into David's thought; so she had had another bridal camp before. With whom? Bolton was yet only a name. David challenged her: "Who was Sam Bolton?"
"Why, I've his picture here," Fidelia said; and she turned to the drawer of her writing desk and brought forth a small, square photograph which was an unmounted snap-shot of a tall, broad-shouldered man with black hair and heavy brows and with a strong, straight nose and vain, willful mouth and chin. He was a handsome man; no one could deny that; and he carried himself with the air of a dare-devil.
David took the picture from her but he held his shaking fingers from tearing it across. He demanded of her: "You've kept this with you all the time we've been married?"
"Oh, no, David. I got it only to-day."
He saw then that this picture was not of her husband of five years ago; the flannel shirt and khaki trousers which he wore were uniform, not camping clothes.
"How did you get it to-day?"
"It came in Sam's letter, which I got to-day."
"How did you get his letter to-day?"
"I went to the post office for it. When you didn't come home, I went to the post office and asked for it and there it was, David; it had been waiting for me almost a week."
"When I didn't come home—what in the world are you talking about?"
"Sam's letter, David. You see, I wrote him—I mean I wrote his brother's wife, Flora Bolton, after
