"His widow is my client."
Jeroloman's eyes fastened themselves on Dunwoodie, who he knew was incapable of anything that savoured, however remotely, of shysterism. But it was a year and a day since he had been closeted with him. In the interim, time had told. Diverting those eyes, he displayed a smile that was chill and dental.
"Well, well! We all make mistakes. There is no such person." He paused, awaiting the possible protest. None came and he added: "The morning after the murder, his father told me that the young man contemplated marriage with a lady who had his entire approval. Unfortunately——"
"Yaas," Dunwoodie broke in. "Unfortunately, as you say. The morning after was the 26th. On the 21st, a gardener, who pretended to be a clergyman, officiated at his marriage to my client."
Dryly but involuntarily Jeroloman laughed. Dunwoodie was getting on, getting old. In his day he had been remarkably able. That day had gone.
"Well, well! Even admitting that such a thing could have happened, it must have been only by way of a lark."
Dunwoodie whipped out his towel. "You don't say so!"
Carelessly Jeroloman surveyed him. He was certainly senile, yet, because of his laurels, entitled to all the honours of war.
"Look here, Mr. Dunwoodie. You are not by any chance serious, are you?"
"Oh, I'm looking. While I was about it, I looked into the case. Per verba de præsenti, my client consented to be young Paliser's wife. Now she is his widow."