Thunder’s world company were no longer lounging carelessly on the grass, they stood erect, grouped together, their faces, tense with fear and amazement, showing whitey-yellow in the firelight, their hands thrown above their heads.  Facing them on the other side of the fire, with his profile to Nicholas Crips, was a short, stoutly-built man, in a coarse blue shirt and corduroy riding pants, with a white handkerchief tied loosely about his neck.  A fine chestnut horse stood behind him.  The rein was looped over his arm.  In his right hand this man held a long, business-like Colt’s revolver pointed at the group before him.

It was a fine picture, intensely dramatic, it amazed Nickie, and brought him up short with a gasp, but it did not appeal to him as an artist particularly.  He stepped sharply into cover of a gum butt.  His hand went instinctively to his breast where, in a small chamois bag next his skin, he carried a certain treasure the care of which was the one real concern of his present life.

“See here,” said the gentleman with the long revolver, “the first of you, man, woman or child, that stirs a finger or utters a yelp gets lead poisonin’.  Understand?” He looked round.  “This is the whole band?” he said.

Professor Thunder nodded his head.

“Yes,” said the intruder, “I was at your show at Big Timber, Professor, an’ I took trouble t’ size up the strength of the crowd.  I guessed it would be an easy thing, and it is.”

“Who are you?” asked the celebrated entrepreneur, much distressed to find himself in a theatrical situation that was painfully real.

“Don’t ask questions of yer betters, Professor, an’ you won’t get hurt.  Howsomever, yer bound t’ hear at The Mills all about Dan Heeley, so I don’t mind admittin’ I’m little Danny.”

“Heeley!” gasped Madame Marve, “the man that shot Hollander, the man that’s been sticking up the banks?”

Heeley’s brow darkened.

“Precisely, missus,” he said; “the man the Gov’ mint offers L250 quid for, cash on delivery.”  He turned again to Professor Thunder.  “I noticed you was doin’ pretty good at Big Timber, mate,” he said, “and I thought I’d follow on and pick up a little loose change.  Fact is, I want your cash box, Perfessor, and any little articles of value you don’t happen to be needin’ for the moment.”

“I—­I’ve got next to nothing,” faltered Thunder.  “Most of my takings went in expenses.”

Mat Heeley’s revolver hand became rigid, his grim mouth, tightened, his chin set itself in prognathous ugliness.

“You’ll send your little girl for that cash box, Professor,” he said coldly, “and you’ll tell her to gather up any bits and pieces of jewellery and such like as would please me, and if the collection isn’t a good one I’ll maybe blow an arm off you, jist as a mark of my displeasure.  As for the rest, if you ain’t good I’ll riddle the brain-pan of one of yeh jist to convince the others that I mean business.”