“The following morning when the hotel yardman went to the stables he found that Kendall’s horse had been takenaway, and the maid found that Kendall’s room had not been occupied by him. Late in the morning of October twelfth the owner of Wattle Creek Station and one of his hands called at the hut at Sandy Flat to leave rations for Kendall. They found his horse standing saddled and bridled outside the horse paddock gate, and they found Kendall lying dead on the floor of his hut. The table was upturned and a chair broken. The door was closed. Kendall lay in a pool of blood, and the doctor who examined the body said that he had been killed with a blunt instrument, his skull badly smashed.”

“What time did you arrive on the scene?” Bony asked.

“Four minutes to two o’clock.”

“What were the weather conditions?”

“Fine with a wind blowing from the west.”

“How strong was the wind?”

“Medium strength, I suppose. Not strong, but strong enough to blow dust.”

“Are there any aborigines in the district?”

“Yes, but they come and go. When here they usually camp at Wattle Creek.”

“Where were they when Kendall was murdered?” asked Bony.

“They were camped on Wattle Creek… below the homestead.”

“None of them was outside the hall that night?”

“No. Two were brought across to Sandy Flat the next day to see if they could pick up any tracks, but by that time the wind had erased any tracks made by Kendall. As I told you, you will have to see the place to know why they failed. By the way, would you mind telling me why you are so sure that Kendall wasn’t killed inside the hut?”

“I will tell you something, but not everything,” Bony said, smiling. “I discovered the fact from one of the photographs taken by the police photographer who accompanied Redman, the picture of the front of the hut.”

“I saw that one. I saw no evidence.”