“Well, now,” said Van Hupfeldt, after a bound or two of his heart, “what do you say? Mr. Sharpe will be here soon.”
“You have the certificates and the diary?” said Violet.
“The certificates, yes; not the diary. On calm thought, I have decided irrevocably that the diary shall not be placed in your hands until the lapse of our six months’ agreement. I have yielded every other point; there I am rigid.”
“Do you assign any reason?”
“Yes, my right as your affianced husband to preserve you from the grief and morbidness of reading a record of suffering. I would not have you a weeping bride. When we return from our wedding-tour I shall hand you the diary, no sooner.”
“The certificates, then,” said Violet, composedly.
Van Hupfeldt took two papers from a pocket-book. One recorded the marriage of Henry Van Hupfeldt to Gwendoline Mordaunt at the office of the Brighton registrar. The other was the certificate of the birth of the child in the same town a year later.
It was a fine piece of daring for the man to produce these documents. His own name; his age, thirty eight; his occupation, gentleman, were set forth on the long narrow strip, and the address was given as No. 7, Eddystone Mansions, London, W. Even Mrs. Mordaunt was startled when she glanced over her daughter’s shoulder at the papers.
Suddenly Violet thought she saw a ray of light. “Was this man a brother, some near relative, of yours?” she asked.
“No, no relation.” Van Hupfeldt was taken aback, and the negative flew out before he realized that this might have been a good card to play. But no; Violet would never have married him then.