Issued Weekly. By Subscription $2.50 per year. Application has been made as Second Class Matter at the N. Y. Post Office, by Street & Smith, 238 William St., N. Y. Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1903, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.

Old Broadbrim Into the Heart of Australia;

OR,

A STRANGE BARGAIN AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

By the author of "OLD BROADBRIM."

[CONTENTS]

[CHAPTER I. OLD BROADBRIM'S STRANGE BARGAIN.]
[CHAPTER II. THE MIDNIGHT MURDER.]
[CHAPTER III. THE CLEW AND THE TALISMAN.]
[CHAPTER IV. THE LONDON TRAIL.]
[CHAPTER V. IN THE WAKE OF A MYSTERY.]
[CHAPTER VI. SPOTTED IN AUSTRALIA.]
[CHAPTER VII. THE TERRIBLE DEATH-TRAP.]
[CHAPTER VIII. DEMONA, THE RANCH QUEEN.]
[CHAPTER IX. OLD BROADBRIM ONCE MORE.]
[CHAPTER X. A TERRIBLE MOMENT.]
[CHAPTER XI. THE FACE IN THE HAY.]
[CHAPTER XII. OLD BROADBRIM AND THE FAIR AVENGER.]
[CHAPTER XIII. BLACK GEORGE'S WARNING.]
[CHAPTER XIV. THE TEST UNDER THE STARS.]
[CHAPTER XV. OLD BROADBRIM MAKES A BARGAIN AGAIN.]
[CHAPTER XVI. THE DOOM OF WATERS.]
[CHAPTER XVII. OLD BROADBRIM'S CATCH IN PERTH.]
[CHAPTER XVIII. BELLE DEMONA'S MATCH.]
[CHAPTER XIX. OLD BROADBRIM TIGHTENS THE COIL.]
[CHAPTER XX. BACK TO THE DEATH-TRAP.]
[CHAPTER XXI. THE ESCAPE OF THE DOOMED.]
[CHAPTER XXII. OLD BROADBRIM'S DESPERATE HAND.]
[CHAPTER XXIII. THE WOMAN WITH THE REVOLVER.]
[CHAPTER XXIV. THE QUAKER'S TRUMPS WIN.]

[CHAPTER I.]

OLD BROADBRIM'S STRANGE BARGAIN.

The 12th of April, 189—, as Old Broadbrim, the famous Quaker detective, will ever remember, fell on a Thursday.

Just after the noon hour on that day he received a letter asking him to come to one of the most elegant private residences on Fifth Avenue.

He was sure no crime had been committed, and he was puzzled to guess just what the invitation meant.

The owner of the mansion was Custer Kipp, one of the richest and best-known dwellers on the avenue, a man who counted his wealth almost by the tens of millions, so it was said at least, and the detective had seen him often on the street and in his elegant turnout in the parks.

Old Broadbrim answered the letter in person, as was his wont.

He reached the door of the mansion, and his ring was answered immediately, as if he was expected, and a servant conducted him into the library.

In an armchair at the mahogany desk sat the millionaire.

Custer Kipp was a man of sixty-three, a tall, slim, but handsome, person, and withal a person who was approachable to a fault.

He was a widower at the time, and his only child was a son named Foster.

This young man was not in at the time of the detective's call, and the only other person in the house who belonged to the household was the nabob's ward, Miss Nora Doon, a young lady just quitting her teens and the pet of the mansion.

Custer Kipp smiled drearily when the figure of the Quaker crossed the threshold, and invited him to a seat near the desk.

"I am glad you came," said he. "I sent word to my friend, the inspector, to send me one of his best men, and I am rejoiced that he saw fit to send you, of whom I have heard."

Old Broadbrim bowed and waited.

"My case is a peculiar one, and, perhaps, a little out of the line of your business. Do you ever play the part of Cerberus, Mr. Broadbrim?"

"Not very often."

"I thought not," smiled the millionaire. "I have no crime for you to unravel, but if things are permitted to drift as they are going just now, you will have a first-class mystery on your hands ere long."

"You do not want me to wait, I see," said Old Broadbrim.

"That is it exactly. I don't care to wait to be foully murdered."

"I would think not. It isn't a very pleasant prospect, but perhaps it is not as bad as you suppose."

"It is very bad. I am in the shadow of death, but I don't care to go into details just now. I want you to guard my person for one year, and if at the end of that time I am still in the land of the living, why, your work ceases."

"It's a strange commission," replied the detective.

"I thought you would call it such. I am to be guarded against an enemy insidious and merciless. I am on the 'black list.'"

"On the black list, eh?"

"Exactly," and the rich man turned a shade paler. "I will give you twenty-five thousand dollars if you guard me for one year. You will not be required to make your home under my roof—I could not ask that—but you will be asked to take care of my foe if he should prove too aggressive."

"But, sir, to be able to do that I shall have to know something about this enemy."

"Just so. You don't know him now—have never seen him, perhaps, although you may have passed him fifty times on the street within the last six months since he landed in this city."

"Oh, he's a foreigner, is he?"

"I can't say that he is, though he has passed some years under a foreign sky. This man is not alone in his dark work; he has a confederate, a person whose beauty years ago nearly proved my ruin."

Old Broadbrim did not speak.

Already the traditional woman had entered the case.

"For one year, Mr. Broadbrim," continued Custer Kipp, coming back to the original proposition. "Is it a bargain?"

The detective sat silent and rigid for a few seconds.

Never before had a proposition of that sort been made to him.

It would take him from cases that might spring up to demand his attention.

After all, the man before him might have no enemy at all, and the time spent in watching him might prove lost time, though twenty-five thousand dollars would be his at the end of the year.

"If you accept, remember that for one year you belong to me, will be subject to my commands, will have to go whither I send you, and you will not be permitted to follow your calling beyond them."

"It binds one rather close," said Old Broadbrim.

"I want a man who will belong to me. He must devote his whole time to keeping the hand of death away from me, and——"

Custer Kipp leaned forward and opened the desk.

Running his hand into it, he pulled out a package and untied it before the detective's eyes.

"This is a picture of the man as he looked twenty years ago," he said, throwing a photograph on the desk. "He has changed some, of course, but he is the same cool-headed demon he was then."

"And the other—the woman?"

The nabob started.

"I have no picture of her save the one I carry in my memory. I haven't seen her since a fatal night at Monaco."

He laid the picture down and looked squarely at the detective.

"No more now. Will you accept?"

It was a novel and romantic engagement and appealed strongly to the detective's curiosity.

He thought rapidly for ten seconds, after which he looked into Custer Kipp's eyes and said:

"I accept."

"A thousand thanks! I feel younger already—I feel that I will yet escape this vendetta, that I have years of useful life ahead and that I will die in my house when my time comes. But one word. Not a whisper of this bargain beyond the walls of my house. Not a word to my children, for I call Nora my child the same as Foster. It must be our secret, Mr. Broadbrim."

"It shall be ours."

"That's right. Now, sir, if you will come back to-morrow I will give you the commission in detail. I will study up all the points you should know, and then you will see into your task and will know just what you will be expected to do."

Old Broadbrim, a man of brevity, picked up his hat.

"I will be here," he said. "Thee can trust me," using, as he did at times, the Quaker formula.

In another moment he had turned his back on the millionaire and was walking toward the hall.

At the door he glanced over his shoulder and saw the figure of Custer Kipp bent over the desk, and the face was buried in the arms.

Old Broadbrim closed the door and went away.

Down in his office, in the room in which he had thought out more than one tangle of crime, he threw himself into his armchair and took up a cigar.

"What have I done?" he asked himself. "Is the man mad? What is this invisible fear which almost paralyzes him? Why does he send for me to watch him for a year when he could fly to the ends of the world, for he has money to take him anywhere, and thus escape the enemy? But I'll do my part."

The day deepened, and the shadows of night fell over the city.

Old Broadbrim came forth, and walked a few squares after which he turned suddenly and rapped at a door belonging to a small house in a quiet district.

The portal was opened by a man not very young, but wiry and keen-eyed.

"Come in. I've been waiting for you," said this person. "I have a case for you—one which the police have not yet discovered. It will produce rich results."

The detective's countenance seemed to drop.

Here it was already.

He began to see how foolish he had been to make a bargain with Custer Kipp.

"What is it, Clippers?" he asked.

"It's just the sort o' case you've been looking for," was the reply. "On the next street is a dead man—a man whose life must have gone out violently yesterday or last night. You don't know him, but I do. Jason Marrow has been a study and a puzzle to me for three years. We have met occasionally, but never got on familiar terms. Now he's dead and is there yet, in his little room, with marks of violence on his throat and the agony in his glassy eyes. Won't you come with me? I have been holding the matter for you."

Old Broadbrim said he would at once take a look at the mystery, and Clippers, his friend, offered to conduct him to the scene of the tragedy.

The two entered a little house near the mouth of an alley, and Clippers led the way to a room to the left of the hall.

"He's a mystery—got papers of importance hid in the house, but we'll find them in course of time," he chattered. "It's going to be a deep case, just to your liking, Mr. Broadbrim, but you'll untangle it, for you never fail."

At this moment the pair entered the room and the hand of Clippers pointed to a couch against the wall.

Old Broadbrim stepped nimbly forward and bent over the bed.

A rigid figure lay upon it, and the first glance told him that death had been busy there.

"Who is he?" asked the detective.

"It's Jason Marrow. You didn't know him. Precious few people did. The papers which he has hidden will tell us more and we'll find them. It's your case, Mr. Broadbrim."

"I can't take it, Clippers."

The other fell back with a cry of amazement.

"You can't take it?" he gasped. "In the name of Heaven, are you mad, Mr. Broadbrim?"

"I hope not."

"But it's just the sort o' case you like. There's mystery in it. Killed by some one as yet unknown. Strangled by a hand unseen and dead in his little den."

"Yes, I know, Clippers, but it's not for me."

"Why not?"

"I'm engaged."

"On something better? On a deeper mystery than the death of Jason Marrow?"

"I don't know. I only know that I can't take this matter into my hands."

"Well, I'm stumped!" cried Clippers.

"And I'm sorry," answered the great detective. "I'll tell the police. I'll see that Hargraves or Irwin get the job. That's all I can do. For one year I belong to—to another master."

There was no reply to this; Clippers showed that he was "stumped."

[CHAPTER II.]

THE MIDNIGHT MURDER.

