“Am I to understand that you are the detective-inspector of that name?” he asked. Bony nodded. Morris regarded him keenly. He looked into a ruddy-brown face made up of the sharp features of the Saxon; he gazed into the wide-open, fearless blue eyes of the Nordic; and, whilst he looked, the many rumours, and the few authentic cases, which had come to his knowledge of this strange being flashed across his mind. Sergeant Morris shook hands but seldom. He shook with Bony. And Bony smiled. The sergeant knew then that he stood in the presence of a man not only superior in rank, but superior also in mentality.

“I have one or two documents to present to you,” Bony explained, “and, if I may make a suggestion, why not fill my billy-can from your water-bag and make tea whilst I hunt for them in the depths of my swag?”

“Agreed, Mr Bonaparte,” the sergeant said, turning to his horse, which had been standing with the bridle reins hanging to the ground.

“If you please-Bony,” urged the softer voice.

Sergeant Morris turned. Then he smiled quizzically.

“Bony-if you prefer it.”

“You see, everyone calls me Bony,” the detective explained. “My three children do. So does my chief. Even a State Governor and a British peer have called me Bony. Although I am the greatest detective Australia has ever known, I am unworthy to polish the top-boots of the greatest emperor the world has ever known. I oftenthink, when the humorous matron named me, that she slighted the Little Corporal.”

“He was certainly a wonderful man,” agreed Morris, lighting the twigs placed around the billy. The sergeant’s back was turned towards the other, yet he did not smile, although Bony’s simple vanity tempted him. It was by no means empty vanity, if only a fraction of the half-caste’s activities which had drifted to him through official channels were true. Then: “Are you here, by any chance, to investigate the disappearance of the man Marks?”