II
I stared at her. Goggled¹, I suppose, would be a better term. I wonder,really, that she didn’t burst out laughing.
I was just recovering myself when she spoke² again.
“There’s no need to be so taken aback,” she said. “It’s not a proposal.”
I found my tongue.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Of course I do. What I’m suggesting is perfectly³ feasible—and it has theadvantage of not dragging some innocent person into possible danger.”
“It’s putting yourself in danger.”
“That’s my lookout⁴.”
“No, it isn’t. And anyway, it wouldn’t hold water for a moment.”
“Oh yes, it would. I’ve been thinking it out. I arrive at a furnished flat,with a suitcase or two with foreign labels. I take the flat in the name ofMrs. Easterbrook—and who on earth is to say I’m not Mrs. Easterbrook?”
“Anyone who knows you.”
“Anyone who knows me won’t see me. I’m away from my job, ill. A spotof hair dye—what was your wife, by the way, dark or blonde?—not that itreally matters.”
“Dark,” I said mechanically.
“Good, I’d hate a bleach⁵. Different clothes and lots of makeup⁶, and mybest friend wouldn’t look at me twice! And since you haven’t had a wife inevidence for the last fifteen years or so—no one’s likely to spot that I’m nother. Why should anyone in the Pale Horse doubt that I’m who I say I am?
If you’re prepared to sign papers wagering⁷ large sums of money that I’llstay alive, there’s not likely to be any doubt as to my being the bona fidearticle. You’re not connected with the police in any way—you’re a genuineclient. They can verify the marriage by looking up old records in SomersetHouse. They can check up on your friendship with Hermia and all that—so why should there by any doubts?”

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