VI—Danger.It was a glorious summer morning when I set out in all the pride and glory of my new machine for Port Augusta, but I soon began to realise in some strange and subtle manner that a very distinct feeling of uneasiness was accompanying me upon my journey.
There was a foreboding somehow that I was entering into a danger zone, that trouble was lurking for me somewhere, and that I was foolishly courting discovery and disaster by returning to the vicinity of the murder. Then my nerves began quickly to get on edge, and my imagination to take hold of me in a most disquieting way.
I thought as I passed through the little townships that people stared at me as if they were wondering if I were the same motor cyclist who had passed by upon the night preceding the murder, and I was certain ag
