It was the original marriage certificate,
the same that Ellen Harriott had seen at Red Mick's. He unfolded
it and spread it out on the table.
"What's this?"
"Read it."
"I certify that I, Thomas Nettleship," he mumbled through the
formula, then, sharply "What's this name doing here? Who is Patrick
Henry Keogh? Is there such a person?"
"Yis," said Peggy, boiling up. "A long slab-sided useless feller.
He's gone to live wid the blacks. He'll never come back no more.
Most like he's dead by this time, speared or the like of that!"
For a few seconds Blake, the cool, audacious gambler, was dazed,
in spite of his natural self-confidence. He saw how he had been
duped. Peggy had married this other man, whoever he was, and had
used the facts of the real marriage to give her the details for
her imaginary one, while in copying the certificate she had, with
considerable foresight, filled in Grant's name instead of that of
Keogh.
All Blake's castles in the air, his schemes for revenge, his hopes
of wealth, had vanished at one fell swoop. "Patrick Henry Keogh"
seemed to grin up at him out of the paper. His case had crumbled
about his ears; his defeat would be known all over the district,
and nothing could much longer stave off the inevitable exposure
of his misappropriations.
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