'There was only one thing to be done. I must trust to the sound sleeping of Ewbank upstairs, open the door myself, knock the visitor down, or shoot him with the revolver I had been new chum enough to buy before leaving Melbourne, and make a dash for that clump of trees and the doctor's mare. My mind was made up in an instant, and I was at the top of the strong-room stairs, the knocking still continuing, when a second sound drove me back. It was the sound of bare feet coming along a corridor.

'My narrow stair was stone, I tumbled down it with little noise, and had only to push open the iron door, for I had left the keys in the safe. As I did so I heard a handle turn overhead, and thanked my gods that I had shut every single door behind me. You see, old chap, one's caution doesn't always let one in!

' "Who's that knocking?" said Ewbank, up above.

'I could not make out the answer, but it sounded to me like the irrelevant supplication of a spent man. What I did hear plainly, was the cocking of the bank revolver before the bolts were shot back. Then, a tottering step, a hard, short, shallow breathing, and Ewbank's voice in horror:

' "Good Lord! What's happened to you? You're bleeding like a pig!"

' "Not now," came with a grateful sort of sigh.

' "But you have been! What's done it?"

' "Bushrangers."

' "Down the road?"

' "This and Whittlesea -- tied to tree -- cock-shots -- left me -- bleed to death...."

'The weak voice failed, and the bare feet bolted. Now was my time -- if the poor devil had fainted. But I could not be sure, and there I crouched down below in the dark, at the half-shut iron door, not less spell-bound than imprisoned. It was just as well, for Ewbank wasn't gone a minute.