"Come!" said Clippers, when he got second wind, "maybe you can get the other one to release you."

"He won't do that. The bargain's been sealed."

"You're not going to retire?"

"Well, hardly."

"That's good, anyhow. If the other fellows, Hargraves or Irwin, get at fault you won't refuse to join in the hunt for the murderer of poor Marrow?"

"I will be free at the end of a year under certain contingencies—perhaps a good deal sooner."

"Well, I wish it was to-morrow," cried Clippers. "I want you to take this case; but we'll have to see the others and let Tom or Pappy reap new fame."

Half an hour later the two detectives named Hargraves and Irwin knew all there was to know at the time of the death of Jason Marrow.

It was not much, for the slayer had done his work with great secrecy and had left no clews behind.

The matter was destined to become a mystery to the department, a deep puzzle to the best men on the force for months.

Old Broadbrim went back to his room after the find in the house near the mouth of the alley.

"Confound it all! why did I bind myself for a year to play Cerberus for Custer Kipp?" he mused. "Here's the very sort of case I've been looking for, but my hands are tied, and I can't get out of the matter unless I go to his house and absolutely back out of the bargain. In that case I would lose the twenty-five thousand dollars and—— No, I'll stick!"

For long into the night there was a light in the detective's room, and he might have been found at the table at work.

It was near midnight when a footstep came to the door and stopped there.

Old Broadbrim heard the noise and waited for the rap.

When it sounded he crossed the room and opened the door.

A young man with a very white face and a figure that trembled a little stepped forward.

"You're the gentleman, I guess? You're Josiah Broadbrim?"

"I am."

"You are wanted at once at Custer Kipp's home on Fifth Avenue. Miss Nora sent me and I didn't go in to look at him."

"To look at whom?" asked the detective.

"Why, at Mr. Kipp. He was found dead in the library an hour ago."

The detective started violently and looked at the man in his chair.

"Is it murder?" he asked.

"I can't say. Miss Nora didn't tell me, but from the aspects of the case I think it's serious."

"I'll come."

The young man arose and hastened from the room.

"Not so soon, I hope?" said the detective to himself. "Can it be that my espionage ends almost before the bargain is cold? Dead in the library? It's marvelous."

Old Broadbrim soon appeared at the Kipp door and was admitted.

He found the parlor well filled with strange people, for the most part neighbors in the upper circles of city life, but here and there was a representative of the lower classes who had edged their way into the mansion.

The moment the detective crossed the threshold he was approached by a young girl, with clear blue eyes and a good carriage, who instantly addressed him.

"You are Josiah Broadbrim?" she said questioningly. "Yes, you are the detective whom I sent for?"

Old Broadbrim nodded.

"Then, come with me. He is in the library and I have locked the door."

The detective was conducted from the parlor and the nabob's ward opened the door of the library.

In another instant she had closed it and they stood in the large chamber, elegantly furnished, and containing rows of books magnificently bound, for Custer Kipp had spared no pains with his tastes.

"There he is," said the girl with lowered voice, as she pointed toward a figure in the armchair. "No one has touched him, for I forbade it, and you are the first person to see him dead beside myself and the person who did the deed."

The detective stepped forward, and the hand of Nora Doon turned the gas a little higher.

Custer Kipp was leaning back in the chair with his white face turned toward the ceiling.

The arms hung downward as if they had slipped over the sides of the seat, and the face showed traces of the death agony.

"I heard but little," said Nora, while the detective looked at the dead. "I go upstairs early when I am not at the opera or elsewhere. I remained at home to-night for I had letters to write, and he came home from a ride about seven.

"I heard him in the library bustling about for an hour while I read in my room, and then everywhere silence seemed to come down over the house. When I arose to retire I thought I would look downstairs, as is my wont, and see if all was snug. As I came down the stairs I peeped over the transom of the library, as one can do from the head of the flight, and to my horror I saw him in the position you see him now.

"There was something so unnatural in the pose, something suggestive of sickness if not death—for I must own that the thought of sudden death interposed itself—that I bounded to the foot of the stair and opened the door, which was not locked.

"In another moment I knew all. I saw that he was dead, and, what is more, I saw that he had been killed. You will notice the dark marks which linger still at the throat, as if he had been strangled like the thugs serve their victims. Isn't it terrible? To have him taken away in this manner, and to-morrow was to be his birthday."

She ceased and glanced at the man in the chair, while a shadow of fear and inward dread seemed to take possession of her soul.

"I don't know just where Foster is," she went on. "He went away nearly a week ago, and I never heard papa say where he is. However, he will see the news in the papers, and will be here in a short time. I told Simpson, the servant, as soon as I recovered, for I lost all control of myself under the terrible discovery, and there's no telling how long I lay in a swoon on the carpet here. As soon as I could I sent him after you."

"But," smiled Old Broadbrim, "how did you know where to find me?"

"I found your card in the desk. I remember seeing you in the house to-day, though I knew nothing of the nature of your mission. He has been in fear of something for some time. I have noticed this, and think it has not escaped Foster's eye. But we'll know about this when he returns."

"My card was all you found, miss?"

"Yes; but I'll admit that I did not look thoroughly. The front door was unlocked when I went thither after the discovery in this room, but—— What is it, Simpson?"

The servant had entered the room and stood near the door with his eyes riveted upon the young girl.

When she spoke his name he came forward and extended his hand.

"I picked this up in the hall just now. It's a curious bit of paper, part of a letter."

Nora took the find and glanced at it, then handed it to the Quaker man-hunter.

Old Broadbrim looked at it, going over to the desk where the droplight swung.

"Tell the people in the parlor that they can go now, Simpson," said Nora. "The police will be here in a little while. The detective is already here."

Old Broadbrim looked up at Nora as Simpson left the room, and his look drew her toward him.

"Is it anything?" she asked.

The detective still held the bit of paper in his hand.

"It may not be of any use," said he, slightly elevating the paper. "Some one of the people out there may have dropped it."

The gaze of the young girl fell upon the paper, and Old Broadbrim continued:

"Did Mr. Kipp ever have any correspondents in Australia?" he asked.

Nora shook her head, but the next instant she lost some color.

"Stay!" she cried. "I remember now that he received a letter some months ago, which seemed to trouble him a great deal. That letter was from Australia."

"Do you remember from what particular part, Miss Nora?"

"I do not."

"Could we find it among his effects, think you?"

"I am sure we cannot. Of that I say I am very positive. He destroyed it."

"That is bad."

"Is that message from that part of the world?"

And the hand of Nora Doon pointed at the paper in the detective's hand.

"It is merely the fragment of a letter. It is little better than an address. It is—— But you shall see it for yourself."

Old Broadbrim extended the paper, and the girl took it eagerly, but with some show of fear.

He watched her as she leaned forward and looked at the writing in the light of the dropjet.

Suddenly the young lady uttered a cry, and then turned upon the man-hunter with a frightened face absolutely colorless.

"It's from the same part of the world; I remember now!" she exclaimed. "The postmark on that letter was Perth. The whole thing comes back to me. The postman brought the letter to the house, and I carried it to his desk to await his coming home. It the same name—Perth. Where is it?"

"You mean in what part of Australia, miss?"

"Yes, yes."

"It is in West Australia, and beyond it lie the barren and death lands of the great island. But what is the name?"

"Merle Macray," spoke Nora, in a whisper. "What a strange name it is, and don't you see that the handwriting is that of one of my sex? And the line above the address—just look at it in the light of this murderous deed. 'Don't let him see sixty-four!' That means that the command to kill Custer Kipp comes from that far part of the globe. It makes it all the more terrible."

Old Broadbrim took the paper and put it away.

"Not a word about this, please," he said to the girl.

"I am your secret keeper," she answered. "This matter is in your hands. When Foster comes home you can tell him about the torn letter if you wish, but I will not without your authority. The slayer of my benefactor must be found."

"He shall be."

"Even if the trail leads across the sea?"

"Yes, even if it leads around the world and into the heart of the wild Australian bush."

In after days Old Broadbrim, the tracker, was to recall his words with many a thrill.

[CHAPTER III.]

THE CLEW AND THE TALISMAN.

The death of Custer Kipp, the nabob, startled the whole city.

For some time New York had been in the midst of a carnival of crime, but this murder capped the climax.

No one thought of the other case, that got into the newspapers at the same time.

The death of Jason Marrow in his little den near the mouth of the alley did not take up half the space, and the reporters did not care to discuss it.

But the life of the millionaire was published; his past was ventilated so far as the reporters knew it, and they made out that he was one of the pillars of the metropolis, and there were loud calls for swift and certain vengeance.

Old Broadbrim was not to be found.

The inspector probably knew what had become of him, for he put Hargraves and Irwin on the case, and intimated that for once the Quaker detective would not stand between the pair, nor wrest from them the laurels to be gained in the Fifth Avenue mystery.

Custer Kipp did not go to the morgue, but Jason Marrow did.

The surgeons went at him in the most approved style, and decided, after more cutting than was necessary, that the man had died from strangulation.

The forenoon of the day after the discovery of the murder on the avenue, Old Broadbrim went back to Clippers' house.

The wiry little man received him with a good deal of excitement, and immediately took a package of papers from his bosom.

"I found them—the papers which I knew Jason had hid somewhere in the house," he exclaimed. "It took a long hunt, and I ransacked the whole place, but here they are."

Old Broadbrim took a seat at the table and began to open the jumbled papers.

"Where did Jason come from, Clippers?" he asked while he worked.

"I don't know. He would never tell me much about his past, but he had traveled some. He had been around the world, and at one time lived in Australia."

Just then something fell out of the package, and Old Broadbrim picked it up.

It was the counterpart of the photograph Custer Kipp had shown him in the library—the face of his deadly foe.

How had it come into Jason Marrow's possession?

Where did the occupant of the alley den get hold of it, and what did he know of the man it represented?

Clippers stood over his friend, the detective, and folded his arms while Old Broadbrim read the written papers found in the little house.

"It's strange, very strange," muttered the detective. "These may give me a clew to the other mystery."

"Those documents, eh?"

"The documents and the photograph."

"It's an old affair, the picture, I mean."

"Yes, taken years ago, but the man may wear the same features to some extent, and by this picture I may know him."

"Who do you think he is, Mr. Broadbrim?"

Old Broadbrim looked up into the face of Clippers.

"Perhaps the man who killed Jason Marrow," he said.

