Mr. Jerry's conversation with Uncle Mo in the Sun parlour gave him an insight into this. "Look'ee here, Mo," said he. "So long as the Court's watched, so long this here gentleman won't come anigh it. He's dodged the London police long enough to be too clever for that. But so long as he keeps touch with M'riar, you've got touch of him."
Uncle Mo seemed to consider this profoundly. "Not if I keep square with M'riar," said he at last.
"How do you make that out, Mo?"
"I've as good as promised the old girl that she shan't have any hand in it. She's out of it."
"Then keep her out of it. But only you give the tip to Sim Rowe that M'riar's in with him, and that he's putting the screw on her, and Sim he'll do the rest. Twig?" Conscious casuistry always closes one eye, and Mr. Jerry closed his.
"That's one idea of keeping square, Jerry, but it ain't mine."
"What's wrong with it, Mo?" Mr. Jerry's confidence in his suggestion had flagged, and his eye had reopened slowly.
"M'riar's not to have any hand in it—that's her stipulation. According-ly to my ideas, Jerry, either you take advantage, or you don't. Don't's the word, this time. If I bring M'riar in at all, it's all one which of two ways I do it. She's out of it."
Mr. Jerry began, feebly:—"You can't do more than keep your word, Mo...."
"Yes, you can, Jerry. You can keep your meanin'. And you can do more than that. You can keep to what the other party thought you meant, when you know. I know, this time. I ain't in a Court o' Justice, Jerry, dodgin' about, and I know when I'm square, by the feel. M'riar's out of it, and she shall stop out." Uncle Mo was not referring only to the evasions of witnesses on oath, which he regarded as natural, but to a general habit of untruth, and subtle perversion of obvious meanings, which he ascribed not only to counsel learned in the Law, but to the Bench itself.