“No Prince Henry,” demurred Pontius Pilate, the gravity of a great chief having settled over his ebony features. “You no mean King Henry?”

Not a muscle of Clair’s face moved. Not a sign betrayed more than ordinary interest.

“Maybe he was King Henry,” he said slowly. “Worked one time here at Barrakee, I think.”

“That’s him, boss,” agreed the elderly black. “King Henry, Ned’s father. This here is Ned-King Henry’s son.”

“Oh,” drawled Clair, glancing from one to the other. “And what’s your mother called, Ned?”

“Sarah Wanting.”

“Humph! Sarah believes in change.”

“Oh, but Sarah she leave old Mokie now King Henry come back,” chimed in Pontius Pilate, pride of knowledge shining in his eyes.

“Ah!” The exclamation came like a sigh from the gaunt man. “Then your father isn’t far away, Ned?”

“Nope. He come down fromNor ’ Queensland.”

“What’s he been doing up there? Thought he was a Darlingabo.”

“Dunno,” interjected the elder, and then innocently contradictedhimself. “Him bin do a get from white fellerwantakillum. White feller him dead now.”

“Oh! So the coast is clear at last, eh?” And thencame Clair’s momentous question:

“Where’s King Henry now?”

“Him down Menindee. King Henry him bin come upalongariver with Sarah. Going to camp with us.”

The puffs of tobacco-smoke came with unbroken regularity from the gaunt man’s lips. The gleam of satisfaction, of triumph, was hidden by narrowed eyelids. After a moment’s silence, abruptly he turned the conversation, and ten minutes later rose and left the camp.

Back at the boat, without sound, he unmoored it and stepped in. Without a splash, he pushed it across to the further tree-shadows, and, merely keeping it on its course, allowed the current to drift him gently by the camp, down to the station mooring-place.

He was at the open fireplace outside the shearing-shed half an hour later, drinking jet-black tea, and eating a slice of brownie. Between mouthfuls he hummed a tune-not a white man’s tune, but the blood-stirring chant of some war-crazed tribe.