But Uncle Mo did not rise to depart. He received the candle, adolescent at last, and sat holding it and thinking. He had become quite alive now to what had impressed Mr. Jerry in Aunt M'riar's appearance and manner, and was harking back over recent events to find something that would account for it. The candle's secondary education gave him an excuse. Its maturity would have left him no choice but to go to bed. A light that flashed through his mind anticipated it. "It's never that beggar," said he, and then, seeing that his description was insufficient:--"Which one? Why, the one we was a-talking of only this morning. Him I've been rounding off with Inspector Rowe--our boy's man he saw in the Park. You've not been alarmin' yourself about _him_?" For Uncle Mo thought he could see his way to alarm for a woman, even a plucky one, in the mere proximity of such a ruffian. He would have gone on to say that the convict was, by now, probably again in the hands of the police, but he saw as the candle flared that Aunt M'riar's usually fresh complexion had gone grey-white, and that she was nodding in confirmation of something half-spoken that she could not articulate. He was on his feet at his quickest, but stopped at the sound of her voice, reviving. "What--what's that, M'riar?" he cried. "Say it again, old girl!" So strange and incredible had the words seemed that he thought he heard, that he could not believe in his own voice as he repeated them:--"_Your_ husband!" He was not clear about it even then; for, after a pause long enough for the candle to burn up, and show him, as he fell back in his seat, Aunt M'riar, tremulous but relieved at having spoken, he repeated them again:--"Your _husband_! Are ye sure you're saying what you mean, M'riar?" That it was a relief to have said it was clear in her reply:--"Ay, Mo, that's all right--right as I said it. My husband. You've known I had a husband, Mo." His astonishment left him speechless, but he just managed to say:--"I thought him dead;" and a few moments passed. Then she added, as though deprecatingly:--"You'll not be angry with me, Mo, when I tell you the whole story?" Then he found his voice. "Angry!--why, God bless the wench!--what call have I to be angry?--let alone it's no concern of mine to be meddlin' in. Angry! No, no, M'riar, if it's so as you say, and you haven't gone dotty on the brain!" "I'm not dotty, Mo. You'll find it all right, just like I tell you...." "Well, then, I'm mortal sorry for you, and there you have it, in a word. Poor old M'riar!" His voice went up to say:--"But you shan't come to no harm through that character, if that's what's in it. I'll promise ye that." It fell again. "No--I won't wake the children.... I ain't quite on the shelf yet, nor yet in the dustbin. There's my hand on it, M'riar."