Within twenty-four hours after Peggy got back to her old home, it was known all over the mountains that she meant business, and would make a claim on William Grant’s estate. Rumour, of course, supplied all the needful details. It was said, and even sworn to, that Peggy had her marriage lines put by in a big iron box, ready to be produced at the proper time. Other authorities knew for a fact that she had no proofs, but that the family at Kuryong were going to give her any sum from a thousand pounds to a million, to cancel her claim and save exposure.

As a matter of fact, none of those who talked knew anything whatever. Peggy confided in no one but Red Mick, and that worthy had had enough legal experience of a rough and ready sort to know that things must be kept quiet till the proper time. But by way of getting ready for action Red Mick and his sister one fine morning rode up to Gavan Blake’s office to consult him as to what they should do.

Blake was not at all surprised to see them. He, of course, had heard all the rumours that were afloat, and knew that if Peggy brought forward any claim he would be asked to act for her professionally. He had not quite decided whether he would act or not. In his hard commonsense mind he saw next to no possibility of Peggy having a bona fide case. He did not suppose for a moment that William Grant would have run his neck into a bigamy noose; and it would put the young lawyer in a very awkward position with Mary Grant if, after saving her life and posing as her friend, he carried on a blackmailing suit against her. At the same time, he felt that it could do no harm to either side to investigate Peggy’s case; there might be awkward things that he could help to suppress. So with expectancy and not a little amusement he saw his clients ride up and tie their horses to the fence outside his office, and watched Peggy straighten her ruffled plumage before entering.

They came in at the door with a seriousness worthy of the occasion. Peggy heaved a subdued sigh and settled in a chair. Red Mick opened the conversation.

“Mornin’ to you, Gavan,” he said.

By virtue of his relationship Mick was privileged to call his brilliant nephew by his Christian name. To the rest of the clans Gavan was Mr. Blake.

“Good morning, Mick. Good morning, Peggy. Have you had any rain?”

In the bush no one would think of introducing discussion without a remark about the weather.

“Jist a few drops,” said Red Mick gloomily. “Do us no good at all. Things is looking terrible bad, so they are. But we want to see ye⁠—” and here he dropped his voice, rose, and cautiously closed the door⁠—“Peggy here, Mrs. Grant, d’ye see,”⁠—Mick got the name out without an effort⁠—“she wants to see ye about making a claim on the estate. ’Tis time she done somethin’. All these years left to shift for herself⁠—”

Here Blake broke in on him. He meant to probe Peggy’s case thoroughly, and knew that it would be no easy matter to get at the truth while she had Red Mick alongside to prompt her. He had not dealt with the mountain folk for nothing, and handled his clients in a way that would astonish a more conservative practitioner.

“Mick,” he said, “you go over to Isaacstein’s store and wait till I send for you.”

“I want Mick to be wid me,” began Peggy.

Blake blazed up. He knew that he must keep his ascendancy over these wild people by force of determination.

“You heard what I said,” he thundered, turning fiercely on Peggy. “You want this and you want that! It’s not what you want, it’s what I want! You do what you’re told. If you don’t⁠—I won’t help you. Mick, you go over to the store, and wait till I send for you.” And Mick shambled off.

Peggy, still inclined to be defiant, settled herself in her chair. She had battled in North Queensland so long that she neither feared nor respected anybody; but her native shrewdness told her she had all to gain and nothing to lose by doing what her lawyer advised.

“Now, Peggy,” he said, “do you want to make a claim against William Grant’s estate?”

“Yis.”

“On the ground that you’re his widow?”

“Yis. I’ll tell yer⁠—”

“No, you won’t tell me anything. I’ll tell you. If you are to have any hope of succeeding in this case, you must furnish me with the name of the priest or parson who married you, the place where you were married, and the date. It must be a real priest or parson, a real place, and a real date. It’s no use coming along with a story of a marriage by a parson and you’ve forgotten his name, at a place you can’t remember where it was, and a date that’s slipped your memory. You must have a story to tell, and it must hold water. Now, can you tell such a story? Have you got any proofs at all?”

Peggy shifted about uneasily.

“Can I see Mick?” she said.

