“I am not aware that either of us can fairly be described as posing in that distinguished capacity.”
The retort was glib enough. It amused the man.
“Perhaps I put the bald truth rather awkwardly,” he said. “Let me, then, ask a plain question. Did I marry you, or your sister, last Tuesday morning?”
“You certainly err if you think that I shall discuss the affairs of my family with a complete stranger,” was the unhesitating answer.
“Yet you, or your sister, did not scruple to marry one.”
“Are you Mr. Maseden?”
“I am. Haven’t I said so? I implied it, at any rate.”
“Then why are you in disguise, posing—it is your own word—as a Spanish cowboy?”
“Because I’m trying to save my miserable life. Don’t think me ungrateful, madam. I owe my escape to the phenomenal circumstances brought about by the desire of a charming young lady to become Mrs. Maseden, if only for a brief half hour. I am not claiming any—privileges, shall I say?—on that account. But I can hardly credit that, having gone through the ordeal of such a ceremony, you would refuse to tell me your motive, so I reluctantly revert to my first opinion, namely, that your sister is my wife.”
“Reluctantly! Why reluctantly?”