I think you said, Dawson. Bring up the racehorse you find there, and anyone in charge.”