“I am, of course, Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte.” The faint bow which accompanied this statement appeared to pass unnoticed by Mr. Luton, who said warmly:

“Glad to meet you. Come on in and we’ll boil the billy.”

The dogs stood aside to permit Bony to step directly into the front room. It was an ordinary room, obviously devoted to comfort during winter evenings, the only objects of note being several photographic enlargements of bullock teams attached to table-top wagons loaded with mountains of wool, and two great bullock whips arranged like crossed swords against one wall. Above the small radio on the mantel was suspended, of all things, a bullock yoke.

Bonaparte was conducted to the kitchen-living-room beyond, where Mr. Luton filled a jug from the bench tap and switched on the current. From the cold stove he took a teapot to the back door, tossing the leaves outside and narrowly missing a huge black-and-white cat. The cat came in, the fur on its back standing upright. It was more hostile to the visitor than the dogs had been.

“You got my letter,” remarked Mr. Luton, spooning tea into the pot.

“How did you know I was in Adelaide?” Bony asked.

“Seen your name in the paper. It said youwas mixed up with the investigation into a smuggling racket. Glad you came, Inspector. I beenmore’n a bit worried over Ben Wickham, as I wrote. He was a fine feller. They don’t breed ’emlike him these days.”

Mr. Luton was standing with his back to the stove, seeming to tower over the seated Bonaparte, who was rolling a cigarette.

“Excuse the question,” Bony said, “but how old are you?”

“Me? Eighty-four. Nothing namby-pamby about meWasn’t with Ben Wickham, either, and he was seventy-five. Heart failure, the quack said he died of, due to alcoholic poisoning. Alcoholic poisoning! You ever had the hoo-jahs?”