"But, man alive, I tell you this lady is my wife."
"So you say, sir, but you can't prove it, can you, now? You're registered through from Paris, and this lady gets in at Newhaven. How do you explain that?"
"Of course, one doesn't travel about with one's marriage certificate—but as it happens, I can prove that this lady is my wife. Here is my passport; kindly examine it. Mrs. Crichton returned to England several months ago, and went down to Newhaven last night so as to be able to meet me this morning. As to lifting her veil, of course she has no objection to doing so. I thought it idle curiosity on your part, but as it is a question of duty, that alters the case completely."
"Thank you, sir." The inspector opened the passport and read aloud. "Cyril Crichton—Lieutenant in the—Rifles, age 27 years, height 6 ft., 1 inch, weight 12 stone. Hair—fair; complexion—fair, inclined to be ruddy. Eyes—blue. Nose—straight, rather short. Mouth—large. Distinguishing marks: cleft in chin." And as he read each item, he paused to compare the written description with the original.
"Well, that's all right," he said. "And now for the lady's. Will you kindly lift your veil, m'm?"
To Crichton's surprise, the girl did so quite calmly, and her face, although deadly pale, was perfectly composed.
The inspector read: "Amy Crichton, wife of Cyril Crichton, age—26 years—H'm that seems a bit old for the lady."
The girl blushed vividly, but to Crichton's infinite relief she smiled gaily, and with a slight bow to the inspector said: "You flatter me."
Crichton breathed more freely. Her manner had done more to relieve the situation than anything he had said. The inspector continued in quite a different tone.
"'Height—5 ft., 4 inches.' You look a bit shorter than that."