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when he was temporarily crippled by a blasting accident I used to write his love-letters for him.
    Three days after he left, Inspector Frost and his black troopers, who all knew Walters, rode into the township. Naturally, the first question asked was, had they met Jack, and how far he’d got on the road?
    “Never saw or heard of him,” was the unexpected reply, “perhaps he was off the road.”
    “No, he said he was going down easy and expected to meet you.”
    “Hum!” said the inspector, “I’m going back tomorrow, and I’ll keep a sharp lookout for him.”
    Fifty miles from H— was a creek with permanent water and a good feed, a favourite camping-place. Frost, who had told the troopers to watch for signs of Jack, had almost forgotten the matter, to which, after all, he did not attach much importance, when a shrill whistle from one of his boys a short distance off the road to the right attracted his attention. The boy had dismounted, and was standing gazing at something on the ground. Frost rode up, and had almost anticipated what it was before he reached the spot. Screened by a few bushes from any chance traveller lay the body of a dead man—Jack Walters. His head was pillowed on his riding-saddle, his blanket was thrown over the lower part of his body, and his packsaddle and bags were close by, where they had evidently been put overnight. He had been shot through the temple, and in his hand he still held a revolver. To all appearances it was one of those motiveless cases of suicide that now and again puzzle everybody.
    A careful examination was made, but nothing seemed to have been disturbed; no money save some loose silver was found. Frost collected all the camp paraphernalia, took careful notes of the position of the body and all the surroundings; then, leaving one trooper to guard the remains, despatched a boy back to H— with the news, and instruction to the police there to come out and take the body—he himself had to proceed on his journey. Casting one more glance around, he noticed a newspaper lying some distance away. Such things were commonly found on old camping grounds, but he walked over and picked it up. It was the H— Express , the journal of the mining township he had left. He looked at it idly for some time, thinking more of the sight he had just witnessed than of the paper in his hand, when he instinctively noticed the date, which suggested a train of thought. Walters had left the field three days before Frost’s arrival there. The Inspector remembered that fact well, because there had been some debate as to the spot where they should have passed each other. Three days would make it Monday, and this paper was issued on Tuesday. How had it come into the dead man’s camp?
    Frost went back and looked at the corpse before the troopers had covered it up with boughs. The revolver taken from the stiffened fingers, he remembered, was but loosely held—it was not in the iron grasp of a dead man’s hand, clutched hard at the moment of death. No doubt remained that the case was not one of suicide, but cowardly, cold-blooded murder. Somebody had left the diggings the next morning, had ridden hard and overtaken Walters at the creek, had shared the hospitality of his camp, and had shot him for the sake of the money he had with him. Where was the murderer now?
    Frost, who had gold to take down to the port, did not tarry long between the scene of the murder and C—. The second day saw him closeted with the police magistrate, who had just received a telegram from H— informing him of the arrival of the native police with the news of Frost’s discovery. Hardly had Frost told his tale before another telegram arrived—“Jerry Boake left here after Walters. See if he is in C—.”
    Jerry was a pretty notorious character, and, strange to say, Walters was one of the few men who had befriended him when everybody else had thrown him over.
    A very short inquiry elicited the fact that Jerry was in town; also