"Then, you are going to take the trail and beat Hargraves and Irwin to the end of it?"

"I am on another trail," quietly spoke the detective. "I am not going to bother the boys unless my trail crosses theirs—then I will play out my hand boldly."

After reading over the papers left behind by Jason Marrow, Old Broadbrim arose and thrust them into an inner pocket.

His face was as serene as ever, and nothing told that he had found what might prove a clew.

From Clippers' house he went direct to the offices of the Cunard Line.

It was the day for the sailing of one of that line's boats for Liverpool, and the detective was soon looking over the list of passengers.

Suddenly his eye stopped at a name and rested there.

It was a name he had just seen in the papers he had read in Clippers' house.

"Too late!" said the detective, as he turned away. "A few hours too late. The murderer is gone. Ere this he is fairly at sea on the deck of the Campania and I—I am in New York!"

Old Broadbrim quitted the office and got once more into the sunlight.

Taking a cab, he hastened to the offices of the White Star Line, and entered coolly but anxious.

He inquired at the proper desk when the next steamer of the line sailed for Liverpool.

"The Oceanic will leave her dock this afternoon."

The face of the detective seemed to flush with rising joy.

On the instant he engaged a cabin and walked out.

"We will see how the chase ends," said he, in undertones. "It may prove a long one, but, thanks to Jason Marrow's story, I may not be altogether on the wrong trail."

An hour later he stood once more beneath the roof of the murdered millionaire.

This time he was met by Foster Kipp, the dead man's son, a young man of twenty-five, with an open countenance, but eager and determined.

"I heard of this terrible affair in Albany, whither I went on some business for father. It came sooner than he expected."

"He expected it, then?"

"Yes; once he confided to me that he had an enemy, and said he was 'blacklisted.' I never pressed him for particulars, for he was reticent, but I firmly believe that the blow which fell last night was the one he dreaded."

"It was," said the detective. "Your father was killed by a hand in whose shadow he must have been for at least six months."

"Yes; nearly that long ago I found him in a faint on the carpet of the library, for he had received a warning of some kind and I failed to get the secret from him. It must be the old enemy—the one he made in Europe."

"He traveled through the Continent, then?"

"I believe he made a tour of the world. I recall some of his descriptions of places which are very far apart. But the most terrible thing connected with this is that he should be killed in his own house, deliberately strangled, while Nora was quietly reading in her boudoir upstairs."

"It makes it the more mysterious. The murderer entered by the front door and made his exit that way. He knew the mansion; he knew that your father was at home and unprotected."

"It must have been thus. Had I been at home the blow would not have fallen. He was killed on the eve of his sixty-fourth birthday. Why didn't the monster permit him to round out the year?"

"Perhaps that was in the scheme."

"Heavens! I never thought of that!" cried Foster Kipp. "It must have been a part of the diabolical game—to kill him before he became sixty-four. I remember last year he received a letter which threw him into a white rage, and tearing it up in this room he declared that he would pass this day safely and live many years yet. But it was not to be; the foe found him."

For half an hour longer the detective talked with the son and drew from him all he knew about his father's past.

"I nominate you his avenger," said Foster, looking calmly into Old Broadbrim's face, while they occupied armchairs near the desk in the fatal library. "I send you out on this trail asking you to follow it wherever it leads, through thick and thin, never losing sight of it till you close in upon the murderer. Drag him from his hiding place; stand him under the noose and then come to me for your reward. It will not be small. Father left millions behind, and they are mine now—mine and Nora's, and she joins me in this hunt for the murderer."

Old Broadbrim stood before the young man and looked into his white face, earnest with anxiety and seamed with eagerness that seemed to be devouring him.

"I believe, after talking with Nora, that the enemies are foreign ones," continued Foster Kipp. "Father has within the last five years received letters at intervals which came from some remote corners of the world. One of them, I saw by a fragment of the envelope, came from London, another from Paris and a third from Melbourne. This would seem to indicate the restless nature of the enemy. But the trail leads across the water, Mr. Broadbrim. I am sure of this. It may be a long one, but you are equal to it."

Old Broadbrim stood at the door of the mansion and was looking into Foster's face when he heard a sound in another room, and Miss Nora bounded forward.

"What do you think?" she cried, stopping before the detective. "Is it to be a trail across the water?"

"It looks that way, miss," was the answer.

"Then take this for luck—take it with the prayers of Nora Doon," and she pressed into the detective's hand a little packet quite flat and much smaller than his hand.

Old Broadbrim looked at it, but did not open it.

Placing it in his pocket he shook hands with Foster Kipp and Nora and turned away.

Many a month was to pass ere they looked upon his face again.

Many a dark danger was to be met and surmounted, many a wild scene passed through before he could look upon the sunlight of success, and the path he had selected to tread within the last few hours was a path of death.

In his little office the detective made hasty preparations for departure.

He went in light marching order, but provided in many ways for the long journey.

Booked for London, he packed his little grip, and on the street below looked around upon familiar scenes perhaps for the last time.

He hastened to the White Star offices and went on board the vessel in which he had taken passage.

In the little stateroom he made ready for the voyage, and sat down to think a moment.

All at once the little packet which Nora Doon had placed in his hands came to his mind, and he fished it from the depths of the inner pocket.

With a half smile at his lips the detective opened it slowly and then the smile broadened.

He held in his hand a four-leaved clover, and on the paper upon which it rested were "The best wishes of Nora Doon."

The detective tore the paper into bits, but carefully preserved the little talisman.

Ten minutes later the steamer was moving from her dock and the famous detective went up on deck.

He was on the longest and most exciting trail of his life; the chase across the ocean had begun, and Old Broadbrim, as he looked out over the water, wondered what the end would be.

[CHAPTER IV.]

THE LONDON TRAIL.

Before stepping upon the deck of the Oceanic Old Broadbrim did two things that have not been recorded.

In the first place, he went back to the office of the Cunard Line and obtained a fair description of the man who had taken passage in the Campania under the name of Rufus Redmond.

This man he had every reason for believing was Merle Macray, the person he wanted.

Having done this, the detective cabled to his friend, Tom Owens, the well-known Scotland Yarder, in London, the description of the passenger, with a request that he watch for him and shadow him till he (Old Broadbrim) could reach England.

He knew that his wishes would be carried out to the letter, and that Tom Owens would spot his man the moment the steamer arrived in Liverpool, so on this score Old Broadbrim rested easy.

No one on board the Oceanic suspected that the plain-looking business man with the agile step and the glossy gray beard was the famous Quaker.

He did not confine himself to his stateroom, but came up on deck to chat with his fellow-travelers, and almost before the vessel had passed Sandy Hook he knew them all.

He could not expect to overtake the Cunarder, therefore he could only hope to reach London and find his man, who, in the meantime, would be shadowed by Tom Owens.

The detective had the promise of a fine voyage and the steamer plowed her way through the deep in magnificent style.

Old Broadbrim was found on deck every day, and as the Oceanic neared the English shore he became a little anxious.

The moment he stepped upon the dock in Liverpool, after a short run, in which the record was nearly broken, he hastened to a little house not far from the pier which was a rendezvous for detectives.

If Tom Owens had been in Liverpool there would be a message for him, and he was not disappointed.

Old Broadbrim found in a secret box in the house this brief note:

"I have found him. He leaves for London to-night, and so do I.

Tom"

With this encouraging message from the Scotland Yarder, Old Broadbrim went leisurely to his breakfast, and soon after finishing it started for London.

Nothing happened to mar the progress of the chase, and at last he stepped from the cars in the great station.

He secured a hansom and drove to the lodgings of Tom Owens and sprang up the steps.

Everything seemed to depend on what the suspected man had done.

Was Rufus Redmond still in London, or had he eluded Tom?

A few moments would tell.

Old Broadbrim rapped at the detective's door and heard his well-known step as he sprang across the floor.

In another second he stood face to face with his friend.

"Just in time," said Tom, pointing to a bottle of porter on the table. "I was about to indulge in a little happiness and you can take part."

But Old Broadbrim had other things on his mind, and as he took the proffered seat he looked anxiously at the Scotland Yard ferret.

"Oh, I've got him located," smiled Tom. "It's all right. I guess he's good for some days in London; you can take your time to him. He's a slick fellow, by the way, and gave me a little chase from Liverpool, but I've landed my fish."

"I'm glad to hear it!" cried Old Broadbrim. "That will keep me from beating the Australian bush for him, as he seemed to be heading for that part of the world."

The porter was "downed," and the two detectives talked on other matters for an hour.

Old Broadbrim detailed the crime on Fifth Avenue, and did not forget to mention the murder of Jason Marrow in the little house near the mouth of the alley.

Tom Owens was of the opinion that both crimes were the work of the same hand, and that the tenant of the alley was killed to keep him silent regarding a secret which he undoubtedly possessed.

"You're on the right trail, Broadbrim," said the Englishman. "This Rufus Redmond, alias Merle Macray, is the very person you want, and we'll see that your trail ends right here in London."

In a short time the two detectives sauntered from the room, and Tom Owens guided the American to a certain part of the city, where he had located Rufus Redmond.

"When does the next steamer depart for Melbourne, or for that part of the globe?" anxiously inquired the American detective.

"One leaves to-day," was the reply. "I happen to know, because one of my friends is going out in her and he gave me good-by this morning."

"Why not see if our friend, the murderer, is to be a passenger?"

Tom Owens looked a little astonished by this suggestion.

"It's all right. He will be in London after the Intrepid has sailed," said he. "He is installed in the little red house yonder, and we can lay hands on him whenever we care to."

But Old Broadbrim persisted until the Scotland Yarder yielded.

"I'm afraid it's too late to see the Intrepid," said Tom, glancing at his watch. "Her time is up, and ere this she is off."

"But we can see the books of the company."

It did not take them long to find the office of the Australian Steamship Company, and Old Broadbrim ran over the list of passengers, with Owens looking over his shoulder.

Suddenly Old Broadbrim uttered a cry.

His finger had stopped at a certain name on the list.

Tom Owens looked again and echoed the exclamation.

"Too late!" he said. "Well, it stumps me!"

Old Broadbrim did not reply, but merely smiled as he turned away.

The Intrepid was gone.

Once more the prey had slipped through his fingers by a few hours, and the long trail stretched before him.

Silently the detective walked from the steamer office.

Owens was chagrined.

