About two miles out of town Considine, with all his earthly belongings
in a small valise, stopped the coach and got on board, sitting in
front with them.
"Have a look inside," said Charlie. "There's a woman in there looks
rather like--the lady you were talking about."
Considine looked in. Then he sank back in his seat, with a white
face. "By Heavens!" he said, "it's my wife."
"This is funny," said Charlie. "Wonder what she's after. She must
have heard, somehow. She'll never lose sight of you, now, Considine."
Here the driver struck into the conversation. "See her inside?"
he said, indicating the inside passenger with a nod of his head.
"She's off to Sydney, full rip. She reckons her husband's dead,
and she's came in for a fortune."
"Oh, she reckons he's dead, does she?" said Charlie carelessly.
"Didn't know she had a husband."
"Ho yes," said the driver. "She came up here passin' by the name
of Keogh, but it seems that ain't her husband's name at all."
"Oh, indeed! Do you happen to have heard what her husband's name
is? And when did he die?"
"I never heard the noo husband's name," replied the driver. "Keogh
was her name. I dessay if I arst her she'd tell me. Shall I arst
her?" "No," said Considine firmly. "Don't annoy her at all. Leave
well alone, young feller. What odds is it to you how many husbands
the poor woman has had?"
"No," said the driver dispassionately. "It's no odds to me, nor yet
to you, I don't suppose. She's in for a real big thing, I believe.
A telegram came to the telegraph station after I left last trip,
and young Jack Sheehan, he brought it on after me--rode a hundred
miles pretty well, to ketch me up. He reckoned she was coming in
for a hundred thousand pounds. I wouldn't mind marryin' her meself,
if it's true; plenty worse-looking sorts than her about. What do
you think, eh, Mister?" addressing Considine.
"Marry her, and be blowed," said that worthy, sociably; and the
driver stiffened and refused to talk further on the subject.
Meanwhile the three discussed the matter in low tones. It was
practically impossible that anyone could have heard of the identity
of Keogh with the missing Considine. How then had the story got
about that her husband was dead, and that she had come into money?
She must have seen Considine get on the coach, but she had made
no sign. Their astonishment was deeper than ever when the coach
stopped for a midday halt. It was quite impossible for Considine
to conceal himself. The house, where the coach changed horses, 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.