“No, you can not. You must out with it here and now. Listen to me, Peggy,” he went on, sinking his voice suddenly and looking hard at her. “I’ve got to know all about this. It’s no use keeping anything back. Were you ever married to William Grant?”

Peggy dropped her voice too.

“Yis. I was married twenty-five years ago at a place called Pike’s pub, out in the Never-never country.”

“Who read the service, parson or priest?”

“Neither. A mish’nary. Mish’nary to the blacks.”

“Is he alive?”

“No, he died out there. He was sick then, wid the Queensland fever.”

“What was his name?”

“Mr. Nettleship.”

“Was the marriage ever registered?”

“Sorra one of me knows. He giv us each a bit of paper⁠—our marriage lines. ’Twas written in pencil. He had no ink in the place, and he had no books wid him. He tore the sheet of paper and give us each half, wid the writing on it; his horses got stole and he had to camp there. He stayed round wid Pike and the blacks till he died.”

“And where is the certificate? Have you lost it?”

“I sint mine down to Mick to keep for me⁠—jist a bit of paper written in pencil it was⁠—and it got lost some ways; but I have a copy of it I med at the time.”

“Where is the copy now?”

“At Mick’s place.”

“You must tell Mick to bring it in. Now where is this place, Pike’s?”

“Out this side of the opal-fields. It’s wild and rough now, but what it was then⁠—well ’twas more like a black’s camp nor a white man’s place at all.”

Blake thought the story had gone far enough. He did not believe a word of it. “Look here, Peggy,” he said. “You have given the place, the date, the name of the parson, and everything. Now you know that if you are telling a lie it will be easily found out. They will soon find out if there was such a missionary, and if he was up there at the time, and if Mr. Grant was up there; and if you are caught out in a lie it may go hard with you. Have you any witnesses?”

“Martin Doyle was there, Black Martin’s son.”

“What! Martin Doyle that’s out at the nine-mile?”

“Yis. He was up driving the buggy and horses for Grant. He can swear to the wedding.”

“He can.”

“Yis.”

Blake sat back in his chair and looked at her. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that you can show me a certificate and a witness to your marriage with William Grant?”

Peggy looked doggedly down at the floor and said, in the tones of one who is repeating the burial service or some other solemn function, “I can prove the marriage.”

Blake was puzzled. He had known the mountain folk all his life, and knew that for uneducated people⁠—or perhaps because they were uneducated people⁠—they were surprisingly clever liars. But he never dreamt that any of them could hoodwink him; so he put Peggy once more through the whole story⁠—made her describe all her actions on the day of the wedding, where she stood, where the witness stood, what the parson said, what her husband said. He went through the whole thing, and could see no flaw in it. He knew that Peggy would not scruple to lie to him; but, with the contempt of a clever man, he felt satisfied that he could soon upset any concocted story. This story seemed to hold water, and the more he cross-examined her the more sure he was that there was something genuine about it; at the same time, he was sure that it was not all genuine. Then a thought occurred to him.

“Would you settle this case if they offered you something?” he said.

“I’ll do whatever you say,” said Peggy, rising. “ ’Tis for you to say what I ought to do. ’Tis not for the like of me, that is no scholar.”

“Leave it to me,” said Blake. “I’ll do what is best for you. Send Martin Doyle in to see me, Martin that was the witness. And about this copy of the certificate, tell Mick to bring it in here. Now you go home, and don’t you say to one living soul one word of what has passed in here. Tell them you are going on with the case, but don’t say any more, or you may land yourself in gaol. Do you hear me?”

And the cowed and flustered Peggy hurried away to join her brother, who was far too wise to ask questions.

“Least said soonest mended,” he said, when told that Blake required silence.

After his clients had gone, Gavan Blake sat for half an hour almost dazed. If Peggy’s story was true, then Mary Grant was an outcast instead of a great heiress. And while he had become genuinely fond of her (which he never was of Ellen Harriott), he had no idea of asking her to share his debts with him. He puzzled over the affair for a long time, and at last his clear brain saw a way out of all difficulties. He would go over to the old station, put the whole case before Mary Grant, and induce her for peace’ sake to give Peggy money to withdraw her claim. Out of this money he himself would keep enough to pay all his pressing debts. He would be that much to the good whatever happened, and afterwards would have an added claim on Mary Grant’s sympathies for having relieved her of a vast lawsuit in which her fortune, and even her very name, were involved.

