A silver star can be seen in the store. It is an officer in charge of the premises. He hurries to the door. "Are you Mrs. Lockwin?" "I am. Let him in, too." The officer has willed to exclude the bridegroom. "Hadn't he better wait outside?" "Let him in!" "Here is a packet addressed to you." The officer hands to the bride a thick letter. "Take this chair, madam." The bride sits down, her back toward the lights in the window. The bridegroom stands close behind her. "Be firm, Esther. I'll put him in the penitentiary. I'll put him in the penitentiary!" The bride opens the packet. Many folded documents fall to her lap. She is quick to spread out the chief letter. The bridegroom pulls the silk handkerchief off his white shirt-front and wipes his perspiring forehead again and again. He leans over her shoulder to read. The writing is large and distinct: Thursday Afternoon, Nov. 30. MY DEARLY BELOVED WIFE AND WIDOW: It may be barely possible that I have lived these years of shame and degradation to some good purpose, and for the following reasons: The man whom you now love so well--the man whom you are about to marry--George Harpwood--is an adventurer and a criminal. I inclose documents which show that on Monday, the 4th of August, 1873, this George Harpwood, described and photographed, married Mary Berners, who now lives at Crescentville, a suburb of Philadelphia. She bears the name of Mrs. Mary Harpwood, and has not been divorced to her knowledge. Beside deserting her, Harpwood robbed her and reduced her to penury. I inclose documents showing that five years earlier, or on Wednesday, the 8th of January, 1868, George Harpwood eloped with a child wife, Eleanor Hastings, and basely deserted her within four weeks. She now resides with her sister-in-law, Mrs. Moses Hastings, on Ox-Bow Prairie, a few miles south of Sturgis, Michigan. It is my request that the little store and its belongings, including the bank account of Robert Chalmers, so-called, be given to the widow of the late Walter B. Corkey. The bitterness of life is yours. But the bitterness of death is mine. Your husband, who loves you, DAVID LOCKWIN. There is a click at the door. The bride hears it not. The documents fall to the floor. There are photographs of George Harpwood; there are green seals; there are many attestations. The bride must raise her eyes now. She sees the star of the officer. She reads the number--803. Is that from David, too? Ah, yes, she must turn her head. The bridegroom is gone! A man enters, in hot haste and intense excitement. Is it the bridegroom returning? It is Dr. Tarpion. He seizes her by the hand. "My dear friend!" he cries. "My dear friend!" he repeats, "I have just now learned that your husband is still living." But she does not hear it. She can only look gratefully toward the administrator, clinging to his hand.