“Yes; that’s her all right. She’s called Moreau, but it ain’t her name.”
“Moreau isn’t her name? What is her name, then?”
“I dunno,” he spoke stubbornly and turned back to the fire.
“Turn back here,” said Essex in a suddenly authoritative tone; “explain to me what you mean by that.”
“I don’t mean nuthin’,” said the other, looking sullenly defiant, “and I don’t know nuthin’ only that that ain’t her true name.”
“What is her name? Answer me at once, and no fooling.”
“I dunno.”
Essex rose. Harney, looking frightened, staggered to his feet, clutching the mantelpiece. He half-raised his arm as if expecting to be struck and said loudly:
“If you want to know ask Shackleton’s widow. She knows.”
Essex stood a few paces from him, suddenly stilled by the phrase. The drunkard, alarmed and yet defiant, could only dimly understand what the expression on the face of the man before him meant.