“Parflete!” exclaimed Harding. “Mrs. Parflete! But I have met her. She married Wrexham Parflete, an extraordinary creature. He lived for years with the Archduke Charles of Alberia. People used to say that Mrs. Parflete was the Archduke's daughter. I ran across Parflete the other day in Sicily.”
“But he is dead,” said Pensée, much agitated; “he drowned himself.”
“I cannot help that,” repeated Sir Piers. “I met him last week, and he beat me at écarté.”
“Then it is not the same man,” said Reckage, “quite obviously.”
“Wrexham Parflete had a wife; I heard her sing at a dinner-party in Madrid. She was living with the Countess Des Escas; there was a row and a duel on her account. I never forget names or faces.”
“But this looks serious,” said Reckage. “Do you quite understand? It's the sort of thing one hardly dares to think. That is to say if you mean what I mean. The marriage can't be legal.”
The two women turned pale and looked away from each other.
“I mean as much or as little as you like,” said Harding. “But Parflete was alive last Monday.”
“But bigamy is so vulgar,” observed Lord Garrow. “You must be mistaken. It is too dreadful!”
“Dreadful, indeed! And a great piece of folly into the bargain. It is selling the bear's skin before you have killed the bear.”