At something to three there was a murmur about its being late, but the loser now was Mrs. Bowman, and as her shillings had drifted into the possession of Mary, the hostess said it really was not late at all.' This disposed of the breaking-up question for half an hour. Then Bowman began to talk of concluding the game after a couple of rounds. When two such arrangements had been made and set at naught, the "Duchess" proposed that they should finish at the next "nap." To "finish at the next nap" was a euphemism for continuing for a good: long while, and the resolution was carried unanimously. The clock had struck four when the nap was made, and the winner was Mary. She had won more than six shillings, and the "Duchess," who was the poorer by the amount, smiled with sleepy resignation. "You had the luck after all, Mrs. Carew," laughed Dolliver. "Good-night." "Yes," she said carelessly; "I've made something between me and the workhouse, anyhow! Good-night." She loitered about the room, putting little aimless touches to things, while Carew saw the trio to the door. She heard him shut it behind them, and heard their steps growing fainter on the pavement. He was slow returning, queerly slow. Dolliver's voice reached her, taking leave of the Bowmans at the corner, and still he had not come in. "Tony!" she called. He rejoined her almost as she spoke. "Don't go to bed, Mary," he said huskily; "I've something to say to you." "What is it?" she asked. He hesitated for an instant, seeking an introductory phrase. The agitation that he had been fighting all the night had conquered him. "My release has come at last," he answered. "My wife is dead." "Dead?" She stood gazing at him with dilated eyes, the colour ebbing from her cheeks. "She was ill some time. Drink it was, I hear; I daresay! Anyhow, she's gone; the mistake is finished. I've paid for it dearly enough, Lord knows!" He had paused midway between her and the hearth, and he moved to the hearth. She was sensible of a vague pang as he did so. A tense silence followed his words. In thoughts that she had been unable to escape, the woman who had paid for his mistake more dearly still had sometimes imagined such a moment as this--had sometimes foreseen him crying to her that he was free. Perhaps, now that the moment was here, it was a little wanting--a little barer than the announcement of freedom that she had pictured. "You're bound to feel the shock of it," she said, almost inaudibly. "It's always a shock, the news of death." But she felt that the burden of speech should be his. "Were you--used you to be very fond of her? Does it come back?" "I was twenty. 'Fond'? I don't know. I wasn't with her three months when----She had walked Liverpool; I never saw her from the day I found it out. She didn't want me; the money was enough for her--to be sure of it every week!"