“By jorrocks!” cried the listener at this point, greatly disturbed.  “Then Mrs. Clover—­as we call her—­wasn’t really his wife at all?”

“I regret to say that she was not,” replied Greenacre with proper solemnity.  “I grieve to tell you that our deceased friend committed bigamy.  Our deceased friend was a most peculiar man; I can’t say that I approve of his life, viewed as a whole.”

Then came Gammon’s disclosure about the burning of the will and about Lord Polperro’s intention to see his solicitor.

Greenacre smiled grimly.

“If I may make a personal remark, Gammon,” he said in measured tones, “I will confess that I should never have allowed the destruction of that document.  You, my friend, if I am not mistaken, had a still greater interest in preventing it.  That will provided very handsomely for Mrs. Clover, for Miss Clover, and—­I may say liberally—­for a young lady named Miss Sparkes.”

He smiled more grimly than ever.

Gammon drew in his breath and refrained from speech.

“Of course, I understand his motives,” pursued Greenacre.  “They were prudent, no doubt, and well meaning.  He did not foresee that there would be no opportunity for that interview with his solicitor.”

“Look here, Greenacre, I Want to know how you found out first of all that he’d married twice.”

“Very simply; I took it for granted that he had.  I am a student, as you know, of genealogy, also of human nature in general.  In my first interview with Lord Polperro I let fall a word or two which obviously alarmed him.  That was quite enough.  In his singular state of mind he jumped to the conclusion that—­as they say on the stage—­I knew everything; and, of course, I very soon did; as much, that is to say, as he himself knew.  He married at two-and-twenty a young girl whom he met in Ireland; married her in his right name—­Trefoyle (not Clover)—­and they travelled together for a year or two.  Then somehow they parted, and never saw or heard of each other again.  No, there was no child.  I had little difficulty in persuading his lordship to let me investigate this matter for him; I did it with complete success.  The girl belonged to a peasant family, I may tell you; she led, on the whole, a decidedly adventurous life, and died suddenly on a ship in which she was returning to the old country from America.  I gather that she never knew her husband’s aristocratic connexion.  Of course, I was discretion itself whilst making these inquiries, and I feel pretty sure that no claim will ever be made from that quarter—­the peasant family—­on our friend’s estate.”

“Why, then,” exclaimed Gammon, “what is to prevent Mrs. Clover from coming forward?  She knows nothing; she needn’t ever hear a word.”

“Gammon, you surprise me.  Clearly you haven’t the legal mind.  How could you reconcile yourself to stand by whilst the law of your country was so grossly defeated?”