Jim handled the book as though it were a scorpion, turning over a hundred leaves rapidly. "Love an' diaries, and--oh, bosh!"
"Not at all, unless bosh is your word for common sense. I see a chance of getting that money."
"What money?"
Leah made an impatient movement. "How dense you are! The insurance money, of course--the twenty thousand pounds. Suppose you died----"
"Stop it. I told you I wouldn't."
"And you told me that you might pretend to die."
"Oh, I was only talkin'. You don't want me to be buried alive!"
"It wouldn't be much good," said his wife, with a shrug. "We must have a genuine corpse--like you."
An inkling of her meaning stole into Jim's dull brain, and he sat down suddenly. "Go on," said he, hoarsely.
"Harold Garth is like you."