crapper_?" said he.

"I don't. What did he scrap?" She felt that Uncle Mo did it honourably,
whatever it was.

"He was one of the crack heavyweights, in my time."

"I know what that means. I should recommend you not to show yourself at
his house, unless...."

The man sniggered again. "Don't you lie awake about me," said he. "Old
Mo had seen his fighting-days when I had the honour of meeting him
five-and-twenty years ago at The Tun, which is out of your line, I take
it. Besides, my best friend's in my pocket, ready at a pinch. Shall I
show him to you?" He showed a knife with a black horn handle. "I don't
open him, not to alarm a lady. So you've no call for hysterics."

"I am not afraid of you or your knife, if that is what you mean."
Indeed, absolute fearlessness was one of Gwen's characteristics. "What
did you go to Mr. Wardle's for?"

"On a visit to my wife."

Gwen started. "Who is your wife?" said she. Susan Burr flashed into her
mind first. But then, how about "Aunt Maria" on the envelope, and her
readiness to act as this man's agent?

"Polly Daverill's my wife--my lawful wife! That's more than my father
could say of my mother."

"I know that you are lying, but I do not care why. Do you want to see
your mother?"

"If sootable and convenient. No great hurry!"

"She is in bed. I will get her ready for you to see her. Do not go near
the dog. They say he has killed a man."

"A man'll kill _him_ if he gives occasion. Make him fast, for his own
sake. There's money there--he's a tike o' some value. Maybe forty pound.
You tie him up!" Gwen hooked his chain round the table-leg, starting him
on a series of growls--low thunder in short lengths. He had been very
quiet.

She passed into the bedroom, and opening the shutters, threw light full
on the bed. Then she drew back the sheet she had replaced. Oh, the
beauty of that white marble face, and the stillness!

"You can come in, quietly."

"Is she having a snooze?"

"You will not wake her."

"This is one of your games." The sort was defined by an adjective,
omitted. "What's your game? What the Hell are you at?" He said this as
to himself.

"Go in. You will find your mother." Gwen took back the dog's chain from
the table-leg, and the low thunder died down.

She hardly analysed her own motives. One may have been to touch the
heart of the brute, if he had one; another to convince him, without a
long parley, of his mother's death. He might have disputed it, a