For some minutes he did not speak, and his silence showed his deep disappointment.

"To think that the rascal should take Tom Owens in so cleverly!" suddenly cried the Scotland Yarder. "It makes me feel sick. I tracked him from Liverpool so nicely, and had everything snug for you, Mr. Broadbrim; but here he slips through my fingers like a Thames eel; it's too bad. I'll go with you and help you find him in Australia."

"No," said the Quaker, laying his hand on the other's arm. "This is my trail from now on, and this scoundrel will be hunted to his doom if I have to track him all over the world!"

"You can't get another steamer out of London port for Melbourne inside of a week," said Owens.

"Will I have to lie here in agony that long?" was the reply.

"It seems so, but you'll find plenty here to interest you, and we'll see that time doesn't hang heavily on your hands. Redmond has got clean off, and neatly, too, but we'll find out if he left anything behind."

The two detectives crossed the street to the little red house and Owens knocked.

The woman who came to the door held it open for them to enter and in they went.

"We are looking for an empty front room," said the Scotland Yarder.

"I've just had one vacated," was the reply. "It's on the second floor, and the young man who held it went off to-day and will not be back."

"Might we look at the room, madam?"

The woman led the way to the stairs and said to Owens:

"First room front up there. You can find it easily. I have to look after the kitchen just now, but will be up in a little while."

This was just the opportunity the detectives wanted, and in a few seconds they stood in the room overhead.

It was a plainly furnished apartment with a few chairs, and several coarse prints on the walls.

"Not a very fine nest for our bird," smiled the American detective. "He was not very choice, for he knew he would not keep the room very long, but that he would soon be the occupant of a ship's cabin."

"Exactly. He made a fire in the grate and left some ashes of paper, I see."

Old Broadbrim stepped across the room and bent over the ashes on the little hearth.

Scooping up a handful of fragments, he came back to the table and sat down.

Tom Owens bent over his shoulder and saw Old Broadbrim separate the bits of charred paper with fingers as delicate as a woman's.

All at once the detective stopped and pointed at two pieces which lay side by side.

"What is it?" eagerly asked Owens.

"A letter in the same handwriting that we found in the house on Fifth Avenue."

"That settles the matter. You are surely on the right trail."

The face of the New York detective seemed to light up with a gleam of triumph, and then he swept the papers together and put them into his inner pocket.

"The right trail?" he cried. "Of course, Tom. It remains only to find this man. I'll attend to the rest. We'll fix the crime upon him and there'll be a broken neck under the sheriff's noose."

"But you'll find him cool and desperate."

"I know that."

"If he turns on you your life won't be worth the flare of a candle."

"I've counted every cost, as I always do, Tom," was the answer. "I know the trail and the quarry. I am ready for the game."

By this time the landlady appeared at the door of the room and the two men turned to interview her.

She did not know much about her late roomer.

All she did know was in his favor, for he paid promptly and ahead for a week.

He was "a nice gentleman," and the detectives did not tell her that he was a suspected murderer.

Once more on the street below the Scotland Yarder proposed to escort Old Broadbrim to a lounging place for the English detectives when not officially engaged, but the Quaker did not want his presence known in London and declined.

By this time the shades of twilight had deepened over the city.

The night came on suddenly, as it does in London, and Old Broadbrim separated from Owens for the purpose of calling on a friend whom he had not seen for some years.

Promising to meet Owens the next day, Old Broadbrim walked off and turned the nearest corner.

He was in the act of taking a hansom, when his arm was touched by a hand, and he turned to look into the face of a young woman whose eyes were deeply sunken and staring.

"You're watched, sir," said she, with a hurried glance to the right. "Be careful."

"Thanks. Here's a guinea," said the detective, and springing into the hansom he was driven off.

Watched? he thought. By whom?

If Rufus Redmond was on the sea, who would play spy for him now?

[CHAPTER V.]

IN THE WAKE OF A MYSTERY.

Old Broadbrim did not let the woman's warning deprive him of the society of his friend, and some hours later he emerged from the house with the thousand-and-one lights of London before him.

Drawing his collar up, for the night was cool and a brisk wind was coming in over the waters of the Thames, he started back, intending to walk to a cab station in the immediate neighborhood and from there take a cab.

London was well filled, from what the detective could see, and some of its inhabitants were in the same condition.

Every now and then he was jostled by a drunken man or woman, and in some instances almost crowded off the narrow sidewalk.

Presently he was clutched by a hand and forced into the mouth of an alley.

"Don't talk, for it's all right," said a voice which he thought he recognized. "I followed you and I hope I've done no wrong, sir. The man is still watching you, sir. I hung onto the back of the cab, sir, and got a good jolting over the stones. But I'm here, sir, to tell you that you're still in peril."

It was the same warning woman, and her face was the very picture of starvation.

"Where is he?" asked Old Broadbrim.

"You can't see him from here, sir; but he's across the way near the Star and Garter over there. If you look very sharp you may see a man in the shadow of the place. That's him."

"What is he like?"

"He's a tall, slim fellow with the keenest eyes you ever saw in a human head; but those eyes mean mischief and death."

"And you?"

"Oh, sir, I'm Mag of the Dusthole. I'm out for wictims; but I saw him watching you, and I couldn't help wanting to spoil his game."

"You don't know him, then?"

"I know him, and that's why I want to bring his schemes to naught. It's Jem—Jem, the Sydneyite."

"I have no such enemy by that name."

"Mebbe not; but he's watching you, all the same. He used to live in Sydney, Australia, and——"

The detective started.

"In Australia?" broke in Old Broadbrim.

"Yes, yes. He came back from there a year ago, and has been lording it over some people in London ever since. He's cool-headed, and has the softest fingers you ever saw. Jem's a bad one."

"I don't doubt it. I'll see to him."

The detective pushed toward the mouth of the alley, and with a cry the woman fled.

It was a strange proceeding on her part, but the detective did not think anything of it.

Almost directly across the street stood a small, old-fashioned tap-house, called the Star and Garter.

It was like many others of its class in London, disreputable from the ground up, and he looked at it trying to make out the figure of his enemy.

Half screened himself by the shadows of the building at the opening of the alley, Old Broadbrim used his eyes to advantage, and presently made out a form across the street.

It moved.

Standing still, he watched it saunter off, and at last it came toward the alley on the same side.

The spy was coming to investigate, and the detective made ready for the meeting.

The figure of the spy was tall and agile.

It came along the sidewalk and seemed about to pounce down upon the American tracker with the greatest ease.

Old Broadbrim held his breath.

At the very mouth of the alley the spy stopped and looked into the darkness.

He did not stir for ten seconds.

"Gone, I guess," Old Broadbrim heard him say. "It's too bad. I wonder if the cat warned him. If she did, I'll throttle her and leave her in the cellar."

With an oath the man withdrew, and in another moment the detective heard his receding footsteps.

He was saved!

Old Broadbrim waited a while, and then slipped down the street.

He had eluded the spy, and now, perhaps, could get a better look at him.

But in this he was doomed to disappointment, for the fellow vanished too quickly for him and he turned at last and went to the lodging he had selected.

He thought of Rufus Redmond, or Merle Macray, who was on the high seas bound for Australia.

He recalled every incident in the crime in New York, and thought of his work so far.

The trail was growing longer.

It stretched across the great deep to a land still unknown, in part, to the world.

He recalled the letter from Perth, and knew that beyond that faraway town lay the deserts of West Australia and the wild tribes and wilder animals.

But he slept at last, and in the morning awoke refreshed.

He was at breakfast in a little chop-house near the inn when some one came in, and took a seat beside him.

He looked and saw that it was Owens, the Scotland Yarder.

"I have news for you," cried Owens. "There's a steamer going to sail for Sydney this afternoon."

Old Broadbrim gave utterance to an exclamation of joy.

"I don't think they really want any passengers, for it is a private expedition conducted by Lord Harway, but you might see him."

"I'll do that, and if money or finesse will get me a berth on the vessel I am off to-day."

Old Broadbrim finished his breakfast in a jiffy, and before the hour ended he stood in Lord Harway's private office.

The story he told, one not connected with a chase after a murderer, enlisted his lordship's sympathies, and at the close of it the detective was told that he could have a berth on board the yacht Maybloom, one of the fastest vessels of the kind afloat.

Once more he was in luck, and there was some hope of beating Merle Macray to Melbourne.

Old Broadbrim had few preparations to make, and by the time he was through the yacht was ready to sail.

As he stepped aboard he glanced toward the dock, and caught sight of a figure that startled him.

It was the man of the previous night—the spy who had tracked him to the mouth of the alley.

He had not abandoned the chase, but had tracked him to the yacht, and knew that he was bound for Australia.

Old Broadbrim, however, did not hesitate.

He went quietly to the little room assigned him and shut himself in.

He had taken passage under the name of Logan Lane, and as such was known to Lord Harway.

In a little while he heard his name called in the corridor beyond his door, and upon going out he found his lordship there.

"We are off," said the Englishman, with delight. "The Maybloom is cutting the water like a knife, and I want you to come up on deck and look at her."

Old Broadbrim ascended to the main deck and looked at the receding city.

Lord Harway handed him his glass, and the detective put it to his eager eyes.

He scanned the crowds on the pier, and suddenly found the man he had seen on two occasions within the past twenty-four hours.

He was looking at the yacht with expressions of chagrin, and the detective could see that he was bitterly disappointed.

He had escaped him, and when he thought of the threat he had breathed against Mag of the Dusthole, he feared for her safety.

As long as he held the glass to his eyes he could see the man watching the Maybloom, and at last he turned away confident that he had outwitted Merle Macray's spy.

Now the ocean lay before him and in a few days he would be in Sydney, ready for the task before him.

Old Broadbrim found the occupants of the yacht the best of companions, and at times his conscience rebelled against the deception he was playing, but he promised himself that some day he would explain all to Lord Harway and beg his pardon.

The Maybloom proved to be a splendid sailer, and day after day was passed on deck.

It was a long voyage and one without incident to our old friend the detective.

When at last the headland of Australia hove in sight, there was some stir on board and the Maybloom came to anchor in the spacious harbor.

They had passed several vessels bound different ways on the high seas, but, so far as the detective could make out, none of these was the Intrepid.

Merle Macray was ahead of him and he did not expect to beat him to Melbourne.

In Sydney Old Broadbrim went at once to the hotel and put up.

