“No, no,” whined the painted old woman, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief, very lightly, however, so as not to disturb their artificiality. “No, don’t say that, my dear Wilfred, don’t say that! You know that you are my husband—you know you are!”
“I know, my dear madam, quite well that I do not occupy that distinguished position,” I responded very firmly.
“But I can prove it—I can prove it!” she cried, with a futile effort at tears.
“Then I shall be most interested to see this extraordinary fiction proved,” I said. “Perhaps we shall then get down to facts.”
“The facts are as already stated,” Gedge remarked.
“Then let me see proof. There must be a certificate or official entry somewhere if what this lady says is really correct. Where is it?”
“My certificate was stolen when my jewel-case was rifled in the train between Waterloo and Exeter,” she answered. “But, of course, a copy can easily be obtained. Your solicitor in London can get a copy at once from Somerset House.”
“Certificate stolen!” I cried. “A most ingenious excuse. I quite anticipated it, although it, unfortunately, exhibits no originality. Thieves don’t usually steal marriage certificates. They can’t pawn them, you know.”
The woman before me glanced around the room with an air of bewilderment, and I then knew that I had cornered her.
“And where did this extraordinary marriage between us take place, pray?” I inquired, not without some bitter irony.