“I am not clever enough to argue with you, Reginald; you must ask the solicitors, they will explain. At any rate, they swore to the clergyman’s signature; he was a client of theirs, and they knew his writing well.” “Mr. Parry’s writing is it?” said her husband, again taking up the certificate and critically scanning it. “So it is!--an admirable forgery. Poor old fellow, he was garrison chaplain at Cheetapore. I knew him well; he has been dead these two years.” “Probably,” persisted Alice, “the fact of his being dead does not refute _that_,” pointing to the paper in her husband’s hand. “According to its testimony it is nearly three years since you were married.” “Three _months_, you mean,” he exclaimed with a laugh, making a desperate effort to throw off a horrible suspicion that was stealing over him and turning every vein to ice. “Someone has forged Mr. Parry’s name, that is evident,” he exclaimed; “but why or wherefore I am at a loss to understand. I wish I had been here when this precious document arrived,” he continued, pacing about the room. “It must have given you rather a start getting it in my absence. No wonder you look pale, my poor little wife,” he said, pausing opposite her and looking at her steadfastly. “No wonder, indeed!” she replied significantly. _Something_ in her look and tone confirmed his former conviction. Gazing at her fixedly for some seconds, he said: “It is not possible that you doubt me, Alice?” Dead silence. “Answer me at once,” he demanded sternly, as she stood dumb before him. “Do you hear me, Lady Fairfax?” he persisted, exasperated by her silence. “You can hardly expect _Lady Fairfax_ to hear you,” she replied in a cool, chilly voice. “She is not here.” “You will drive me mad, Alice,” he cried vehemently; “you could not in your heart believe this monstrous invention. I solemnly swear to you--you alone are my wife; you _know_ it is the truth. Why do you torture me like this? If I thought you really doubted me, as sure as you are Alice Fairfax I would never forgive you!” “Then you are taking a very weak oath; for it seems to most people who have seen that paper that _I_ am not Alice Fairfax. Show it to whom you will, they will say that _I_ am not your wife.” “Is that _your_ opinion?” he asked sharply. “It is,” she replied boldly; “I have no other alternative. I have been thinking a great deal the last two days--thinking more than I ever did in all my life before, and I can come to no other conclusion than that you _were_ married to that woman. Your aunt entertains no doubt of your infamy, neither do I.” “Alice, am I mad? am I dreaming? or do I really hear you distinctly tell me that you are no longer my wife, and that _you_ entertain no doubt of _my_ infamy? Am I out of my mind, or are you? Am I still asleep in the train, or am I in my waking senses?” he said, looking at her fixedly with his keen dark eyes.