He changed his garments and washed, and then came out on the street to find out when he could get a vessel to Melbourne.

Luck favored him again, and he learned that early the following morning he could take passage in a coaster for the capital of Victoria.

The day was spent in looking around Sydney and passing the time as best he could.

Old Broadbrim was soon up the next day and went on board the coaster in which he had secured passage.

In Melbourne he went direct to the house of the chief of police, but that official was not in the city.

Old Broadbrim went back to the wharf and stood watching a splendid vessel just coming in.

Something seemed to thrill him while he watched the craft which majestically rode the waves, and all at once he uttered a little exclamation of joy.

It was the Intrepid!

After all he had beaten his quarry to Melbourne.

Merle Macray, thanks to an accident to the vessel in mid-ocean, as Old Broadbrim afterward learned, was delayed, and he now came in a little behind time, but in time for him to spot his man.

Well concealed, he watched the passengers as they came over the planks to the pier, and every one was closely scrutinized.

"What's become of him?" cried Old Broadbrim, as the last one stepped upon the quay. "Did the ocean get him? Have I lost my man and justice her prey?"

He was nonplused, for no one answering the description of the Cunarder's passenger had landed from the Intrepid in Melbourne.

"But he's there. I'll bet my head on it!" said Old Broadbrim, as he turned away.

[CHAPTER VI.]

SPOTTED IN AUSTRALIA.

If Merle Macray had landed from the Intrepid on the quays of Melbourne he had done so under a disguise that had deceived the detective of two continents.

Old Broadbrim for once seemingly had used his eyes in vain, and after a while he went back, walking up the quay, and turned into Collins Street in a deep study.

If he had watched a certain little old man who walked from the vessel he might have changed his mind.

This person, who carried a valise, had been among the first to disembark, and had hastened to get beyond the piers.

Half an hour later he might have been seen to enter one of the offices of the cable company and to ask for a message for "Ira Black."

The person in charge at the time lifted a message from a hook and handed it across the counter.

It was promptly paid for in gold, and the receiver, placing it in his pocket, walked out.

There was a smile on his face, and it lingered there some time, or until he entered a hotel and went up to a room on the third floor.

There, with the door locked behind him, he pulled forth the telegraph envelope and tore it open.

The message was from London and was very short, but it startled him.

In the soft Australian sunlight that entered the chamber he read at a glance, as follows:

"The Wolf follows. He is off on the Maybloom, bound for Sydney.

Jem."

The recipient of the cablegram looked up with a snarl of defiance on his face, now no longer old-looking, but with the mask removed, and young and handsome.

"So he is on the trail," he cried; "so this ferret from afar is on the hunt? Well, I am ready to meet him, but there's many a trap he never dreams of!"

He tore the message into tatters and threw them out the back window, to see the wind carry them in very many directions.

"You're a good one, Jem, but it would have been best if you had silenced the wolf and not put me to this trouble," he said in undertones. "It's all one, though. I guess we're equal to the task. If we are not no man can be."

Meantime, Old Broadbrim had gone back to the hotel near Collins Street for a little rest.

He waited till night deepened and then stepped into the street again.

The sights that encountered his gaze were new to him.

He was in one of the most wonderful cities in the world.

Melbourne, the capital of Victoria, and the haunt of the cattle king, the sheep prince, the gold nabob and the miner, presented scenes to be duplicated nowhere under the sun.

In the glare of the electric lights, the hurry and bustle of business, the revelry of saloon and dance hall, in the haunts of the tough and the palaces of the money kings, there is always something exciting and new.

Old Broadbrim had been to strange places in his career, but never in one just like Melbourne.

He jostled the gold hunter who had come to the city to spend his dust, and perhaps get a knife in his heart before he left it; he was pushed aside by the cattle boy in his jacket and sombrero, and the air was ladened with the slang of mine and camp till it disgusted the detective.

As he turned into one street Broadbrim saw ahead a brilliant sign which told him that beyond the door nearby one could see one of the sights of Melbourne, the great Paradise Dance Hall.

Unhesitatingly Old Broadbrim walked in.

It was a sight worth coming miles to see.

The vast place was brilliantly lighted up and the fun was at its height.

Music filled the air and the forms of dancers of both sexes went hither and thither under the chandeliers.

Broadbrim selected a spot from which he could witness the revel and not be in any one's way.

Hundreds were constantly coming and going.

For some time he watched the exciting scene, and he was in the act of moving out when he saw enter a man at whom he looked the second time.

This person with American ways came forward and stood near the detective while he cast his eye over the revelers.

He was tall and well built.

His garments were faultless and his face had lately felt the keen edge of the razor.

All at once a man sprang from the crowd and came up to the newcomer.

"Back, are you, Merle?" this man said, as he grasped the other's hand and wrung it. "I haven't seen you for months. How's the Queen and Round Robin Ranch?"

The other appeared a little chagrined over this profuse greeting, but it was impossible to avoid the man.

Old Broadbrim saw the keen, black eyes sweep the crowd as if in search of him, but they soon came back to the other one.

"Things are all right at the ranch," he said. "Belle is as pretty as ever, and——"

"I'm glad of that. I've been thinking of going out and taking a look at the place. You've been at home all spring, eh?"

"Yes, all the time."

"Wish I had gone then. You didn't take that trip to the States, then?"

"I hadn't time."

"Too much to do on Round Robin Ranch? That's it. Where there's money and lots of it one would better stay. But you're looking well, Merle——"

"There, don't call me Merle," the voice of the speaker dropped almost to a whisper, but the old detective heard. "I'm in Melbourne on a bit of secret business and I don't care to be 'Merle' here."

"That's all right, but why didn't you say so at the start? I am always ready to do you a favor, Me—Jack. There, that's one of the old names, you know. It'll do, won't it?"

"Yes, 'Jack.' That name is all O. K."

The other slipped away and left Merle to himself covertly watched by the detective who was secretly rejoicing over this bit of good luck.

He knew his man now.

Once more he had found Rufus Redmond, the Cunarder's passenger, but in a distant part of the world, and there he had blossomed out again as Merle Macray.

Merle did not remain long at the dance.

With a last look around the hall he slipped out, and immediately after the detective's corner was deserted and the old sleuth was on the trail outside.

Now he must not lose his man.

Perhaps Merle Macray thought that in Melbourne he was safe.

He did not appear the least frightened, but walked erect and led the detective a long chase.

All at once he turned into a little street, very narrow and rather dark, but Broadbrim did not hesitate.

He caught sight of the quarry down the street and plunged after him.

Merle stopped at a door and rapped.

In another moment it opened and he went in.

Old Broadbrim came up and looked at the house.

Beyond that door lay a mystery which he wanted to fathom.

Merle Macray, traced across the sea, had entered the house and was out of sight.

Old Broadbrim stood near the door and listened.

Perhaps it was a risky thing to do, but he took risks.

There were voices beyond the walls of the house, and he heard some one say:

"Chased from London, eh? What have you been up to now?"

It was the voice of an old man.

There was a laugh in reply, and then Broadbrim heard the voice of Merle Macray:

"What do you think I've done, Danny Minks? Do I look like an assassin? Do I have the appearance of a housebreaker or a ticket-of-leave man, that I should be tracked from London?"

"No, no, Merle, my boy, but why have you been tracked?"

"Go out there and ask the tracker."

"But he's not in Melbourne, I hope?"

"I can't say. I know he's on the road."

"On the water, you mean?"

"Put it as you please, Danny."

"Well?"

"I want you to tell me where the girl is now."

"Stareyes?"

"Yes, Stareyes. Is she in the city?"

"I don't know."

"Come, no lies, old man," and an oath followed the words. "I am not to be fooled again. If she's here I want to know it."

A moment's silence followed.

"She hasn't been here for three months."

"She was here, then, was she? The witch!"

"I saw her but half an hour then, and she slipped away before I could talk with her."

"You should have fixed her. That was the bargain, you know."

"I know, but——"

"I'll forgive you this time, but there must be no failure the next time she comes. You know the tenth step?"

"I know it."

"See that she finds it. No blood, no money, Danny."

"I'll obey."

Old Broadbrim heard this conversation while he leaned against the door of the house, and then he withdrew.

He believed that Merle would soon come out again, but he waited in vain.

He waited till nearly midnight, but no one came from the place, and then he went back.

Hastily changing his face by supplying a new set of whiskers, he went up to the door and knocked.

There was a shuffling of feet on the inside, and then the portal opened.

Old Danny stood before him with a light in his hand.

The detective slipped past the little man and turned on him in the hallway.

"What is it?" cried Danny, falling against the wall and nearly dropping his light.

"Merle is in danger. I want to warn him."

Old Danny gave Old Broadbrim a look that seemed to pierce him like an arrow.

"In danger? Merle?" he cried. "By the officers of the home government? I'll show you where he is. This way."

He crossed the room and opened a narrow door.

Old Broadbrim followed. He saw the shadow of a flight of steps leading downward, and Danny, with the light, entered the place and cried:

"Come!"

[CHAPTER VII.]

THE TERRIBLE DEATH-TRAP.

The detective found himself in a dark place with the ghostly steps under his feet.

A step in advance was the little ogreish figure of Old Danny, his shoulders humped like an imp's and his face twisted awry as if at some time the flames had licked it.

"I'm glad you've come to warn Merle," said the little man, looking over his shoulder. "You're very good."

"Something had to be done," said Old Broadbrim. "Merle's in danger and he must know."

"Yes, yes."

A chuckle followed the last word, and Danny's face grew white and ghastly.

The stairs seemed to creak beneath the detective's feet.

He did not know whither he was going, but he thought that Old Danny had taken the bait and was lighting him to the man he had tracked across the sea.

He intended to end the chase there and then.

He would drag Merle Macray before the authorities of Melbourne, and would not relinquish his hold till he had the murderer of Custer Kipp back in New York.

But suddenly he thought of the conversation he had overheard between Old Danny and Merle concerning the person called Stareyes.

What did Merle mean about the tenth step?

It came to Old Broadbrim's mind like a flash of light in darkness.

It thrilled him.

He had gone down six steps of the stairs, and Old Danny's light did not show him the bottom.

Suddenly a wisp of wind extinguished the light, and they stood in total darkness.

"My light's out!" cried Old Danny. "But it's all one. We're almost at the bottom anyhow, and there I'll strike a match."

