The stranger stood a moment at the edge of the side-walk, regarding the hotel across the street, while the other passengers and the driver moved past the Sergeant to enter the post office. When slim, dark fingers began the manufacture of a cigarette, Blake thought the time opportune to learn something of this stranger’s business in a town so situated at the end of one of the long western trails that but few strangers ever came there, even swagmen.

“Staying long in Opal Town?”

The stranger turned to regard him with eyes containing a distinct twinkle.

“I hope not,” he replied, lightly. “Are you Sergeant Blake?”

“I am,” was the cautious reply, followed by a further examination of the stranger’s face and clothes.

“Then I hope you will be pleased to meet me. I am Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte.”

Blake was only just in time to prevent his lower jaw sagging and his eyes widening in astonishment. Napoleon Bonaparte! The man of whom he had heard so much indirectly and semiofficially! The man who, it was said, had never known failure! The man who had so often proved that aboriginal blood and brains were equal to those of the white man! Automatically the Sergeant’s right hand flashed upward in a salute.

“I am more pleased to see you, sir, than you might think,” he said warmly. “Your coming is quite unexpected, sir. I haven’t been notified of it.”

“I dislike advance notices,” Bonaparte murmured, and the Sergeant, seeing that his superior was glancing over his shoulder towards the post office, also lowered his voice when he spoke.

“Will you be putting up at the hotel, sir?”

“That, I think, we shall decide after we have had our conference. I could leave my case with the post office official meanwhile.”