“It is of very great consequence to me though.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, and so, my very excellent friend, you may as well confess all. You will have to do so, you know, sooner or later. You are the lawful husband of this lady.”
“Get out—me her husband!—it’s false,” exclaimed Bill. “You must think me a fool to believe what you say.”
“I shall find means to prove the truth of what I’m saying,” said Bourne, in a confident tone.
“I am sure you won’t. What’s your little game? Do you want to get rid of your wife—eh?”
“Your wife.”
“No; yours, if you please. Of all the capers I ever heard of this is about the rummest. Why, you must have been swallowing some of your own medicine, doctor, and it has flown to your head, and driven you silly.”
“Don’t you give me any more of your impudence, fellow,” cried Bourne, in a fury. “I am in no mood to stand it. Your audacity is exceeding all bounds; but I know very well how to deal with a man of your type. You will find it difficult, or, indeed, I may say impossible, to deceive me. This miniature which I hold in my hand is in itself quite sufficient to prove your identity. You are William Rawton, the gipsy—the same William Rawton who was wedded some twenty years ago to Hester Teige—the beauteous and fascinating Hester Teige, as she was afterwards called,” continued the doctor, in a sarcastic tone.
“Am I?”