"Aw, lave thim alone, darlin'," whispered Kilquhanity, tossing. Her
officiousness seemed to hurt him more than the pain in his chest.

M. Garon did not wait for the Little Chemist to arrive, but after
pressing the Sergeant's hand he left the house and went straight to the
house of the Cure, and told him in what condition was the black sheep of
his flock.

When M. Garon returned to his own home he found a visitor in his library.
It was a woman, between forty and fifty years of age, who rose slowly to
her feet as the Avocat entered, and, without preliminary, put into his
hands a document.

"That is who I am," she said. "Mary Muddock that was, Mary Kilquhanity
that is."

The Avocat held in his hands the marriage lines of Matthew Kilquhanity of
the parish of Malahide and Mary Muddock of the parish of St. Giles,
London. The Avocat was completely taken aback. He blew nervously
through his pale fingers, raised himself up and down on his toes, and
grew pale through suppressed excitement. He examined the certificate
carefully, though from the first he had no doubt of its accuracy and
correctness.

"Well?" said the woman, with a hard look in her face and a hard note in
her voice. "Well?"

The Avocat looked at her musingly for a moment. All at once there had
been unfolded to him Kilquhanity's story. In his younger days