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 did!
Ye'll remember me brother Mick--Mick with the red hair?"
"Yes," said Charlie, slowly and deliberately, "I remember him
well; and you too.
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