d strode down the one street of the suburban village in such
blind haste that he ran full tilt against old Mr. Robert Plowden, who
was taking a stroll, and who, with his young wife, was a guest of the
Rutherfords that Christmas.

"Dear me!" he exclaimed, "you almost knocked me over, Rutherford."

"Excuse me. I'm in an awful hurry to get to the telegraph office. It's
fortunate I've met you here, as I've something to say to you which I
would sooner not say indoors."

"You surprise me," said Plowden, falling into step with Rutherford. "Is
it anything serious?"

"Extremely."

"And concerns me?"

"Yes. I will come to the point, so as not to keep you in suspense.
Although so long settled in Virginia, you are an Englishman?"

Plowden nodded, and Rutherford continued: "And although, before you
married your present wife, always supposed to be a bachelor, in reality
you left a wife in England."

"Merciful heavens!" exclaimed Plowden, half-falling against Rutherford
in his surprise.

He was a physically weak old man. "It is all true. I can explain
everything satisfactorily, however. But how came you to know all this?"

"I learned it from an elderly Englishwoman who came to my office
yesterday. She called herself Maria Plowden--"

Plowden uttered a groan.

"I see you know the name."

"Yes," returned Plowden; "it is that of my first wife, who died in
England shortly after I came to this country."

"Are you sure she died?"

"Bless my soul! of course I'm sure."

"Can you prove it?" persisted the lawyer. "How do you know that she is
dead?"

"I had a letter from a friend telling me so."

"Have you that letter?"

"I do not know; I may have. But one doesn't keep letters for twenty
years. Why do you ask me all these questions?"

Rutherford replied gravely: "Because the elderly woman claimed to be
your wife, and desired to retain me as her counsel in the prosecution
she contemplated of her alleged husband, Robert Plowden, for bigamy."

"She's an impostor!" cried Plowden.

"She says she has a bundle of letters which will establish her
identity," said Rutherford; "and she was so anxious to begin her suit
that I could hardly persuade her that she would have to wait at least
until after the holidays."

"My God!" groaned Plowden, "could there have been any mistake about her
death?"

"All things are possible, you know; your passing as a single man was
hardly wise."

"That may be, Rutherford; but my married life