There was no garbage in Aunt M'riar's cellar that she was guilty of, but for all that she would have jumped at any excuse to leave that door tight shut. The difficulty was not so much in what she had to tell--for her conscience was clear--as in rousing an unprepared mind to the hearing of it. Uncle Mo, quite the reverse of apathetic to anything that concerned the well-being of any of his surroundings, probably accounted Aunt M'riar's as second to none but the children's. Nevertheless, the difficulty of rousing him to an active interest in this hidden embarrassment of hers, of which he had no suspicion, was so palpable to Aunt M'riar, that she was sorely put to it to decide on a course of action. And the necessity for action was not imaginary. Keep in mind that all Uncle Mo's knowledge of Aunt M'riar's antecedents was summed up in the fact of her widowhood, which he took for granted--although he had never received it _totidem verbis_ when she first came to supplant Mrs. Twiggins--and which had been confirmed as Time went on, and no husband appeared to claim her. Even if he could have suspected that her husband was still living, there was nothing in the world to connect him with this escaped convict. No wonder Uncle Mo's complete unconsciousness seemed to present an impassable barrier to a revelation. Aunt M'riar had not the advantages of the Roman confessional, with its suggestive _guichet_. Had some penitent, deprived of that resource, been driven back on the analogous arrangement of a railway booking-office, the difficulty of introducing the subject could scarcely have been greater. However, Aunt M'riar was not going to be left absolutely without assistance. That evening--the evening, that is, of the day when Dave told the tale of the Man in the Park--Uncle Moses showed an unusual restlessness, following on a period of thoughtfulness and silence. After supper he said suddenly:--"I'm a-going to take a turn out, M'riar. Any objection?" "None o' my making, Mo. Only Mr. Jerry, he'll be round. What's to be told him?" "Ah--I'll tell you. Just you say to Jerry--just you tell him...." "What'll I tell him?" For Uncle Mo appeared to waver. "Just you tell him to drop in at The Sun, and bide till I come. They've a sing-song going on to-night, with the pianner. He'll make hisself happy for an hour. I'll be round in an hour's time, tell him." "And where are you off for all of an hour, Mo?" "That's part of the p'int, M'riar. Don't you be too inquis-eye-tive.... No--I don't mind tellin' of ye, if it's partic'lar. I'm going to drop round to the Station to shake hands with young Simmun Rowe--they've made him Inspector there--he's my old pal Jerky Rowe's son I knew from a boy. Man under forty, as I judge. But he won't let me swaller up _his_ time, trust him! Tell Jerry I'll jine him at half-after nine, the very latest." "I'll acquaint him what you say, Mo. And you bear in mind what Mr. Jeffcoat at The Sun had to say about yourself, Mo."