The Shadow of a Man

"Good, Moya! That's all right," said her brother, as he might have complimented her across the net at lawn-tennis.

"It's quite unpleasant enough," continued Moya, with spirit, "without your making it worse. The police in possession, and a runaway convict goodness knows where!"

"I agree," said Theodore. "It is unpleasant. I wonder where the beggar can be?"

"It's no use asking me," said Moya; for the note of interrogation had been in his voice.

"You didn't see any suspicious-looking loafers, I suppose? I mean this afternoon."

"How could I? I was with Pelham all the time."

She would never marry him, never! That was no reason why she should give him away. She would never marry a man with discreditable secrets which she might not share, not because they were discreditable, but for the other reason. Yet she must be a humbug for his sake! Moya felt a well-known eye upon her, felt her face bathed in fire; luckily her explanation itself might account for that, and she had the wit to see this in time.

"I mean," she stammered, "one was on the verandah all the afternoon. Nobody could have come without our seeing them."

"I don't know about that. Love is blind!"

His tone carried relief to Moya. The irony was characteristic, normal. It struck her as incompatible with any strong suspicion. But the ground was dangerous all the same.

"If we are made uncomfortable," said Moya, shifting it, "what must it be for Pelham! It's on his account I feel so miserable."

And she spoke the truth; indeed, a truism; but she would be still more miserable if she married him. She would never marry a man – the haunting sentence went for once unfinished. Theodore was favouring her with a peculiar scrutiny whose import she knew of old. She was on her guard just in time.

"You haven't heard the latest development, I suppose?"

"Has there been something fresh since I came away?"

And even Theodore did not know that she was holding her breath.

"Something as fresh as paint," said he dryly. "Rigden thinks he's got on the fellow's tracks."

Moya had braced herself against any sudden betrayal of alarm; she was less proof against the inrush of a new contempt for her lover.

"You don't mean it!" she cried with indignation.

"Why not?" asked Theodore blandly.

"Oh, nothing. Only it's pretty disgraceful – on the part of the police, I mean – that they should spend hours looking for what a mere amateur finds at once!"

The brother peeped at her from lowered lids. He was admiring her resource.

"I agree," he said slowly, "if– our friend is right."

"Whom do you mean?" inquired Moya, up in arms on the instant.

"Rigden, of course."

"So you think he may be mistaken about the tracks, do you?"

"I think it's possible."

"You know a lot about such things yourself, of course! You have a wide experience of the bush, haven't you? What do the police think?"

"They're leaving it till the morning. They hope for the best."

"So everybody is pleased except my brilliant brother! I want to know why – I want to know more about these tracks."

He told her more with unruffled mien; he rather enjoyed her sarcasm; it both justified and stimulated his own. Sarcasm he held to be the salt of intercourse. It was certainly a game at which two Bethunes could always play.

"But we shall see in the morning," concluded Theodore. "The heathen is to be put upon the scent at dawn; if he passes it, well and good."

"Meanwhile you don't?"

"No, I'm hanged if I do," said Theodore, bluntly.

"Because you haven't been to see?"

Theodore smiled.

"Because you wouldn't know a man's track from a monkey's if you went?"

Theodore laughed.

"Why drag in Darwin, my dear girl? No, I've not been to look, and yet I'm not convinced. I just have my doubts, and a reason or so for them; then I haven't your admirable ground of belief in the infallibility of our host's judgment. He may be mistaken. Mistakes do get made by moonlight. Let's put it at that."

But Moya knew that he was not putting it at that in his mind, and she made up hers to learn the worst of his suspicions.

"If the tracks are not his, whose are they?" she demanded, as though it mattered. "If the creature is not somewhere about the run, where is he?"

And this did matter.

"If you ask me," said Theodore, with great gravity for him, "I should say that he was within a few yards of us all the time!"

"A few yards?"

"I should say," repeated Theodore, "that he was somewhere about the homestead, not the run. And you know perfectly well that you agree!"

"I?"

She jumped up in a fury.

"How dare you say that to me? How dare you, Theodore?"

"My dear Moya, I'm at a loss to understand you!" and his eyebrows underlined the words into largest capitals. "How on earth have I offended? I'm quite sure that you have the same suspicion – not to call it fear – that I entertain myself. If not, why be in such a state? Why not go to bed and to sleep like a rational person? I confess I don't feel like doing so myself – with the chance of waking up to find an escaped criminal on your chest. I prefer to sit up and keep watch. I'm convinced he's somewhere about; all these huts afford far better cover than the open paddocks, bless you! He could easily have slipped among them without either of you seeing him, and the chances are he has."

"If you think that," said Moya, "why didn't you suggest it?"

"I did – to Rigden. Wouldn't listen to me; so, of course, I can't expect you to be so disloyal as to do so either."