‘I wouldn’t wait! Hadn’t I waited five years for your whims? Was it likely I cared for you enough to waste my whole life waiting? Why didn’t you tell me you were a married man?’ ‘I didn’t know whether I was or not,’ he answered sullenly. ‘Then why didn’t you say that you didn’t know?’ He glared at her like a wild beast at bay. ‘Take care, Mrs. Belassis—take care! Don’t drive me too far.’ ‘I am not aware that I am Mrs. Belassis.’ ‘You’re not aware that you’re not, anyhow. I believe you are; and when I’ve proved this miserable creature’s death, I’ll make you feel that I am your lord and master.’ Some of the old brutal power of the man was returning to him in this extremity. There had been a time when Mrs. Belassis had half-feared and admired, whilst she half-despised him. It seemed as though danger of disgrace had roused in him some of his old force of character. ‘You’d better not threaten me, Mr. Belassis. So long as the doubt remains a doubt, I will stay where I am, and act as your wife; but remember, that whether or not our marriage is legal, you have behaved abominably; and if I expose you, you will not find it pleasant.’ ‘It will hurt you more than it hurts me—exposure will!’ began Belassis savagely; then, catching the look in her eye, he paused and said: ‘Come, Celia, be reasonable. What is the good of our quarrelling? Nobody need know this miserable story, unless you betray it; and they’ll find it hard to prove that _she_ was alive, as nobody seems to know where she went to, when she left Yorkshire. I don’t see that anybody can have any interest in raking up an old story like that; and I shall be always ready to swear to her death. I’ll get a certificate if necessary. I can easily manage that.’ Mrs. Belassis sat silent. ‘_I_ must know the truth. I cannot go on like this,’ she said slowly. ‘But so long as matters remain uncertain, I suppose things must go on as they are. We have one enemy, however, who knows of the existence of the first Mrs. Belassis, and of the doubt of her death. He will ruin us if he can!’ ‘Who is he?’ ‘The man now calling himself Philip Debenham and our nephew.’ ‘Calling himself?’ ‘Yes; that man is really Torrington Torwood!’ ‘Celia!’ ‘He is. I have suspected him for long. I knew all was not well, though I could not lay my finger on the fraud. I know, now, what it is—the man is an impostor—only that!—an impostor and a forger!’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘Signor Pagliadini told me.’ ‘That Italian? Does he know Philip and his friend?’ ‘He has known them both well. It is Mr. Torwood who is reigning here. Poor Philip is in a kind of captivity, awaiting his tyrant’s orders. At present he is at sea—safely out of the way.’