“From a shot!” involuntarily exclaimed Lionel.

“He and Luke were coming down to Melbourne from—­where was it?—­the Bendigo Diggings, I think; but I heard so much of the different names, that I am apt to confound one with another.  John had a great deal of gold on him, in a belt round his waist, and Luke supposes that it got known.  John was attacked as they were sleeping by night in the open air, beaten, and shot.  It was the shot that killed him.”

“Poor fellow!” exclaimed Lionel, his eyes fixed on vacancy, mentally beholding John Massingbird.  “And they robbed him!”

“They had robbed him of all.  Not a particle of gold was left upon him.  And the report sent home by Luke, that the gold and men were taken, proved to be a mistaken one.  Luke came on afterwards to Melbourne, and tried to discover the men; but he could not.  It was this striving at discovery which brought him in contact with Mr. Eyre.  After we reached Melbourne and I became acquainted with the Eyres, they did all they could to find out Luke, but they were unsuccessful.”

“What had become of him?”

“They could not think.  The last time Mr. Eyre saw him, Luke said he thought he had obtained a clue to the men who killed John.  He promised to go back the following day and tell Mr. Eyre more about it.  But he did not.  And they never saw him afterwards.  Mrs. Eyre used to say to me that she sincerely trusted no harm had come to Luke.”

“Harm in what way?” asked Lionel.

“She thought—­but she would say that it was a foolish thought—­if Luke should have found the men, and been imprudent enough to allow them to know that he recognised them, they might have worked him some ill.  Perhaps killed him.”

Sibylla spoke the last words in a low tone.  She was standing very still; her hands lightly resting before her, one upon another.  How Lionel’s heart was beating as he gazed on her, he alone knew.  She was once again the Sibylla of past days.  He forgot that she was the widow of another; that she had left him for that other of her own free will.  All his past resentment faded in that moment:  nothing was present to him but his love; and Sibylla with her fascinating beauty.

“You are thinner than when you left home,” he remarked.

“I grew thin with vexation; with grief.  He ought not to have taken me.”

The concluding sentence was spoken in a strangely resentful tone.  It surprised Lionel.  “Who ought not to have taken you?—­taken you where?” he asked, really not understanding her.

“He.  Frederick Massingbird.  He might have known what a place that Melbourne was.  It was not fit for a lady.  We had lodgings in a wooden house, near a spot that had used to be called Canvas Town.  The place was crowded with people.”

“But surely there are decent hotels at Melbourne?”

“All I know is he did not take me to one.  He inquired at one or two, but they were full; and then somebody recommended him to get a lodging.  It was not right.  He might have gone to it himself, but he had me with him.  He lost his desk, you know.”