"Before witnesses, at least," was the awkward addendum of the General.
Downie's legal eye quickly took in the situation, as detailed by his brother Richard in that letter, which stated that the little chapel of St. Mary, at Montreal, had been burned down three years after the regiment had left the city; that the Père Latour and the acolyte were both dead; that though the Registers had all perished in the flames, the signed copy of the marriage certificate was preserved by Latour's successor, and "is now in my possession," added the letter, the signature to which, "Lamorna," made the reader's eyes to gleam with secret rage; but he merely said,
"Suppose this letter were written by my brother—a supposition of which I do not admit the truth,—who are 'those at home' whom he doubts?"
"You, most probably," said the General, with soldierly candour.
"Absurd, my dear sir," replied Downie, tossing the letter contemptuously to Constance. "This is a fabrication, written to suit the occasion: the church burned; the Register destroyed; the witnesses dead, too! It is a strange story, and strange chapter of accidents. You lived with him long enough, I doubt not, madam, to learn how to feign my brother's handwriting. This document has not even an envelope—so where are the postal marks?"
"I lost it——"
"Bah! I thought so."
There was a peculiar basilisk flicker in the pale eyes of Downie Trevelyan, and he surveyed the shrinking widow of his brother pitilessly, with a glance of hate—a glance beyond all the eloquence of fury or wrath, for he felt in his heart—or what passed for such—that she spoke truth in all this matter, but a truth she would have difficulty in proving.
"Oh mamma—mamma, let us go," implored Sybil.
"And this Dick Braddon who accompanied my brother—the other witness—a worthless old Chelsea pensioner, and so he too is gone?"