‘What would you tell them?’ demanded Harland, livid with passion. ‘That you have a wife already, and cannot marry Miss Vansittart.’ ‘It is a lie! I was never married to her.’ Farrell was staggered for a moment by this bold assertion. What if it were true. The man before him was villain enough for anything, and the first thing a woman tries to hide is her own shame. Yet Maggie had said that Iris was his wife, and he did not believe that Maggie would tell an untruth. ‘That is easily settled,’ he answered quickly; ‘we can appeal to Mrs Harland.’ ‘You cannot. She is dead.’ ‘That is a lie!’ cried Farrell fiercely, ‘as great a lie as the other. I _know_ your wife to be alive.’ ‘Where have you seen her?’ ‘I shall not tell you.’ ‘I will _make_ you!’ exclaimed Harland, advancing upon him. But Farrell was prepared for the attack. ‘Dare to lay a finger on me,’ he said, ‘and the whole ship shall hear your story.’ ‘What story have you to tell them?’ repeated his adversary. ‘One that would make two or three columns of the most interesting reading in the daily papers, Mr Horace Cain. Only a little incident that occurred a few years since (how many was it--_ten_?) at Starling’s Bank. A forged cheque--the warrant for an arrest--a fruitless search--an escape to America--and what _I_ should call a most imprudent return. I should point out the hero of the piece to them--it would be quite a melodrama. Virtue triumphant, vice in the background, and the blue fire of their indignation over all.’ ‘And who would believe your story?’ sneered Harland. ‘I would _make_ them believe it,’ resumed Farrell, in a sadder and more earnest voice. ‘I would point to myself as its best proof,--to _me_ whom your bad example ruined--whom your cowardice left in the lurch--on whom the stigma of your villainy fell like a curse, rising up like the deadly nightshade to poison every home I tried to make for myself. Godfrey Harland (as you choose to call yourself), you have been my bad genius from the day we met. You tempted me to evil, and left me to bear the brunt of your own misdemeanour. You have ruined others beside myself--(I know more of your doings than you think of). But your day is ended. Before you blight another life, as you have done mine, I will blazon the miserable truth to the world.’ ‘Where would your proofs be?’ cried Harland; ‘and who would credit your simple word. I’d soon hash your goose for you, my fine fellow. A low second-class passenger attempting to blackguard a gentleman! I’d tell them you had tried to extort money from me, and failed, and they would accept my statement much sooner than yours; and in all probability you would receive an injunction from the captain to keep the peace, or be put under arrest. Why, you’re not sober now, you useless, drunken “ne’er-do-weel.” Don’t you presume on your former knowledge to speak to me again. I have done with you from this moment.’ And Harland rose to leave the spot.