This plan seemed to him the best for all parties⁠—for himself especially, which was the most important thing. If he could get a large sum to settle the case, he could make Peggy give him a big share for his trouble, and then at last be free from the haunting fear of exposure and ruin. He felt sure that he was doing quite right in advising Mary Grant to pay.

Again and again he ran over Peggy’s case in his mind, and could see no flaw in it. In the old days haphazard marriages were rather the rule than the exception, and such things as registers were never heard of in far-out parts. His trained mind, going through the various questions that a cross-examiner would ask, and supplying the requisite answers, decided that, though it might seem a trifle improbable, there was nothing contradictory about Peggy’s story. A jury would sympathise with her, and the decisions of the Courts all leaned towards presuming marriage where certain circumstances existed. By settling the case he would do Mary Grant a real kindness. And afterwards⁠—well, she would probably be as grateful as when he had saved her life. He saw himself the hero of the hour: ever prompt to decide, he saddled a horse, and at once rode off to Kuryong to put the matter before her.

While Gavan Blake was conferring with his clients, a very different sort of conference was being held at Kuryong. The return of Charlie Gordon, accompanied by Carew, had been voted by common consent an occasion for holiday; and although, according to theory, a bush holiday is invariably spent in kangaroo-hunting, yet the fact is that men who are in the saddle from daylight to dark, from weekend to weekend, generally spend a holiday resting legs that are cramped from the saddle, and arms that ache from lifting sheep over hurdles or swinging the gates of drafting-yards.

Thus it was that, on the holiday at Kuryong, the Bachelors’ Quarters⁠—two large dormitory-like rooms that opened into one another⁠—were full of athletic male figures sprawling on the beds, smoking black pipes all day, and yarning interminably. The main topic of conversation was Peggy’s claim against the estate. They had all heard the rumours that were going round; each had quietly been trying to find out what Peggy had to go on, and this powwow was utilised for the purpose of comparing notes. They had one advantage over Gavan Blake⁠—they knew all about Considine, which Blake did not.

On one bed lay Pinnock, who had come up to make arrangements for carrying on the station till the will was proved. On another bed sprawled Carew, who, by virtue of his trip out back, was looked upon as a bit of an oracle by Poss and Binjie, who had never been further than the mountains. Poss and Binjie had dragged an old couch out of the next room and were stretched on that, listening to the talk, and occasionally throwing in a word of such wisdom as they had. Hugh sat in an armchair by the window, smoking and dreaming.

Poss’s voice cut knife-like through a cloud of tobacco smoke. He spoke as one on the defensive.

“Well, I believe there’s something in it, anyhow. Briney Donohoe told me⁠—”

Charlie Cordon’s cold drawl interrupted the youth. “It’s all rot,” he said. “Briney Donohoe told you⁠—what does he know about it? You two boys and Hugh have been stuck at home here so long, you believe anything. I tell you, they’ll do nothing. It’s all talk, just to make themselves big people. They have nothing to do just now, so it comes in handy as an excuse to ride from one selection to another all day long and leave our gates open. We have Peggy’s measure, haven’t we, Carew? That long-lost relation of yours, old Considine!”

“I wish you did have him,” said the lawyer. “He might come in very handy. With a big property like this to go for, they are nearly sure to have a try at it.”

Poss took heart at finding himself supported by this new champion. “Yes,” he said. “Red Mick and Peggy are down at Gavan Blake’s today. I saw their horses hanging up outside as I came through. And Briney Donohoe told me⁠—”

“What do you think, Carew?” said Charlie, cutting Briney Donohoe off again. “Don’t you think that old fellow was telling the truth when he said he married Peggy?”

“Sure he was,” said the Englishman. “Never saw a fellow in such a funk in my life.”

“What about Peggy?” said Pinnock. “How did she take it?”

“Bold as brass! I thought she was going to kiss Charlie there, when she found out who he was.”

