"Are you?" said Mr. Blake, no way discomposed. "To whom?"
"To Cherrie Nettleby."
Val did start this time, and stared with all his eyes.
"To what? You're joking, ain't you? To Cherrie Nettleby!"
"Yes, to Cherrie Nettleby, but on the cross you know, not on the square. Do you comprehend?"
"Not a bit of it. I thought you were after Natty Marsh all the time."
Captain Cavendish laughed.
"You dear old daisy, you're as innocent as a new-born babe. I'm not going to marry Cherrie in earnest, only sham a marriage, and I cannot do it without your help. The girl is ready to run away with me any day; but to make matters smooth for her, I want her to think, for a while at least, she is my wife. You understand now?"
"I understand," said Val, betraying, I regret to say, not the slightest particle of emotion at this exposé of villainy; "but it's an ugly-looking job, Cavendish."
"Not as bad as if she ran away with me in cold blood—for her I mean—and she is sure to do it. You know the kind of girl pretty little Cherrie is, Blake; so you will be doing her rather a service than otherwise in helping me on. If you won't help, you know I can easily get some one who will, and I trust to your honor to keep silent. But come, like a good fellow, help me out."