Stingaree
and pistols pointed, as he saw himself now, not less than a quarter life-size, in a great gaudy frame. But while he stared Mrs. Melvin had been rummaging in a drawer, and when he turned she was staring in her turn with glassy eyes. In her hands was an empty mahogany case with velvet moulds which ought to have been filled by a brace of missing revolvers.
"He kept it locked—he kept them in it!" she gasped. "He may have done it this very night!"
"Done what?"
"Stuck up the Deniliquin mail. That is his maddest dream. I have heard him boast of it to his friends—the brainless boys who alone look up to him—I have even heard him rave of it in his dreams!"
Stingaree was heavy for a moment with a mental calculation. His head was a time-table of Cobb's coaches on the Riverina road-system; he nodded it as he located the imperilled vehicle.
"A dream it shall remain," said he. "But there's not a moment to lose!"
"Do you propose to follow and stop him?"
"If he really means it."
"He may not. He will ride at night. He is often out as late."
"Going and coming about the same time?"
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