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I’d been thinking while I listened, and an idea struck me.

‘Why not let her know the truth?’ I asked. ‘She’s sure to hear of it sooner or later; and if she knew he was only a selfish, drunken blackguard she might get over it all the sooner.’

‘You don’t know women, Jack,’ said Andy quietly. ‘And, anyway, even if she is a sensible woman, we’ve got a dead mate to consider as well as a living woman.’

‘But she’s sure to hear the truth sooner or later,’ I said, ‘the Boss was so well known.’

‘And that’s just the reason why the truth might be kept from her,’ said Andy. ‘If he wasn’t well known–and nobody could help liking him, after all, when he was straight–if he wasn’t so well known the truth might leak out unawares. She won’t know if I can help it, or at least not yet a while. If I see any chaps that come from the North I’ll put them up to it. I’ll tell M’Grath, the publican at Solong, too: he’s a straight man–he’ll keep his ears open and warn chaps. One of Mrs Baker’s sisters is staying with her, and I’ll give her a hint so that she can warn off any women that might get hold of a yarn. Besides, Mrs Baker is sure to go and live in Sydney, where all her people are–she was a Sydney girl; and she’s not likely to meet any one there that will tell her the truth. I can tell her that it was the last wish of the Boss that she should shift to Sydney.’

We smoked and thought a while, and by-and-by Andy had what he called a ‘happy thought’. He went to his saddle-bags and got out the small canvas packet that Ned had given him: it was sewn up with packing-thread, and Andy ripped it open with his pocket-knife.

‘What are you doing, Andy?’ I asked.

‘Ned’s an innocent old fool, as far as sin is concerned,’ said Andy. ‘I guess he hasn’t looked through the Boss’s letters, and I’m just going to see that there’s nothing here that will make liars of us.’

He looked through the letters and papers by the light of the fire. There were some letters from Mrs Baker to her husband, also a portrait of her and the children; these Andy put aside. But there were other letters from barmaids and women who were not fit to be seen in the same street with the Boss’s wife; and there were portraits–one or two flash ones. There were two letters from other men’s wives too.

‘And one of those men, at least, was an old mate of his!’ said Andy, in a tone of disgust.

He threw the lot into the fire; then he went through the Boss’s pocket-book and tore out some leaves that had notes and addresses on them, and burnt them too. Then he sewed up the packet again and put it away in his saddle-bag.

‘Such is life!’ said Andy, with a yawn that might have been half a sigh.

We rode into Solong early in the day, turned our horses out in a paddock, and put up at M’Grath’s pub. until such time as we made up our minds as to what we’d do or where we’d go. We had an idea of waiting until the shearing season started and then making Out-Back to the big sheds.

Neither of us was in a hurry to go and face Mrs Baker. ‘We’ll go after dinner,’ said Andy at first; then after dinner we had a drink, and felt sleepy–we weren’t used to big dinners of roast-beef and vegetables and pudding, and, besides, it was drowsy weather–so we decided to have a snooze and then go. When we woke up it was late in the afternoon, so we thought we’d put it off till after tea. ‘It wouldn’t be manners to walk in while they’re at tea,’ said Andy–‘it would look as if we only came for some grub.’