"Is this all your proof?" asked Link calmly.
"I guess not, though it's enough, I should say. My husband had a mark on his right cheek—got it fighting a duel with a German student when he was having a high time as one of the boys at Heidelberg. Then he lost part of his little finger—left-hand finger—in an accident out West. What other proof do you want, Mr. Link?"
"The proofs you have given seem sufficient, Mrs. Vrain, but may I ask when your husband left his home?"
"About a year ago, eh, poppa?"
"You are overdoing it, Lyddy," corrected the father. "Size it up as ten months, and you'll do."
"Ten months," said Lucian suddenly, "and Mr. Berwin——"
"Vrain!" struck in Lydia, the widow, "Mark Vrain."
"I beg your pardon! Well, Mark Vrain took the house in Geneva Square six months back. Where was he during the other four?"
"Ask me something easier, Mr. Denzil. I know no more than you do."