It was now ten minutes to nine, and on to the veranda through the sitting-room stepped a white-faced man whose eyes were startlingly blue and whose jet-black hair was lowered over his high forehead in what is known in England as a quiff. He was rotund, youthful, well under forty years of age. His trousers and open waistcoat were of dark tweed, his dress-shirt was without collar and tie, and on his feet were tan leather slippers. When he spoke London sprang out of his mouth.

“Mornin”, ma’am!”

“Good morning, James.”

Mrs. Nelson turned slightly in herchair, the better to examine her barman, and James hastily buttoned his waistcoat, then gently flapping in the wind, and endeavoured to hide hisslippered feet under the table. James Spinks had been Mrs. Nelson’s barman for eight years, and he was, therefore, conversant with Mrs. Nelson’s passion for-among other things-sartorial neatness.

“Is the mail on time this morning, James?” he was sternly asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Five passengers. All men. All passengers going through to Allambee.”

“Of course everything is ready for them?”

“Too right, ma’am.”

“Any trouble last night from Constable Lee?”

“No. No trouble at all, ma’am. Live and let live is Constable Lee. Heain’t severe-like on dance nights and Christmas Eve.”

“Mr. Borradale-did he call in?”

“Yes, ma’am. He and the doctor slipped in just afore the dance started and then again about midnight.”

“Very well, James. After the coach has gone on, ask Fred Storrie to come up for a minute. That will be all.”

James accepted his dismissal with a vigorous nod, which made it apparent that the quiff was too heavily greased to come unstuck from his forehead, and he having vanished, as people always seemed to do when Mrs. Nelson had finished with them, that lady proceeded with her breakfast and her watching study of Nogga Creek.