“Which he can unmake!” said Percy Levant.
“I think not,” murmured Spenser Churchill, blandly. “There have been later wills, I think, but—ahem!—I have taken charge of them——”
“You are a clever fellow, Churchill.”
“Y—es, I think I am! I honestly, and modestly, think I am! I ought to have been a great statesman, or a general, my dear Percy.”
“You ought, indeed!” said Percy Levant. “But—pardon me!—although I believe every word you say most implicitly, I am afraid the world, including the marquis, will want some proofs. It is all very well to say that Miss Marlowe—that is, my wife,” he put in, hurriedly—“is Lord Stoyle’s daughter; but proof, proof, my dear fellow!”
“You’re no fool, either, Percy,” said Spenser Churchill. “Of course, we want proofs, and here they are!” and he took some papers from his pocket. “Here is the certificate of marriage of Lucy—Miss Marlowe’s mother—to the marquis; the certificate of Miss Marlowe’s otherwise Lady Mary Neville’s, birth, a full and exhaustive statement of Lady Stoyle on her deathbed, duly attested; and a statement of Jeffrey Flint. Pretty complete, I think.”
“Complete, indeed! And how did you get them, Churchill? Upon my word, you are a cleverer man even than I thought you.”
“How did I get them?” he repeated, lowering his voice; “I got them from Jeffrey Flint.”
“He gave them to you?”
“Not exactly! My dear Percy, I took them. What use are papers to a dead man?” He stopped and turned pale, as the scene of Jeffrey’s death rose before him. “But don’t let us talk of it; it—it was a most unpleasant affair, I assure you, my dear Percy. But you will, with your quick intelligence, soon understand how, once having those papers in my possession, I saw my way to making, with your assistance and Lady Grace’s, a grande coup!”