"Little masters," he whispered. "She's flitted."
"Good widdance," said The Seraph, briskly. "She was too comical to be a nice wife."
"Ah, no," replied the cobbler. "She's weak in her head and bound to come to something hurtful. I'll not seek my bed this night until I've found her. I thought mayhap you'd ha' seen her pass!"
"No," replied Angel. "We didn't. But perhaps the lamplighter did."
With one accord, we hurried after the retreating figure. Hearing our footsteps, he turned and faced us beneath a newly lit lamp. Its serene radiance fell on his solemn blue-eyed face, surrounded by red whiskers.
"What's the turmoil?" he asked. "Did I forget a lamp?"
"Have ye seen a strange-appearing woman?" asked Martindale. "With a shawl about her, and mayhap remarking something about the moon, or a evil-minded canary."
The lamplighter ran his fingers through his red beard. "She warn't saying naught about canaries," he affirmed, "but she did say as how if she could once get the moon in Wumble Pool, she'd drown it."
"Wumble Pool. That's where she's gone then. I can't seem to place it."
"It's less nor a mile from here, and since my last lamp is lit, I'll not mind guiding you so far. Who be she, this woman?"