“But a letter can always reach him. I know his address at home. He is just married, and I was thinking of giving them a little bone of contention to amuse themselves with--something to ruffle up the dead, flat monotony of the honeymoon. For instance, a sham marriage certificate would give her a good fright.” “Oh! but, my dear Charlotte,” gasped her friend, raising herself to a sitting posture, “you are joking. You would not think of such a thing.” “Would I not?” replied Charlotte, with an unpleasant laugh and shake of her head. “I have thought of it, and, what is more, I mean to do it.” “But you might cause fearful mischief; and, besides, I am sure it’s forgery,” Mrs. Chambers added with an awe-struck voice. “Not a bit of it,” said Miss Mason lightly. “I have laid all my plans. Listen,” she continued, sitting up. “Oh, bother these mosquitoes,” waving her handkerchief to and fro. “Now attend to me. You know the clerk of All Saints’, a stupid, drunken old wretch, who would sell his soul for ten rupees. I have bribed him to let me have the church register and a lot of spare printed copies of certificates--blank forms, you know. I pretend I want to look out something for a friend. He brought the register here this morning, and I am to have it ready for him when he calls after dark; for, although there are very few weddings--more’s the pity--and no one troubles about the register at All Saints’, yet such books are not supposed to go travelling about in this style. Here it is,” and from beneath the mattress of her bed she produced a thick calf-bound volume. “Here are the printed forms,” she continued, getting up and busying herself arranging a writing-table, which she pushed towards her friend, whose eyes followed her movements in dumb amazement. “Now,” she said, “Harriet, you are to copy a certificate of marriage on one of these blank strips, do you see.” “I!” cried Mrs. Chambers. “Good heavens, Charlotte, you are out of your mind! It would be downright forgery. You are mad to think of it.” “Forgery! Folly--it’s only a joke. After the first glance, no woman in her senses would see it in any other light. It’s a joke, I tell you--a _joke_, and I know,” she added, looking her friend straight in the face, “that for several _reasons_ you will not refuse me.” “Oh, but really--really,” faltered her victim. “Yes, but really you will do it. Do you think I would ask you to do anything that was not right--that was illegal? Come, come, Harriet, here is a chair. You imitate writing so splendidly, you will have to oblige me, and I’ll give you my gold swami earrings into the bargain, besides all the good offices I have already done for you.”