Broadbrim made no reply, but hugged the nearest wall, for the stairs cracked beneath his weight.

"Come on," said the old man's voice.

Broadbrim put out his hand, but he could not touch Danny.

The little fellow had got beyond his reach, and now he could not hear him.

The tenth step!

Perhaps the stairs was a death-trap and there was no tenth step at all.

The thought startled the detective.

He stopped, and then, in a shiver of excitement which he could not suppress, he started back.

"This way!" said a voice which he recognized as Old Danny's.

Broadbrim did not move.

He was lying along the stairs in the gloom waiting for something to show him the true situation.

"I'm down," repeated Danny, far below. "It's all right, sir. This way to Merle."

Broadbrim started up again.

If Danny had reached the floor beneath then why not he, too?

He was more than a match for this old man with the ape-like shoulders and scarred face.

And he had crossed the sea to find Merle Macray, and now he would not let him escape.

Once more, pistol in hand, the detective of New York started down the stairs.

He counted three more steps, and put his foot forward again.

But this time it touched nothing.

He fell back with a half-expressed cry of horror, and then tried to save himself from falling.

But he had retreated too late.

In another moment the flight of steps seemed to tilt deeper, deeper, into the abyss, and Broadbrim hung from the last one over the dark death.

It was a terrible situation, and he felt the strain of it all through him.

He knew all now.

Old Danny had been too sharp for him.

He had recognized him as an enemy of Merle Macray, and had taken him to the death stairs.

Broadbrim saw that his strength was leaving him.

He could not hold on much longer, and when he let go his trail would end forever.

Darkness was everywhere.

The figure of Old Danny had vanished, and he did not know what had become of the old villain.

The American detective clung for life to the step.

He tried to pull his body up, but the flight seemed to recede whenever he did so, and he taxed his powers in vain.

Somewhere in the darkness, he did not doubt, stood Danny, waiting for his doom.

The old scoundrel knew how to reach the safety point, but he (Old Broadbrim) had been trapped.

Why had he undertaken to hunt a man like Merle Macray all over the world?

To die in a trap like that?

At last he hung by the very tips of his fingers, as it were.

His body was already over the abyss, and he would in a few seconds be compelled to let go and drop.

Suddenly the stairs shook violently and a door opened overhead.

A light was seen and it streamed over his face.

Broadbrim saw a man above him, and a glance told him that it was Old Danny.

The hump-backed demon was looking down to see if his scheme had succeeded.

There was a wolfish gleam in the little eyes and a demonic grin on the thin lips.

Danny held the light over his head and saw Broadbrim as he clung to the last step.

"You want Merle, eh?" he cried. "Well, you'll never see him. You will lie in the pit forever. It is bottomless!"

With that the light was swung over Danny's head, and he laughed derisively.

"Down you go!" he went on. "So you're the wolf on the scent, and it's a pretty game you're playing. Crossed the sea to play it, eh? Well, now it's all up with you, Scotland Yarder."

Something, till then unseen, was lifted above Old Danny's head, and came toward the detective like a weapon from a catapult.

Broadbrim could not dodge.

The billet struck him in the face, and with a cry he dropped out of sight while the face of Old Danny was the last object he saw in the light of the lantern.

Broadbrim struck ground far below the stairs, and after hitting what appeared to be the sides of a narrow shaft.

But for this he would have fallen like a stone to the bottom of the well, and been killed at once.

As it was, he was stunned and for some time lay on his back unable to move.

Darkness surrounded him, and he could not see a bit of light from the lantern overhead.

How long he lay there he did not know when a light shot out of the gloom above him.

He saw the light swing back and forth, and then caught the impish grin of Old Danny's face.

The demon of Melbourne was leaning over the abyss, trying to inquire into his fate.

For some time the light remained there, and then it vanished.

In darkness again the detective arose and felt the stone walls of the shaft.

These were nearly smooth.

He tried to pull out a stone, but found that he was too weak for the task, and desisted.

At last he caught a sound from beyond the pit that seemed to startle him.

Some time had elapsed since his fall, and the thought that some infernal agency was flooding the pit flashed across his mind.

Broadbrim waited a while, and then felt the water at his feet.

He was to be drowned, and with water Old Danny would complete the work of crime.

Broadbrim leaned against the wall of the pit and felt the water about his feet.

In his desperation he reached up and caught hold of a stone that projected a few inches from the wall.

He tugged at it with herculean strength and forced it out of the wall.

He must work his way upward out of the reach of the water.

It was that or death!

Never before had the detective found himself in just such a place.

Traps had held him, but never a terrible trap like that one.

The first stone out, the next one yielded without so much trouble, and the third easier than the others.

It was upward now toward the fatal stairs.

Old Broadbrim stopped in his terrible climb, but not to rest long.

No doubt the water was several feet deep in the bottom of the pit.

Suddenly he heard a noise overhead.

He looked up, but held his breath.

"You're sure he went down, Danny?" asked some one.

"Sure? Of course! Didn't I see him lying in the bottom of the pit with my own eyes?"

"That's good evidence. And you've flooded it?"

"Yes, turned the water in, and it's knee-deep by this time."

"You're a trump, old man—a regular full hand!"

"I'm glad you acknowledge it."

"Now if the girl comes back, play the tenth step game on her, too, and I'll make you a nabob of Melbourne."

"I'll do it. Ha, ha, ha! Won't she make a good companion for him? Too good almost. Why, he hung to the ninth step till he couldn't hang any longer, and down he went headlong."

There was a double chuckle of delight at these words and then the voices ceased.

Old Broadbrim grated his teeth.

Merle Macray had come back, and it was fortunate that Old Danny's positiveness had prevented him from looking down into the pit, else he would have been discovered hugging the wall above the dark flood at the bottom of the well.

The detective breathed freer when the two vanished, but he took a startling oath in his prison.

He would triumph or die in the attempt to reach victory.

He would catch Merle Macray despite all his traps and schemes, he would show this cunning, red-handed murderer that he had not crossed the sea in vain.

But he was still in the toils—a death stairs overhead and underneath the waters of death.

"I didn't come here to die like a rat!" he cried. "I came for vengeance, and I'll be content with nothing else."

[CHAPTER VIII.]

DEMONA, THE RANCH QUEEN.

Three weeks after the events we have just chronicled there might have been seen in the town of Perth, the largest place in West Australia, a young girl who stood on the principal street, with a pair of coal-black eyes riveted upon a man who had just emerged from one of the rich gaming resorts of the colonial capital.

Her figure was perfect and her face was white and handsome.

She may have passed her teens, for she showed a few marks of having reached and passed the twentieth mile-stone, but for all this she was striking, with her dark skin and her lustrous eyes.

Her prey stood in the light of a lamp that swung in a glass case over the door of the El Dorado, as the place was called, and now and then she seemed to start while she regarded him.

Those who knew the man would have called him Merle Macray, and his well-rounded figure, dressed in a rich ranch costume, was shown off to advantage.

"Wait!" said the girl through her clinched teeth. "My time will come, and then you will feel the vengeance of Stareyes. I never forget, monster, and by and by the hand of fate will fall and smite you. It can't always last thus. You can reign on the ranch as its king, but here and elsewhere you can't play out your hands and chuckle your satisfaction.

"I've waited for you to come back," she went on, her eyes flashing again. "I could have entered the nest and killed the bird there, but I thought I would wait till your return, and now you're back. It won't be long, Merle, the ranchman. It won't be long, I say," and she laughed as she turned away and left the man to himself.

Around the corner she darted into a small place and went upstairs to where an old woman sat in a dim light, sewing.

"I've seen him, Hester," cried the girl, standing in front of the woman and looking down upon her with passion.

"I've watched him for an hour and yet didn't touch the rascal."

"It was your chance, girl."

"I know it, and I had the weapon in my hand at the time, but I spared him. Am I not merciful?"

And she laughed.

"Merciful! You should have a crown for your mercy."

"The time will come. Yes, I have taken the oath that will not be forgotten. He is back from the far-off land. He has been out to Round Robin Ranch, but he is in Perth to-night."

"You missed him in Melbourne——"

"I did," broke in the girl. "But that wasn't my fault. I didn't know just what vessel he was coming out on, and when the Intrepid came in I must have overlooked him, for I watched her passengers."

"He must have been disguised."

"Yes, yes, that's it—disguised! He will need the best of masks to escape me."

"Of course," said the old woman. "This man must feel our hand, girl."

"He shall!"

"He must die."

"Nothing less than death!"

"That's it. His crime must meet with the proper punishment. But what, think you, took him to America?"

"Time will tell, but I believe she sent him."

"Belle Demona?"

"Yes, Demon Bella," and the face of Stareyes seemed to lose every vestige of color. "I could have strangled her on the ranch despite her dogs and her agility. She is on the watch all the time, but I had her for half an hour at my mercy, though she knew it not. I could have thrown a snake from the bush into her bed, and they would have found her a bloated corpse in the morning, but I did not. I could have shot Merle to-night, but I withheld my hand."

"Don't do it again, girl. We may be too lenient."

"Just so. I will strike soon."

Stareyes went over to a corner and sat down.

The light falling upon her face showed traces of her excitement, and she fell to watching her companion, who went back to her work, and seemed to forget all that had passed between them.

"If he did anything for her—if he committed any crimes while he was away—they may come after him and take him from us," suddenly said the old woman, looking up.

"They shall not!" cried Stareyes. "I'll kill the hunters first!"

"That's it. He's not to escape us."

"Mother, never."

Meanwhile Merle Macray had departed from Perth.

The night was a beautiful one, and he had mounted a horse in the principal square, and, with a young man for company, was riding in a northeasterly direction from the Australian town.

His companion was younger than he, and not so good-looking.

Both were well mounted, and the horses, being fresh, bore them rapidly over the gently-undulating country, with a light breeze at their back and a good highway before them.

It was a long ride for the pair, for in a short time they passed beyond the line of human habitation and found themselves in an open country under the broad expanse of the starlit heavens.

Midnight overtook them in the same desolate land, but all at once the scene changed.

The country began to grow diversified with grass and timber, and pasture lands appeared on either side.

They had reached a grazing district, and the long wire fences met them as they rode along.

Presently the barking of dogs was heard, and in a few moments the riders threw their lines over the steeds' necks and dismounted.

A light appeared in the courtyard of a large ranch house in front of them, and the voice of a woman was heard.

