"Why don't you call him so, then? I hate nicknames."
Poor fellow, thought I, and I continued, "I was coming down from Cobar, with a single horse; and on the New Year's Day before last, I reached the Yellow Tank—about forty miles from here, isn't it? I left my saddle and things at the tank, and was taking my horse out to a place where there's always a bit of grass, when I noticed a wagon in the scrub, and identified it as Alf's"——
"Did you know him before?" murmured the boundary man.
"Certainly."
"Is he a married man?"
"Widower."
"Widower?" repeated Alf, almost in a whisper. "Did you know his wife""
"Personally, no; inductively, yes. She was one of those indefinably dangerous women who sing men to destruction—one of those tawny-haired tigresses, with slumbrous dark eyes—name, Iolanthe."
"What?"
"Iolanthe de Vavasour," I replied good-humouredly. "More appropriate than Molly—isn't it?"