at the words:--"Do you long to see your loving son?" she moved and
spoke uneasily. "What does he mean? Oh, what does he mean? Was it all
his devil?" She seemed ill able to find words for her meaning, but Gwen
took it that she was trying to express some hint of a better self in
this son, perhaps latent behind the evil spirit that possessed him.

Her comment was:--"Oh dear no! What he means is that he will come and
frighten you to death if you don't send him money. It is only a threat
to get money. Dear Mrs. Picture, don't you fret about him. Leave him to
me and my father.... What does he mean by a quid? A hundred pounds, I
suppose? And a fiver, five hundred?... is that it?"

"Oh no--he would never ask me for all that money! A quid is a
guinea--only there are no guineas now. He means a five-pound-note by a
fiver." Her voice died from weakness. The "Please go on!" that followed,
was barely audible.

Gwen read on:--"'Just for to enable him to lead an honest life.' Dear
Mrs. Picture, I must tell you I think this is what is called _sneering_.
You know what that means? He is not in earnest."

"Oh yes--I know. I am afraid you are right. But is it _himself_?" That
idea of the devil again!

Gwen evaded the devil. "We must hope not," said she. She went on,
learning by the way what a "mag" was, and a "flimsy." She paused on Aunt
M'riar. Why was "M'riar" to act as this man's agent? She wished Thothmes
was there, with his legal acumen. But old Maisie might be able to tell
_something_. She questioned her gently. How did she suppose Aunt Maria
came to know anything of her son? She had to wait for the answer.

It came in time. "Not Aunt M'riar. Someone else."

"No--Aunt Maria. She wrote her name on the envelope; to show where it
came from, I suppose." The perplexity suggested silenced old Maisie.
Gwen compared the handwritings of the letter and direction. They were
the same--a man's hand, clearly. "From Aunt Maria" was in a woman's
hand. Gwen did not attempt to clear up the mystery. She was too anxious
about the old lady, and, indeed, was feeling the strain of this
irregular night. For, strong as she was, she was human.

Her anxiety kept the irresistible powers of Sleep at bay for a while;
and then, when it was clear that old Maisie was slumbering again, with
evil dreams in abeyance, she surrendered at discretion. All the world
became dim, and when the clock struck four, ten seconds later, she did
not hear the last stroke.