“The quack said we both oughta be sent up to the Old Men’s Home,” supplemented Knocker Harris indignantly. “And the policeman backed him up. Ruddy bastards, both of ’em.”
“You’d better get back to your camp,” Mr. Luton suggested with some severity. “I got to fix us with a feed, and feed the fowls and the dogs. It’s almost dark.”
A smile of benign satisfaction spread slowly over the weather-bashed features of the neighbour. He said something about seeing them later, and departed. The dogs went with him, only as far as the garden gate.
“You’ll be staying, Inspector, eh?” again pleaded Mr. Luton.
“Of course. You asked me down for the fishing,” replied Bony. “I’m a good fisherman, Mr. Luton.”
Chapter Three
The Picture
THEnight was peaceful and cold. The moon at zenith was almost completely triumphant, for the western sky was fast being drained of light. Beyond the garden fence the three mighty gums ruled a magic world of semi-tones, with the silvered pathway of the river in the distance.
This was not the picture Bony was seeing. He was looking at a picture sharp in places, blurred in others, an unfinished picture. A man had died, and he and those associated with him were the subjects of this picture. They were portrayed brilliantly, were at once recognisable. The circumstances surrounding the dead man’s last hour of life were blurred as though befogged by Mr. Luton’s claims of extraordinary knowledge, knowledge which, superficially, was as fantastic as the dreams of the modern artists. Superficially to everyone save those who, like Bony, were familiar with the extraordinary background of the extraordinary race of men represented by Mr. Luton.
This race has not entirely passed away. The last remnants are still to be found living in peaceful old age on the banks of inland rivers and near a township which they visit only onpensions days.