“At St. Andrew’s, Wells Street.”
“Wells Street, in London?”
“Yes. You surely remember it, don’t you? The church is close by Oxford Circus.”
“I know the church quite well,” I answered. “But I most firmly and distinctly deny ever having been inside it in my life.”
“If you examine the marriage register there you’ll find your signature, together with that of your wife,” Gedge observed, with a confidence that rather surprised me.
“I shall certainly take no trouble in such a matter,” I declared. “It is alleged that I am the husband of this lady, therefore it is for her to bring proof—not for me to seek it.”
“Very well, then,” cried the woman who called herself Mrs Heaton. “Within three days a copy of the certificate shall be placed in your hands.”
“I’m not very partial to copies of documents,” I observed very dubiously. “I always prefer originals.”
“The original is, unfortunately, lost.”
“Stolen, or strayed away of its own accord—eh?” I added with a doubtful laugh.