Pinnock laughed. “Funny thing,” he said, “a woman like Peggy having the chance to choose between two fortunes. Pity we couldn’t induce her to take the old bushman and be done with it. How much money has he come into, Carew?”

“Oh, plenty of money. But of course there’s an old place to keep up, and the death duties are very heavy. Very expensive thing having money left you in England, you know.”

Charlie Gordon turned to Pinnock. “What you ought to do,” he said (the far-out man who has to shift for himself is always quite sure he can settle all difficulties better than those whose profession it is), “what you ought to do,” he repeated, “is to send someone to Peggy and tell her not to be such a fool. Tell her to stick to old Considine. That’s what you ought to do.”

“Well, suppose you go and do it. You know the lady better than anyone here, seemingly. But if she has been to see Blake, I expect the fat’s in the fire by this time.”

“I don’t think much of Blake takin’ up the case,” said Binjie, “after the old lady asked him here. It’s doing the blacksnake act, I call it. I don’t suppose he’ll come here any more after this.”

Hugh still sat looking out of the window, smoking silently. “Here comes Blake now, anyhow,” he said. “He’s just coming up the flat.”

“Wants to see me, I expect,” said Pinnock. “We’ll know all about it now. Must have heard I was here, and is come to declare war or sue for peace. Someone had better go and meet him, I suppose.”

“Dashed if I’ll go,” said Poss. “I don’t care about a chap that doesn’t act white. I saw Red Mick’s and Peggy’s horses at his office today, and now he comes up here as bold as brass.”

“Let him go round to the front,” said Hugh, “and then he can ask the servants for whoever he wants. If we go out and meet him, we’ll have to ask him to stay.”

The approach to houses in the bush is generally by way of the yard where the horses arrive, and it is very unusual for anyone, except a stranger making a formal visit, to be allowed to find their way round to the front.

Blake rode up and gave his horse to the horse-boy. “Put him in the stable for a while,” he said. “I may want him again.” Then he went round to the front door and asked for Mrs. Gordon.

“I have come to see Miss Grant on very important business,” he said when the old lady came in. “Would you ask her if she would see me?”

The old lady was in a quandary. She had heard all the rumours that were going about, but she knew that they had been kept from Mary Grant, and she thought that if Blake meant to talk business he might shock or startle the girl terribly.

“Mr. Pinnock the lawyer is here,” she said. “Perhaps you had better see him. Miss Grant does not know⁠—”

“I am come as a friend of Miss Grant’s, Mrs. Gordon,” he said. “But, if Mr. Pinnock is here, perhaps it would be better for me to see him first. Shall I wait for him here?”

“If you will go into the office I will send him in there,” and the old lady withdrew to talk of commonplace matters with Mary, all the time feeling that a great crisis was at hand.

Soon the two lawyers faced one another over the office table, and Blake got to business at once.

“Mr. Pinnock,” he said, “I am asked to act for Margaret Donohoe, or Margaret Grant as she claims to be; and I want you to believe that I am seriously telling you what I believe to be the truth, when I say that Miss Grant had better settle this case.”

“Why should she pay one penny? What proofs have you? It looks to me, with all respect to you, Mr. Blake, like an ordinary case of blackmail.”

“If it were blackmail,” said Blake quietly, “do you think that I would be here, giving you particulars of the case? I tell you, man, I am ready now to give you all particulars, and you can soon see whether to advise a settlement or not.”

“Fire away, then,” said Pinnock. “It will take a lot to convince me, though, and so I tell you.”

Blake gave him the particulars gleaned from Peggy. “I have examined and cross-examined and re-cross-examined her, and I can’t shake her story.”

Pinnock listened with an immovable face, but his mind was working like lightning. As the name of the missionary and Pike’s Hotel were mentioned, he remembered that he had seen these very names on the butts of Grant’s chequebooks. Getting Blake to excuse him for a moment, he hurried to his room and pulled out a bundle of cheque-butts. The best diary of many a man is found in his cheque-butts. There he saw on the very date mentioned by Blake, cheques drawn to “Self and P.”, also one drawn to “Pike accommodation,” and one simply to the name of Nettleship for five pounds. Of course it was quite possible that the latter was only a donation to charity, such as old Bully was occasionally very free with; but, taken together, the whole lot made Blake’s story look unpleasantly probable. Pinnock whistled to himself as he tied the bundle up again. “Case of settle or be sorry,” he said to himself. “I wonder how much will settle it?”

