“Then what?” Mason asked.
“Then,” she said, “he went out to look the territory over.”
“You heard from him?” Mason asked.
“Letters, yes.”
“What did he say in his letters?”
“He was rather vague about matters pertaining to business,” she said; “his letters were — mostly personal. We had been married less than a week when he left.” She turned suddenly to face Mason and said, “And regardless of what else may transpire, he loved me.”
She said it simply, without dramatic emphasis, without allowing her personal grief to intrude upon the statement. It was merely a statement of facts made as a calm assertion by one who knows whereof she speaks.
Mason nodded silent acquiescence.
“The first intimation I had,” she said, “was... was... this afternoon, when I picked up the afternoon paper and saw his picture as Fremont C. Sabin, the man who had been murdered.”
“You recognized him at once?”