"Back again!" exclaimed the woman, who stood in the court with a light in her hand.

"Yes," cried Merle Macray, as he sprang forward and pressed something into her hand.

She looked at it and smiled.

She was a person of five-and-twenty, regal in appearance and splendidly handsome.

Her figure was commanding, and her face, a little dark like the face of Stareyes, was strikingly beautiful.

Merle left his companion to take care of the horses and entered the house with the woman.

Inside everything was in keeping with wealth.

On every side was to be seen rich hangings and articles of virtu.

Rich carpets that yielded to the feet covered the floors and the walls were adorned with the costliest pictures.

It was a typical sheep king's home in West Australia, the palace of wealth in that quarter of the globe.

Beyond it lay the bush.

Not far away began the Desert of Death, and among its sand valleys lurked the lizard and the sun snake, whose bite is certain destruction.

Merle Macray strode into the house and stopped in the large parlor to the right of the hall.

His companion took a seat on a sofa and regarded him with eyes which seemed capable of devouring him.

"Tell me. Did you make sure of the tracker?" she asked.

"Didn't I?"

He laughed.

"Of course you did not see him."

"No. How can I see a man who is at the bottom of Old Danny's pit?"

"But you did not see him there."

"I know he's there, for Old Danny never lies, and he saw him in the pit and then flooded it with water. But I've assured you of this before."

"I know that, but you know how we women are. We get our spells of doubt sometimes, and——"

"Don't let them spoil your sleep now. It's all right. The man who played shadower is dead, and sleeps to-night where he should sleep—at the bottom of the pit!"

She crossed the room and opened a sideboard ingeniously set in the wall.

In another moment she came back with bottle and goblets and filled the latter with red wine.

"Drink with me, then. I feel like a new woman. It is accomplished! I told him that he should feel my hand, no matter where he went, and my threat has been fulfilled. You did it well, Merle. I am proud of you."

Merle Macray, looking over the brim of his goblet, saw her eyes get a merry, triumphant light, and then he downed his wine and set the glass on the onyx-topped table.

"I have secured the additional hands you need," said he. "I had some little trouble in picking them up in Perth and they will be here in a day or two."

"You got good men?"

"Yes. I left it to Jot and he will send those I did not get to see. How are the natives?"

"A little troublesome, but with the force I sent for we'll meet them triumphantly. It's not to be that I have to succumb to a lot of brigands and I will not pay tribute to their chief."

"That's right—not a pound!" cried Merle. "We will take the initiative as soon as the men arrive, and we'll show them that they can't levy tribute on Round Robin Ranch."

"Indeed we will. I am Belle Demona, or Belle, the Demon, as they shall learn, and when our men come we will show these scoundrels that we are not to be bled."

Merle drank off another glass of wine, and the woman left him alone.

Round Robin Ranch was the largest and richest sheep ranch in the district.

It belonged to the woman who was known as Belle Demona and whose wealth was said to be almost marvelous.

She had come out some years before the opening of our story and had made money hand-over-fist in the new lands of Australia, and her sheep were to be seen by thousands on the grazing lands of Round Robin Ranch.

Her overseer and general agent was Merle Macray, who had come out with her and who had just come back after an absence of over six months.

No one knew where he had been, though it was said that he was in London investing some of the ranch queen's savings and attending to other business for his mistress.

There were rumors that at one time the ranch queen had led a wild life in the capitals of Europe, and even in far-off America, but no one cared to make a public declaration of this sort.

The woman would not have submitted to such reports, and she was known everywhere as a perfect shot and a creature who feared nothing, not even the plundering bands that now and then raided the rich ranches and levied tribute on their owners.

But there was one person who knew where Merle Macray had been.

Old Broadbrim carried the true secret of his long absence in his bosom, and he had followed him to the island, tracking him from the scene of crime in New York to cling for life in the pit trap of Old Danny in Melbourne.

[CHAPTER IX.]

OLD BROADBRIM ONCE MORE.

Two days later a little party consisting of ten men came to the gate of the ranch home, and were received by Merle Macray and the Ranch Queen herself.

They were, for the most part, desperate, sunbrowned-looking fellows who sat their horses like Centaurs, and were received with demonstrations of delight at the ranch.

They were led by a youthful-looking man named Jot, who introduced them severally to both Merle and Belle Demona, saying that they had accepted her terms, and had come out from Perth to take service under her, and were ready to stand by her against all the brigands of the country.

They dismounted and were invited into the house, where they were regaled with a splendid repast interspersed with wine and toasts.

The beautiful woman of Round Robin Ranch was in her element, and the glow of pleasure came to her cheeks while she talked and laughed with her new adherents.

After the meal, Merle, well mounted and with Belle Demona at his side, took the men over the ranch, showing them the sheep and other stock, and telling them how they were expected to serve their new mistress.

The ranch was to be guarded at night, and certain signals had been studied out which would warn the people in the house at the first breath of danger.

The shades of this eventful day were deepening, when there galloped to the door of the ranch a single horseman, who dismounted and who was received with an exclamation of surprise by Merle, who came out to greet him.

"Jem!" he cried. "The last man I was looking for, but you're none the less welcome."

The newcomer was escorted into the house where the lights were lit, and where Belle Demona awaited him in the parlor.

"You came in a little behind him?" said Merle, looking at Jem.

"Yes, curse it all!" was the answer. "I did the best I could, but I didn't think of the Maybloom till it was too late. I never thought of Lord Harway coming to this part of the world——"

Here a swift glance from Merle to Belle stopped him, but the ranch queen bade him proceed.

"You have kept something back from me!" she cried sternly, giving Merle a hard look. "You were followed. And all the way from England, too!"

"Yes; I told you about the man who fell into Danny's trap."

"I know it; but not that he started from London so soon after you."

Merle frowned a little but said nothing.

"Go on," said the woman, turning again to Jem. "Tell me all about this person who seems to have come out in Lord Harway's yacht."

Jem detailed his work in London in trying to check Old Broadbrim, and Belle Demona listened attentively.

"It was a slip between cup and lip, but I don't blame you. There's the man who should have watched him," and she pointed toward Merle whose face lost color.

"I thought I was safe when I left it to Jem," was the answer.

"I'll take the blame," said the man just from London. "I've missed him in Sydney, for which place the yacht sailed, and I have failed to find him in Melbourne."

"He's there," said Merle, with a smile.

"Looking for you?"

"No, but he's there, I say."

"Then he may come on here. We should look out."

"Never fear that," laughed the other. "Dead men tell no tales, you know, Jem."

"Is it that good?"

"Of course."

"Did it take place in Melbourne?"

"Yes."

"At Old Danny's, Merle says," put in the woman. "You know him, Jem?"

The newcomer nodded, and then said:

"I once was there, and the old man showed me the fatal stairs with the missing step——"

"The detective saw it, too!" laughed Merle.

"To his everlasting sorrow?"

"Of course."

"Then it's all right. No fears on that score. But I was on nettles during the whole voyage lest, after my telegram, you should fall into his trap. But if he's at the bottom of Old Danny's pit, why, he's safe for Gabriel."

There was an all-around laugh at this, and the trio adjourned to another part of the house.

All at once Jem felt a hand fall lightly upon his arm, and he looked into the face of Belle Demona.

She leaned toward him, and her voice dropped to a whisper.

"Did you see the girl?" asked the woman, and her eyes flashed with the greenish light of jealousy.

"What girl?"

"She—there is but the one!" hissed Belle. "I mean Stareyes."

Jem uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"What, does she bother you yet?" he asked.

"A good deal. She was here not long ago. I saw her in the bush on the east side of the ranch—got a glimpse of her and that was all. You did not see her in Melbourne or Perth?"

Jem shook his head.

"I wasn't looking for her," he said. "But if I had run across her I would have remembered it."

"Yes—yes. Could you go back to Melbourne to-morrow?"

He looked at her astonished, but her face was calm.

"To Melbourne?" he repeated.

"Yes. I want you to go. I don't want to send Merle."

"I'll go."

She held out her hand, and he kissed it.

"You will go to Old Danny's. You will look into the pit, no casual glance, but a good long look. You will see if there is a man at the bottom of it."

"I understand. You doubt——"

"I can't say that I do, but I want certainty. Men sometimes escape from the very jaws of death, and if this shadow from the other continent has come back to life, why, I want to know it."

Jem walked from the room and stood underneath the canopy of the heavens alone.

"What did she say to you, Jem?" suddenly asked a voice at his back.

He stood face to face with Merle Macray.

"She asked you to do her a favor, didn't she?" he went on.

There was no reply, and the hand of Merle fell upon the other's arm.

"Tell me," and his grip tightened. "She wouldn't believe me. She is sending you back to Melbourne."

"She is, Merle; but for God's sake don't give it away!"

"I shall not; but it's all right, there. The detective is in the pit."

"I believe you. Her fears are groundless, and he will stay there till doomsday."

"Then, don't investigate. Hover near, and let Melbourne go. In a few days you can come back with the proper story."

"But if she should find it out?"

"She shall not. I'll see to that. You will go away to-morrow, ostensibly to Melbourne. You can stop in Perth. There are many places where you can be entertained for a week there. I'll let you have all the money you want to fight the tiger there. We've got it here by the thousand, and she won't miss a few guineas. You do this for me, won't you, Jem?"

"Certainly."

Merle and Jem went back into the ranch house, and in a little while the sounds of song and music came out of it and floated away on the night air.

Far away across the ranch foxes barked and the hares played in the soft moonlight which had fallen on the grass.

The sheep had been housed for the night and the ranch guard set.

The statue-like figures of men stood here and there, and the new ranch guard was taking its first night on the reservation.

Merle Macray and Jem listened to the ranch queen's playing and now and then exchanged glances of satisfaction.

A few yards from the main building stood the house in which the new guards hired by Jot in Perth were quartered.

Their voices were heard as the men played cards or sung in the house, waiting to go on duty when the relief came in from outside.

All at once one of the party arose and stepped outside.

He was a well-built man of perhaps fifty and his face was covered with a curly beard almost black.

Dressed in the coarse jacket of the rancher and wearing the long boots of the Australian, he looked a typical sheep guard of the island, and with his face turned toward the large house from which came strains of music, he appeared to be transfixed by the scene.

He leaned against the out-house with folded arms and in an attitude of peace.

Overhead he saw the stars that shone so brilliantly on the sheeplands, and from the distant bush came the long hoot of the black owl, dismal and lone.

