, was a galvanised-iron, one-roomed
edifice in the middle of a glaring expanse of treeless plain, in which
a quail could scarcely have hidden successfully. It was clear that
Considine and his wife would have to come face to face.

Carew and Charlie looked expectantly at each other, and clambered
down quickly when the coach stopped. Considine descended more slowly;
straightening his figure and looking fixedly before him, he marched up
to the door of the change-house.

His wife got leisurely out of the coach, put on her bonnet, and walked
straight over to him; then she looked him full in the face for at least
three seconds, and passed by without a sign of recognition.

The three men looked at each other.

"Well, this bangs all," said Considine. "She knew me all right. Why
didn't she speak? She's afraid I'll clear out, and she's shammin' not to
know me, so's she'll have me arrested as soon as she sights a bobby. I
know her. Perhaps I'd better offer her something to go back and leave me
alone, hey?"

This was vetoed by a majority of two to one, and once more the coach
started. They plodded away on the weary, dusty journey, until the iron
roofs and walls of Barcoo gleamed like a mirage in the distance, and
the coach rolled up to the hotel. A telegraph official came lounging
forward.

"Anyone here the name of Charles Gordon?" he said.

"That's me," said Charlie.

"Telegram for you," he said. "It's been all over the country after you."

Gordon tore it open, read it, and stood spellbound. Then he silently
handed it to Carew. It was several weeks old, and was from Pinnock, the
solicitor. It read as follows--"William Grant died suddenly yesterday.
Will made years ago leaves everything to his wife. Reported that he
married Margaret Donohoe, and that she is still alive. Am making all
inquiries. Wire me anything you know."

Charlie's face never changed a muscle.

"That's lively!" he said. "He never married that woman; and, if he did,
she died long ago."

As he spoke, the lady passenger, having had some talk with the hotel
people, came over to him with a beaming smile. "And ye're Charlie
Gordon," she said with a mellifluous mixture of brogue and bush-drawl.
"An' ye don't know me now, a little bit? Ye were a little felly when we
last met. I'm Peggy Donohoe that was--Peggy Grant now, since I married
poor dear Grant that's dead. And, sure, rest his sowl!"--here she
sniffed a little--"though he treated me cruel bad, so he