“Ah, yes,” said Violet, softly, giving Van Hupfeldt a queer look which he alone understood. “There are things to be signed, something about some one of the first part and some other person of the second part. Why do you use such odd terms, Mr. Sharpe?”
“It is the jargon of the law, Miss Mordaunt. Every line adds a mite to the small incomes of us poor lawyers.”
“But who are these people?”
Sharpe looked puzzled. “The first deed recites the marriage contract between you and Mr. Van Hupfeldt,” he began to explain.
But Violet said, and her words had the cold clink of ice in a glass: “Who is Mr. Van Hupfeldt?”
“Vi!” This from Mrs. Mordaunt.
“Mother, better not interfere. You don’t seem to understand, Mr. Sharpe. You spoke of a Mr. Henry Van Hupfeldt. Who is he?”
The lawyer, smirking at the hidden joke, pointed to the man standing by the table. “Of course, that is he,” he said.
“Oh, no. That is Johann Strauss, the man who married and, it may be found, killed my sister. You must look further into your papers, Mr. Sharpe. There is some terrible mistake. Perhaps, if you went on your knees and prayed to God for guidance in your work, it might be better!”