Captain Andrius is my husband. But
nobody knew that--not even my own father. We've been married three
years--I met him when I was crossing over to America once. We got
married--we kept the marriage secret for reasons of our own. Well, he met
me in London the Sunday after Greyle's death, and I showed him the
papers which were in Greyle's pocket-book. And--now this, of course, was
where it was very wicked in me--and him--though we've tried to make up
for it today, anyhow--we fixed up what I suppose you two gentlemen would
call a conspiracy. My husband had a brother, an actor--not up to much,
nor of much experience--who had been brought up in the States and who was
then in town, doing nothing. We took him into confidence, coached him up
in everything, furnished him with all the papers in the pocket-book, and
resolved to pass him off as the real Marston Greyle."

Mr. Petherton stirred angrily in his chair and turned a protesting face
on Sir Cresswell.

"Apart from being irregular," he exclaimed, "this is altogether
outrageous! This woman is openly boasting of conspiracy and--"

"You're wrong!" said Addie. "I'm not boasting--I'm explaining. You ought
to be obliged to me. And--"

"If Mrs. Andrius--to give the lady her real name--cares to unburden her
secrets to us, I really don't see why we shouldn't listen to them, Mr.
Petherton," observed Vickers. "It simplifies matters greatly."

"That's what I say," agreed Addie. "I'm done with all this and I want to
clear things up, whatever comes of it. Well--I say we fixed that up with
my brother-in-law."

"His name--his real name, if you please," inquired Vickers.

"Oh--ah!--well, his real name was Martin Andrius, but he'd another name
for the stage," replied Addie. "We gave him the papers and arranged for
him to go down to Scarhaven to my father. Now I want to assure you all,
right here, that my father never did really know that Martin was an
imposter. He began to suspect something at the end, but he didn't know
for a fact. Martin went down to him at Scarhaven, just a week after the
real Marston Greyle had died. He claimed to be Marston Greyle, he
produced his papers. My father told about the Marston Greyle he'd
buried. Martin pooh-poohed that--he said that that man must be a
secretary of his, Mark Grey, who, after stealing some documents had left
him in New York and slipped across here, no doubt meaning to pass
himself off as the real man until he could get something substant