and presently a shrill voice came through the door: "Shmokin’, shmokin’, are ye, Kilquhanity? As soon as me back’s turned, it’s playin’ the fool" She stopped short, seeing the Avocat.
"Beggin’ yer pardon, Misther Garon," she said, "I thought it was only Kilquhanity here, an’ he wid no more sense than a babby."
Kilquhanity’s eyes closed, and he buried one side of his head in the pillow, that her shrill voice should not pierce his ears.
"The Little Chemist ’ll be comin’ in a minit, dear Misther Garon," said the wife presently, and she began to fuss with the bedclothes and to be nervously and uselessly busy.
"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 Curé, 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
