"The Duke of St. Osmund's."
And Claude was made to hear everything before he was allowed the free expression of his astonishment and incredulity. Then he laughed. His incredulity remained.
"My dear fellow," he cried, "there's not a word of truth in the whole story. It's one colossal fraud. Hunt's a blackguard. I wouldn't believe his oath in a court of justice."
"What about the bank-book?"
"A fraud within a fraud!"
"Not it. I'll answer for that. Oh, no; we could have inquired at the bank. Hunt's a blackguard, but no fool. And you know what my father was; from all accounts he wasn't the man to think twice about a little job like bigamy."
"I wouldn't say that; few men of our sort would be so reckless in such a matter," declared the poet. "Now, from all I know of him, I should have said it was most inconsistent with his character to marry the girl at all. Everything but that! And surely it's quite possible to explain even that two hundred a year without swallowing such a camel as downright bigamy. My grandfather was a sort of puritanical monomaniac; even in the days of his mental vigour I can remember him as a sterner moralist than any of one's school-masters or college dons. Then, too, he was morbidly sensitive about the family failings and traditions, and painfully anxious to improve the tone of our house. Bear that in mind and conceive as gross a scandal as you like—but not bigamy. Do you mean to tell me that a man like my grandfather would have thought two hundred a year for all time too much to pay for hushing such a thing up for all time? Not he—not he!" There fell a heavy hand upon Claude's back.
"Claude, old boy, I always said you were a genius. Do you know, I never thought of that?"
"It's obvious; besides, there's the Eliza Hunt on the gravestone, I've seen it myself. But look here—I'll tell you what I'll do."
"What, old man?"