"Don't call me Charlie," he said. "That old man has come in for
a whole lot of money in England. His name is Considine, and he
pretends he isn't your husband so that he can get the money and
leave you out of it. Don't you be a fool. It's a lot better for you
to stick to him than to try for William Grant's money. Mr. Carew
and I can prove he said you were his wife."
"Och, look at that now! Said I was his wife! And his name was
Considine, the lyin' old vaggybond. His name's not Considine, and
I'm not his wife, nor never was. Grant was my husban', and I'll
prove it in a coort of law, so I will!" Her voice began to rise
like a south-easterly gale, and Charlie beat a retreat. He went to
look for the old man, but could not find him anywhere.
Talking the matter over with Carew he got no satisfaction from the
wisdom of that Solon. "Deuced awkward thing, don't you know," was
his only comment.
Things were even more awkward when the coach drew up to start, and
no sign of the old man could be found. He had strolled off to the
back of the hotel, and vanished as absolutely as if the earth had
swallowed him.
The Chinese cook was severely cross-questioned, but relapsed into
idiotic smiles and plentiful "No savee"s. A blackfellow, loafing
about the back of the hotel, was asked if he had seen a tall, thin
old man with a beard going down the street.
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