‘Surely you’re not going to take the thing home, Mac?’ said his friend, as the former lugged the ‘Duke’s’ _locum tenens_ towards the buggy. ‘He’s only fit to have his throat cut.’ ‘Never mind,’ replied M‘Pherson moodily, ‘he’ll mebbe turn out o’ some use yet.’ Not that the old Scotchman was at all inclined to sit down quietly and suffer his loss. Very far from it. But he was no favourite, and public sympathy was absent. Unfeeling people averred that, at the time of the sale, he had been under the influence of hypnotism, etc., etc.; in fact, laughed at, and enjoyed the thing as a good joke. Therefore he was disinclined to blazon his misadventure throughout the Colonies. Also, he thought it would be bad policy to make too much noise. Nevertheless, he quietly strained every nerve, and spent money freely in endeavours to discover the missing animal. Private detectives and the local police took the matter in hand, and with exactly the same amount of success. * * * * * Meanwhile the ‘Duke’ was thriving. At Tara a big underground cellar, lit by skylights, had recently been excavated. This was his home. There, waited upon by the only three in the secret, the great merino lived on the fat of the land. Some nights the Blakes would let him out into the garden for a pick, themselves or Brown securing him in his quarters again before they turned in. It was a lot of bother, doubtless. But what of that, if they could only ‘bring old Mac to his bearings,’ and secure Palkara for their Association! As for the risk of discovery, they laughed at it. From the minute the agent (who was ready to swear to the ‘Duke’s’ identity) put him in the coach at the Burrtown terminus, everything seemed vague and exceedingly doubtful respecting the spot at which the transfer could possibly have been effected. The coach stopped at some half-dozen stations along the road, besides mail stages, and at none of these places could the slightest clue be obtained. In common with the rest, Tara was subjected to official visits. ‘Certainly, Sergeant, happy to show you through all the paddocks. Like to see the rams? Yes, of course. We’ve got some very fine Havilahs you’ll be pleased with, I’m sure. Yes; terrible affair about poor M‘Pherson’s “Duke”! Have another nip before we start?’ So, sheep galore did the unhappy police inspect, and carefully did they compare, stags, wethers, and ancient ‘horny’ ewes with photos of the ‘Duke’ until, at length, quite dazed with the apparently endless quest, to say nothing of the whisky, they audibly cursed the whole ovine race back to the days of the first breeders. Only once did the brothers feel a doubt. Driving into town, they met M‘Pherson and a black-fellow following the old cull, who was steadily tramping along the road Tara-ward. ‘What’s all this about, M‘Pherson?’ asked one, as they pulled up. ‘Have you taken a droving contract?’