He sidled in before the permission was granted and sank down in the armchair, hitching it nearer to the grate. He was a man to whom intoxication lent a curiously amiable and humorous quality. The ugliness and evil that were so evidently part of his nature were not so apparent, and he became cheerful, almost genial. Sitting close to the fire, he held out his hands to the blaze, then, stealing a look at Essex over his shoulder, saw that he was refilling his pipe. “Be’n to the funeral?” he said. Essex grunted an assent. “The family there?” “None of the ladies; only Win Shackleton.” Harney was silent; then, with the greatest care, he took up a piece of coal and set it on the fire. The action required all the ingenuity of which he was master. His body responded to his intoxication, while, save for an unusual fluency of speech, his mind appeared to remain unaffected. After he had set the coal in place he looked again at Essex, who was staring vacantly at him, thinking of the second part of his article. “Did you notice a tall, fine-looking young lady there with dark red hair?” said Harney, without removing his glassy gaze from the man at the table. Essex did not move his eyes, but their absent fixity suddenly seemed to snap into a change of focus betokening attention. Gazing at Harney, he answered coldly: “No; I saw no one like that. To whom are you referring?” “Oh, I dunno, I dunno,” responded the other with a clumsy shrug of his shoulders, and turning back to the fire over which he cowered. “But you know her anyhow,” he added, half to himself. “Whom do I know? Turn around.” The man turned, looking a little defiant. “Now, what are you trying to say?” “I ain’t tryin’ to say nuthin’. All I done is to ask yer if yer saw a lady--tall, with red hair--at the funeral. You know her, ’cause I’ve seen you with her.” “Who is she?” “Well,” slowly and uneasily, “she’s called Moreau.” “You mean Miss Mariposa Moreau, the daughter of a mining man, who died last spring in Santa Barbara?” “Yes; that’s her all right. She’s called Moreau, but it ain’t her name.” “Moreau isn’t her name? What is her name, then?” “I dunno,” he spoke stubbornly and turned back to the fire. “Turn back here,” said Essex in a suddenly authoritative tone; “explain to me what you mean by that.” “I don’t mean nuthin’,” said the other, looking sullenly defiant, “and I don’t know nuthin’ only that that ain’t her true name.” “What is her name? Answer me at once, and no fooling.” “I dunno.” Essex rose. Harney, looking frightened, staggered to his feet, clutching the mantelpiece. He half-raised his arm as if expecting to be struck and said loudly: “If you want to know ask Shackleton’s widow. _She_ knows.” Essex stood a few paces from him, suddenly stilled by the phrase. The drunkard, alarmed and yet defiant, could only dimly understand what the expression on the face of the man before him meant.