“Then I married a white girl in Australia,” pursued Mr. Boxer, musingly. “I wonder old Silver didn’t see that in the bowl; not arf a fortune-teller, I call ’im.” “What they _see_ in ’im!” whispered the astounded Mr. Thompson to his wife. “And did you marry the beautiful girl in the photograph?” demanded Mrs. Boxer, in trembling accents. “I did,” said her husband. “Hussy,” cried Mrs. Boxer. “I married her,” said Mr. Boxer, considering—“I married her at Camberwell, in eighteen ninety-three.” “Eighteen _ninety-three!_” said his wife, in a startled voice. “But you couldn’t. Why, you didn’t marry me till eighteen ninety-_four_.” “What’s that got to do with it?” inquired the monster, calmly. Mrs. Boxer, pale as ashes, rose from her seat and stood gazing at him with horror-struck eyes, trying in vain to speak. “You villain!” cried Mrs. Gimpson, violently. “I always distrusted you.” [Illustration] “I know you did,” said Mr. Boxer, calmly. “You’ve been committing bigamy,” cried Mrs. Gimpson. “Over and over agin,” assented Mr. Boxer, cheerfully. “It’s got to be a ’obby with me.” “Was the first wife alive when you married my daughter?” demanded Mrs. Gimpson. “Alive?” said Mr. Boxer. “O’ course she was. She’s alive now—bless her.” He leaned back in his chair and regarded with intense satisfaction the horrified faces of the group in front. “You—you’ll go to jail for this,” cried Mrs. Gimpson, breathlessly. “What is your first wife’s address?” “I decline to answer that question,” said her son-in-law. “What is your first wife’s address?” repeated Mrs. Gimpson. “Ask the fortune-teller,” said Mr. Boxer, with an aggravating smile. “And then get ’im up in the box as a witness, little bowl and all. He can tell you more than I can.” “I demand to know her name and address,” cried Mrs. Gimpson, putting a bony arm around the waist of the trembling Mrs. Boxer. “I decline to give it,” said Mr. Boxer, with great relish. “It ain’t likely I’m going to give myself away like that; besides, it’s agin the law for a man to criminate himself. You go on and start your bigamy case, and call old red-eyes as a witness.” Mrs. Gimpson gazed at him in speechless wrath and then stooping down conversed in excited whispers with Mrs. Thompson. Mrs. Boxer crossed over to her husband. “Oh, John,” she wailed, “say it isn’t true, say it isn’t true.” Mr. Boxer hesitated. “What’s the good o’ me saying anything?” he said, doggedly. “It isn’t true,” persisted his wife. “Say it isn’t true.” “What I told you when I first came in this evening was quite true,” said her husband, slowly. “And what I’ve just told you is as true as what that lying old fortune-teller told you. You can please yourself what you believe.” “I believe you, John,” said his wife, humbly. Mr. Boxer’s countenance cleared and he drew her on to his knee.