When he faced Blake again, he had pulled the mask of professional stolidity over his features; also he lied boldly.

“I can see nothing to corroborate this story,” he said; “but it may be that Miss Grant would rather pay a few pounds than have the unpleasantness of a trial. I will get her in and ask her if you like, but I don’t think it will lead to anything.”

They were holding their conference in the office. Outside, the station was dozing in the sun. The house dog slept in the yard, and a stray wild pigeon had come down into the quadrangle, and was picking at some grain that was spilt there. From the garden came the shouts of the children and the happy laughter of Mary Grant.

“There she is now,” said Pinnock. “Hadn’t I better get her to come in and get the thing over?”

He went out, and came back very soon. “Mrs. Gordon and Miss Grant are coming,” he said. “She said she would like Mrs. Gordon to be with her.”

Before long they came in and sat down. Mary Grant had no idea what she was wanted for. She greeted Blake with a glad smile, and waited to hear what Pinnock had to say. It did not take the lawyer long to put the story before her: but it was some time before she could understand it. Nothing so tragic had ever entered her life before, and she seemed almost stunned.

Mrs. Gordon moved to her side and took her hand.

“It is very terrible for you⁠—for us all, dear,” she said. “You must listen to what Mr. Pinnock says, and make up your mind. He can advise you best what to do.”

Again Pinnock went through the case. As a full understanding broke in on her, she drew herself up; the look of distress and perplexity left her face, and her eyes were full of scorn and anger.

“Hello, what’s coming now?” thought Pinnock. “I hope she says nothing rash.”

She tried to speak once or twice, but the words seemed to choke her.

“What do you advise me to do, Mr. Pinnock?” she said, turning to him suddenly.

“I advise you to give me power to act for you in the matter as I think best,” said Pinnock, who saw that matters were likely to slip beyond his control. “From what Mr. Blake tells me, I daresay this woman can give you a lot of trouble and annoyance. Whatever you pay her, you won’t miss the money. You will save the family here from being turned out; you will avoid scandal; and if there should be any foundation for Mr. Blake’s story, it may mean that if you don’t settle you lose everything.”

From him Mary Grant turned to the old lady.

“Mrs. Gordon,” she said, “do you advise me to pay this money?”

“My dear, I don’t advise at all. Don’t consider us in the matter at all. It is for you to say.”

“Then I will pay nothing. It is a cruel, infamous, wicked slander. These poor, ignorant people don’t know what they are doing. Sooner than pay one penny in compromise, I will walk off this station a pauper. God will not let such villainy win. Mrs. Gordon, surely you don’t think that I ought to blacken my father’s and mother’s name by paying money to keep this claim quiet?”

Here Pinnock broke in on her speech. “But if they should manage to produce evidence⁠—”

“Let them produce it, and let the judge believe it if he likes. You and I and everybody know that it is a lie; even if they win the case, it is still a lie. I will pay nothing⁠—not one halfpenny. My mother’s name is more than all the money in the world, and I will not blacken it by compromises. Mr. Pinnock, the case is to be fought out, and if we lose we shall still know that justice is on our side; but if we pay money⁠—”

Mrs. Gordon took her hand, and lifted it to her lips.

“I think you are quite right, my dear. You put us all to shame for even thinking of it.”

“I am very sorry, Mr. Blake,” the girl went on, “very sorry indeed that you should have come here on such an errand. You saved my life, and if I could pay you for that I would; but this offer is an insult, and I hope that you will never come here again. Whether I am turned out of the old station or not, I hope that you will never come here again.” And with that the two ladies walked out, leaving the lawyers looking at each other.

“I am afraid, Mr. Blake,” said Pinnock at last, “that we have lost any hope we might ever have had of settling this case.”

But Blake, as he rode homewards, felt that he had lost forever a much higher hope. He had played for a high stake on two chances. One of them had failed him. There remained only the chance of pulling Peggy’s case through; and he swore that if hard work, skill, and utter unscrupulousness could win that case, it should be won.