When he moved it was toward the large house, and stopping among a network of vines near the porch he listened anew to the music and caught a glimpse of the party in the parlor.

His keen eyes watched Merle Macray with more than passing interest.

He seemed to see no one but him and for some time he stood where he had stopped and watched the ranch queen's right bower.

He said nothing did this man who had given his name as Roland Riggs.

He merely looked, and when he had looked his fill he went back to the others and watched the game in progress there.

At last the tramp of horses was heard and the relief came in.

There was a different scene in the out-house now, and the name of Roland Riggs was called out.

The man stepped to the front and threw himself into the saddle.

In another moment he was riding to his post, and after a while he stood alongside his horse not far from a little copse which looked dark and ghostly.

He was alone in the wild Australian bush.

The stars twinkled on, but he stood there like a statue, with his eyes seeing everything and his senses on the alert.

Far away he caught the glimmer of light in the ranch-house but it only made him smile.

"Not yet," said he, under his breath. "It's a cool game all around, and the man who watched me out of sight when I left London in Lord Harway's yacht has come upon the scene. But he won't know me. I'll risk that. Merle Macray, the old pit in Danny's den didn't hold the Yankee tracker very long."

He ceased and looked toward the bush again.

Old Broadbrim was still on his trail.

[CHAPTER X.]

A TERRIBLE MOMENT.

"Remember, you are to come back with the truth," said Belle Demona the next day, when she bade Jem good-by on the edge of the ranch, prior to his departure for Melbourne.

Jem was serving two masters, or, to be a little more correct, one master and one mistress.

He was expected by the ranch queen to proceed to Melbourne and there look into the trap-pit underneath Old Danny's house, while Merle Macray had his promise that he would go no further than Perth, where he would sojourn a few days and then come back with a well-coined story.

Whom would he obey—master or mistress?

Merle chuckled to himself when he saw the man from London ride away, and for some time he watched him with inward satisfaction.

During the remainder of the week nothing very exciting occurred at Ranch Robin.

Belle Demona thought that the secret of Jem's mission was her own, and she was as gay as a lark.

Roland Riggs, the new guard, became quite a man about the place.

No one suspected his identity.

Old Broadbrim in that character was a man to be praised, for he did his work well and became the best and most painstaking of the new guards.

It was the third night after Jem's departure, and Old Broadbrim was patrolling his beat some distance from the little copse from which the bandits of the ranches generally made their appearance, when he discovered something dark moving along the lighter ground.

In another moment he made out the figure of Merle Macray, and saw that he was approaching him.

The detective looked closely and started.

Had he been suspected and was the old enemy about to unmask him?

Suddenly Merle, in the little moonlight that fell upon the region, stopped and turned his face toward the copse.

"Hands up!" cried a stern voice from the belt of trees.

Merle looked toward Roland Riggs and seemed to appeal for help.

"Hands up, there! We've come, Sir Nabob."

Out of the copse rushed twenty men and the next minute Merle, with half-drawn revolver, stood at the mercy of the bandits.

They had come to surprise Ranch Robin at last.

Merle stood at bay till the band came, and Old Broadbrim, crouching behind a tuft of grass, held his breath, but clutched his repeating rifle with firm hands.

Merle was seized at once.

His hands were tied behind his back, and then the bandits consulted.

Suddenly one of them turned to their prisoner.

"Where's the money?" he demanded.

Merle's answer was a defiant oath.

"Come! we can't stand to be cursed. Where's the money? In the big house or in the little one? You'll be a dead man in ten seconds if you don't spit out the truth."

Merle did not reply.

"Stand him out there, Billy," cried the leader of the plunderers. "There, that will do. Stand him with his face toward us; so. Now, Merle of Ranch Robin, your life won't be worth the wick of a candle if you don't disclose the hiding place of Belle Demona's gold within three seconds. Time him by the watch, Peter."

One of the bandits, who was a tall, well-dressed fellow, but whose desperateness showed in every lineament, took a large watch from his trousers pocket and looked at it.

"He won't betray her. He'll die first," said Old Broadbrim, who breathlessly watched the scene. "In that case I will lose my map, and the chase across the sea will end in failure."

The voice of the bandit captain was heard again.

"One!" he said sternly.

Merle did not utter a word.

"Two!"

The figure of Old Broadbrim moved in the grass and the rifle came up against his shoulder.

He covered the group a few yards away, and then advanced upon it.

"Set him free!" came over the gleaming barrel of the leveled weapon.

The bandits looked up and then exchanged glances.

They saw but one man, and he stood in the moonlight with a rifle to his shoulder.

"Release Captain Merle!" repeated Old Broadbrim.

"Shoot the prisoner, that will be release enough," cried one of the robbers of the ranches.

"If you dare!" cried the detective. "It will be worth your leader's life to issue a command of that kind."

Nearer and nearer came the determined detective.

"Quick, we can kill the guard afterward," said one of the band in undertones. "It won't take a minute to riddle him."

The ringleader of the brigands issued the order, but at the same time the detective's rifle spoke and the form of the captain of the robbers reeled away and tumbled in a heap a few feet from his intended victim.

At the crack of the guard's weapon the brigands scattered, for the Australian bandit is not overbrave under some circumstances, but Old Broadbrim did not stop there.

In another second he was emptying the repeating rifle into the horde with some effect, but the unhurt ones dragged off their comrades and left Merle alone on the scene of battle.

"By Jove! it was well done!" he cried, springing forward and holding out his hand to his disguised hunter. "I never saw anything like it, Riggs."

"I thought you needed help and so I let loose upon the rascals."

"And scattered them like chaff! Why, you shoot like an old hand from the States."

"I've hunted in the States, as I've told you," smiled Old Broadbrim. "They won't return again to-night."

"Not they! You've killed their captain, I think, for when they dragged him away he did not seem to have a spark of life in him. But we'll hear from them again. They'll want revenge now, but we're too much for them."

The two men walked over to the place where Merle had been captured.

"I was making a quiet inspection of the lines by moonlight," explained Merle to the guard. "It is necessary at times, for you don't know what sort of guards you get. But men of your stamp, Riggs, are worth their weight in gold."

"They're gone, sir. Over the ridge yonder you can hear the last sounds of their horses."

"Yes. When you get off to-night come into the house," said Merle, and with this he left Old Broadbrim and went toward the ranch dwelling.

Two hours later the relief came around and Old Broadbrim marched back to the house.

Already he was a hero.

His comrades received him with demonstrations of delight and he was overwhelmed with words of praise.

But it was when he entered the presence of Belle Demona and stood before her, that he feared for his safety.

Her lustrous eyes looked him over from head to foot, and he heard her questions about the fight with the bandits.

He answered all with coolness, and all the while was watched by Merle, who stood near and confirmed his story.

"It's all right so far," thought Old Broadbrim. "I'm the hero of the hour, but let them find me out, or even suspect me, and my life won't be worth the snuffing of a tallow dip. I am in the lion's den and I must play out my hand coolly. It is no time for fear—I must lose no nerve in this new death-trap."

Merle Macray was about to quit the room when a horse stopped in front of the ranch house and the next moment footsteps sounded on the porch.

As he reached the door it was opened in his face, and a young man, who showed signs of hard riding, came in and caught Merle's eye.

"Oh, it's you, is it, Tom?" cried the villain.

"Yes. I've a letter from Logan. He told me to spare no time, but to get it to you at once. It came to the post office this afternoon, and he gave it to me for prompt delivery."

Merle, with a face full of eagerness, took the letter which the youth extended and withdrew with a hurried glance at Belle.

"You fight like a prince," said she, looking at Old Broadbrim, who had taken in the messenger and the letter. "It's a pleasure to know that one's fortunes are in such good hands at Round Robin Ranch. Some time you will tell me about your career, for Merle says you have traveled a great deal."

Old Broadbrim bowed.

"At any time you care to hear my story it is at your disposal," he answered. "Mine has not been a very exciting life. I learned to shoot in the States when we used to have brushes with both bear and Indian."

"Accept the thanks of Belle Demona," said the ranch queen. "Consider yourself engaged for life here. Round Robin Ranch is proud to have such a protector."

The detective looked out of the window at that moment and caught a glimpse of a face on the porch among the vines.

He could not help starting at it, for it was the face of a woman with two glittering basilisk eyes.

Belle Demona did not see it, for she was looking at the new guard.

As for Merle, who had withdrawn to another room, he stood at a little table with the recently-arrived letter in his hand.

"It's from Danny. I know his writing," he said. "I wonder what the old man has to say?"

In another second he had torn open the letter, and one glance sufficed.

In that glance he had read these terrible lines:

"Be on your guard! I have just looked into the pit and it is empty. The man who fell into it the other night is not there, and I have thrown a light to the bottom of it. So look for him near you by this time, if he is a Scotland Yarder.

"Old Danny."

Out of the pit?

No wonder all semblance of color left Merle's face.

No wonder he looked up with white lips that quivered like the leaves of the aspen.

Look out for him near Ranch Robin?

Where should he look?

Whom should he suspect?

He read the letter again and then crushed it in his hand.

"I'll find him if he comes here!" he hissed. "I have crossed the ocean to live again and not to fall into the hands of the shadower. I'll be ready for him. I'll find this man if he is to be found; but how did he get out? Perhaps he never fell into the place. That must be it. Why didn't I look for myself before quitting Melbourne? But never mind. I'm safe here."

A moment later he came back into the room with the calmest of faces, and his gaze caught Old Broadbrim's countenance, which stood the ordeal like a stoic's.

It was a terrible moment.

[CHAPTER XI.]

THE FACE IN THE HAY.

Five minutes later the detective walked from the house with Belle Demona's words of thanks and her good-night ringing in his ears, and sought the little corner where his bunk was.

This was in a small house not far from the main dwelling, but separate from it.

The other guards were his companions, but when he entered the place he found them all sound asleep, and their snores told him that he would have plenty of music through the night.

But it was not to sleep that the menaced detective sought the hard grass pillow of his couch.

He believed that the message received by Merle concerned his escape from the pit in Melbourne.

He felt assured that it told the hunted man that it was empty, and perhaps the letter was from Old Danny himself.

Broadbrim thought the whole matter over as the night wore on.

He recalled the face on the porch in the vines, and wondered what it meant.

Whose face was it and from whence had it come?

Midnight passed and he was not asleep.