Keith's expression changed. There was no doubt now that for once Quincy Plume was sincere. The hate in his bleared eyes and bloated face was unfeigned.
"Give me to the police! I'll give him to the police!" he broke out in a sudden flame at Keith's glance of inspection. "He thinks he has been very smart in taking from me all the papers. He thinks no one will believe me on my mere word, but I've got a paper he don't know of."
His hand went to the breast of his threadbare coat with an angry clutch. "I've got the marriage lines of his wife."
One word caught Keith, and his interest awoke.
"What wife?" he asked as indifferently as he could.
"His wife,--his lawful wife,--Squire Rawson's granddaughter, Phrony Tripper. I was at the weddin'--I was a witness. He thought he could get out of it, and he was half drunk; but he married her."
"Where? When? You were present?"
"Yes. They were married by a preacher named Rimmon, and he gave me her certificate, and I swore to her I had lost it: he got me to do it--the scoundrel! He wanted me to give it to him; but I swore to him I had lost it, too. I thought it would be of use some of these days." A gleam of the old craftiness shone in his eyes.
Keith gazed at the man in amazement. His unblushing effrontery staggered him.
"Would you mind letting me see that certificate?"