If you are to have
any hope of succeeding in this case, you must furnish me with the
name of the priest or parson who married you, the place where you
were married, and the date. It must be a real priest or parson, a
real place, and a real date. It's no use coming along with a story
of a marriage by a parson and you've forgotten his name, at a place
you can't remember where it was, and a date that's slipped your
memory. You must have a story to tell, and it must hold water. Now,
can you tell such a story? Have you got any proofs at all?"
Peggy shifted about uneasily.
"Can I see Mick?" she said.
"No, you can not. You must out with it here and now. Listen to me,
Peggy," he went on, sinking his voice suddenly and looking hard at
her. "I've got to know all about this. It's no use keeping anything
back. Were you ever married to William Grant?"
Peggy dropped her voice too.
"Yis. I was married twenty-five years ago at a place called Pike's
pub, out in the Never-never country."
"Who read the service, parson or priest?"
"Neither. A mish'nary. Mish'nary to the blacks."
"Is he alive?"
"No, he died out there. He was sick then, wid the Queensland fever."
"What was his name?"
"Mr. Nettleship."
"Was the marriage ever registered?"
"Sorra one of me knows. He giv us each a bit of paper--our marriage
lines.
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