ed to the minister whose
signature appeared on the certificate as the officiating clergyman.
The minister undoubtedly returned the certificate to your husband."

"I never saw it again."

"What if you did not? You can procure a certified copy from the record
in the county-clerk's office or from the records of the State Board of
Health. Marriage records, old dear, are fairly well protected in our
day and generation."

"I wrote to the State Board of Health at Sacramento. There is no
record of my marriage there."

"That's strange. Why didn't you write the county clerk, of the county
in which the license was issued?"

She smiled at him.

"I did. I had to, you know. My honor was at stake. The license was
issued in Santa Clara County."

"Well, it will be a simple matter to comb the list of ministers until
we find the one that tied the knot. A certified copy of the marriage
license, with a sworn affidavit by the officiating clergyman--"

"The officiating clergyman is dead. A private detective agency in San
Francisco discovered that for us."

"But couldn't you cover your tracks, Nan? Under the circumstances, a
lie--any kind of deceit to save your good name--would have been
pardonable."

"I couldn't help being smirched. Remember, my father was the only
person in Port Agnew who knew I had been married; he heeded my request
and kept the secret. Suddenly I returned home with a tale of marriage
in anticipation of my ability to prove it. In that I failed. Presently
my baby was born. People wondered who my husband was, and where he
kept himself; some of the extremely curious had the hardihood to come
here and question me. Was my husband dead? Of course not. Had I fibbed
and told them he was, they would have asked when and where and the
nature of the disease that carried him off. Was I divorced? Again I
was confronted with the necessity for telling the truth, because a lie
could be proved. Then the minister, to quiet certain rumors that had
reached him--he wanted me to sing in the choir again, and there was an
uproar when he suggested it--wrote to the California State Board of
Health. When he received a reply to his letter, he visited me to talk
it over, but I wasn't confiding in Mr. Tingley that day. He said I
might hope for salvation if I confessed my wickedness and besought
forgiveness from God. He offered to pray for me and with me. He meant
well--poor, silly dear!--but he was so terribly incredulous that
presently I t