“How can you talk in such an inconsistent and unreasonable way? How is it possible for you to remove a record so indisputable? The books in the church contain a register of this unfortunate and fatal marriage.”
“I told you, when last here, that I would repair the evil I had done. I have kept my word. There is no record of our union—none whatever. And no living man can procure it—except myself,” cried Rawton, in a solemn tone of voice.
“You are speaking more like a madman than a sane person.”
“Am I?”
“I should imagine so.”
“You are mistaken. Listen to me for one moment. I say there is no record. The leaf in the book containing the certificate of the marriage between William Rawton and Hester Teige is no longer in the books of the church. I have it here.”
As he said this Bill Rawton drew forth the page he had abstracted from the breast pocket of his coat. He handed it to his companion, who was bewildered and awe-struck.
“In Heaven’s mercy what have you done?” she ejaculated.
“Read and judge for yourself,” he returned.
She did read, and her face became as pale as death.