'I've offered one hundred pounds reward for the scoundrels who cut my horses' throats and robbed my drays on the road to Tunumburra.

There's a chance for you, if you're mean enough to turn informer.' 'I know nothing about that,' said the Organiser.
'Eh?
Well, if my grass is burned, I shall know who did it, and so will this Police Inspector.

And I am a magistrate, and will have you arrested.

Get on your horse, Harris, we'll start at once, and ride alongside this chap till he's over my boundaries.' Harris unhitched his horse and mounted, but not sooner than McKeith was he in the saddle.

Then McKeith looked at last towards the veranda where Bridget stood, white, defiant, with Maule at the French window of the dining-room just behind her.
McKeith took off his hat, made her a sweeping bow, which might have included his guest, turned his horse's head and rode in the direction of the sliprails, Harris and the sulky Organiser slightly at his rear.
Bridget never forgot that impression of him--the dogged slouch of his broad shoulders--the grim set of his head, the square, unyielding look of his figure, as he sat his horse with the easy poise of a bushman who is one with the animal under him--in this case, a powerfully made, nasty tempered roan, one of Colin's best saddle-horses--which seemed as dogged tempered as its master.
Maule showed tact in tacitly assuming the unexpected necessity for McKeith's abrupt departure--also that he had already bidden good-bye to his wife.
Lady Bridget made no comment upon her husband's scant courtesy to his guest when she rejoined Maule after an hour or two spent in housewifely business.