Silken Sackcloth.
The certificate of death is all we require.
“I have it here.”
“Why, how did you obtain it?”
“By a most fortunate circumstance. We saw one day, in the Indépendance Belge, that an unknown Englishman, apparently a gentleman, had died at the Hôtel du Nord at Antwerp. Pierre at once suggested that he might identify him as Hugh Trethowen. He went to Antwerp and did so. The man was buried as my husband, and here is the certificate.”
“A very smart stroke of business—very smart. But—er—don’t talk quite so plainly; you—”
“What do you mean? Surely you have no qualm of conscience? The payment we agreed upon ought to counteract all that.”
“Of course. Nevertheless, it is unnecessary to refer to the strategy too frequently. As long as we have an indisputable death certificate in the name of Hugh Trethowen, and you have your marriage certificate as his wife, there will not be the slightest difficulty.”
“I know that. To me you appear afraid lest we should be exposed.”
“You need not upbraid me for exercising due caution. The success of the plan you have been so long maturing depends upon it. Supposing we were unable to prove the will, in what position should we be?”