Peggy wriggled about, but knew that she would have to give in. It
was a reasonable proposal, as things stood; but she did not like
the way in which she had been bullied. She looked at Blake queerly.
"If we have to give ye a third, ye may as well know all about it.
Ye'll be a partner like."
Blake stared at her. He could not guess what she was driving at.
Peggy slowly drew out of a handbag a faded piece of paper and handed
it to him without a word. 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. But he was a fighter all over, and he
still saw a chance to pull things through.
He wasted no words on Peggy. "Go and get Mick to come here," he
said, and Mick, still somewhat lopsided about the face from his
accident, was soon in the room.
"Mick," said Blake, "your sister has told me something very important
that ought to have been told me before. It's no good crying over
spilt milk. There's still a chance. If Peggy and Martin tell the
same story they told me at first, they will win the case. This
Keogh must be dead, or too frightened to show up. If you stick to
your story you will win. It's a million of money. Will you chance
it?"
"What about the sertiffykit?" said Mick.
"Leave that to me," said Blake. "I'll see to that. I suppose no
one knows the rights of this but you and Peggy!"