husband that not even this manifest evidence, as it seemed, could shake
it. Another man might bear the same name--Arthur might have some
disreputable cousin or other relative. She would believe nothing against
the uprightness of her Arthur.

"I do not believe," she said firmly, looking steadfastly at the other
woman, "that my husband could wrong any woman."

"I declare to you before God," cried the stranger excitedly, "that
Sergeant Arthur Spence, whom you call your husband, married me on the day
set down here!" And she rapped with one hand on the paper she held in
the other. "But I have a stronger proof. Read that!"

She had taken an envelope from her pocket as she spoke, and drawing from
it a paper she held it before Penny.

With shaking hands the poor little wife took it. It was a letter--the
handwriting familiar to her. She turned to the signature; it was her
husband's own.

"Read it through," persisted the woman. "See whether I am telling the
truth or lies."

Penny's knees were shaking under her. She sank into a chair, and
clasping her baby more closely to her breast she read the letter. It was
dated a few days before she and Arthur were married.

"Dear Clara," it ran. "This is the last time I shall write to you.
Unless you stick to the agreement we made, I shall stop sending you
money. Do not try to meet me, and do not mention again our unhappy