“I’ll warrant the lazy rascal has gone to sleep somewhere, and not awakened during the disturbance,” Murden said, not suspecting the trick which the stockman had played him.

“And what has become of my dog?” I asked, surprised to think that he had also disappeared.

Fearful that he had got tired of my society, and left for his mistress, I whistled shrilly, and was happy to hear a response, in the shape of a deep bay, back of the hut.  We hurried where we could get a view of him, and, to my surprise and delight, I saw that he was standing over the prostrate body of the miserable, treacherous Bimbo, and showing a set of ivories at every movement of the wretch, which would have delighted a gentleman versed in dentistry, or an admirer of white teeth.

The Lieutenant, Fred, and myself, proceeded to the spot, and as we approached, Bimbo attempted to rise, but the vigilant animal, with an angry growl, grasped him by the neck, and the dirty fellow was content to lie quiet, although he used his voice well, and broke forth with lamentations at the hound’s rough treatment.

“Is this the kind of usage a cove meets for giving you something to eat, and looking after yer hanimals.  Take the cuss off, can’t ye, and not let him stand over me this way?”

“Call off the dog,” whispered Murden; “I am afraid that the animal will choke him to death, and then, lazy as he is, he still would be a loss, for he gives me information at times concerning the movements of bushrangers, which I can obtain nowhere else.”

“Did he ever give you tidings that led to the arrest of thieves?” I asked.

“No.  I think not,” replied the officer, after a moment’s reflection; “but that, you know, is no fault of Bimbo’s.  By his advice, I have twice been near capturing parties of marauders.  Something, however, has happened to prevent me—­either I would get the intelligence too late, or the robbers had just changed their haunts.”

“I see,” replied Fred, with a grin; “the lazy, ignorant Bimbo has blinded the eyes of one of the smartest lieutenants of police in Australia, and by pretending to furnish information, has gained his confidence, simply to place him on the wrong track.”

“What mean you?” asked Murden, astonished.

“I mean that this scamp”—­and by this time we were beside the fellow, whose face bore every mark of the most abject terror—­“has been in league with the bushrangers for years; that he just entered into a contract with Jim Gulpin, to set his gang free, and that he picked the pocket of Maurice to get the key of the robber’s irons, and that our deaths were deliberately planned, and would have been carried into effect, had we not chanced to overhear the bargain.”

“So help me God, lieutenant, it’s a lie!” shouted Bimbo, struggling to his feet, a proceeding which the hound did not exactly like, and he looked into my face as much as to ask whether it was all right, and manifested hostility even when I called him away.