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knew now that the girl was not his wedded wife, but it was no easy matter to discover whose wife she was. Once he asked her artfully, "What did you think when you first saw me at our wedding?"

"I didn't see you," she answered, "I never looked up all the time."

Ramesh. "Didn't you even hear my name?"

The Girl. "I only heard of you for the first time on the day before we were married; my aunt was in such a hurry to get me off her hands that she never even told me your name."

Ramesh. "By the way, I was told you could read and write; let me see if you can spell your name." And he gave her a sheet of paper and a pencil.

"As if I couldn't spell my own name!" she cried contemptuously. "As it happens, it's quite an easy one," and she wrote "Srimati Kamala Debi" in large letters.

Ramesh. "Now write your uncle's name."

Kamala wrote "Srijukta Tarini Charan Chattopadhyay."

"Did I make any mistake?" she asked.

"No," said Ramesh. "Now just write me the name of your village."

She wrote "Dhobapukur."

By such expedients Ramesh gradually amassed a number of facts about the girl's former life, but when all was done he was as far off as ever from the main object of his inquiries.

Ramesh now set himself to think out a future plan