Gable was Mrs. Hardy’s brother, and although over sixty years of age, his mind had remained the mind of a child; mentally, he never grew beyond his eighth year.  He was a child in all his ways and wishes, was happiest in the society of children, and was regarded by them, without question and without surprise, as one of themselves.  He was sent to school because it pleased him to go, and it kept him out of mischief, and every day he learned over again the lessons he had learned the day before and forgotten within an hour.  His admiration for Dick Haddon was profound, the respect and appreciation the boy of eight has for the big brother who is twelve and smokes.

Abashed by Dick’s frown, the old man devoted himself humbly to his ‘piece,’ and the boy gave his whole attention to the conversation.  He was eager to get an inkling of Harry’s line of action.  For his own part he had thought of a desperate band, with Harry at its head and himself in a conspicuous position, raiding the gaol at Yarraman under a hail of bullets, and bearing off the prisoner in triumph; but experience had taught him that the expedients of grown-up people were apt to be disgustingly common place and ludicrously ineffective.

‘If he’d an enemy,’ said Harry, ’there’d be something to go on.  Was there nobody, no one at all, that he’d had any row with—­nobody who hated him?’

Mrs. Haddon shook her head.

‘Nobody,’ she said.  ’But he declared the real thieves had done it, either to shift suspicion or to be rid of him.  He thought it a disgrace that all the men at the Stream should be marked as probable thieves because of one or two rogues; an’ he was always eager to spot the real robbers.  It was known gold-stealin’ had been goin’ on for some time.  That’s why they put on the searcher.’

‘Shine.  Mightn’t he have had a finger in it?’

‘No, no.  It doesn’t seem likely.  Why should he?’

’I can’t say.  God knows!  But there is somebody.  If I only knew the man—­if I only had him under my hand!

Harry’s face became grey through the tan; he sat forward in his chair, with a sinewy arm thrust down between his knees, and his hand closed as if upon a throat.  His mother touched his shoulder.

’Violence can only work mischief, my boy.  Use what intelligence you have—­only that can help.  If we can save poor Frank and clear his name, we may leave vengeance to the law.’

‘Yes, mother, you are right, but I am no saint.  I hate my enemies, an’ it is maddening not to know who you hate—­who to hit at.’

’That may be so, Henry, but passion will only blind you.  If you are not cool you will fail.  Remember, the true culprits may be near you while you are seeking; do nothing to set them on their guard.  You may learn much from the men.  They are all Frank’s friends, even those who believe him guilty.’

’Believe him guilty!

’O, my boy, my boy!  You would want to fight them all.  It is folly.  The evidence did not leave room for a doubt as to his guilt, and these men have their own ideas as to the morality of such crimes.  Many of them think none the worse of a man who helps himself to a nugget that he may find on his shovel.’