l music. The
silence that followed was almost painful.

Then as if by common consent, every eye was fixed upon the bride.
Beatrice had turned and walked down the altar steps in the direction of
Mark, who advanced now without further opposition. Beatrice stood there
with her hand to her head as if trying to understand it all. She was
terribly white, but absolutely composed.

"Did you say that my father was dead?" she asked.

"I am afraid so," Mark stammered. "He--he has been dead for hours. I
came on here as fast as I could, hoping to be in time to----"

He paused, conscious of the fact that he was about to say something
terribly out of place. Just for an instant Mark had forgotten that he
and Beatrice were not alone. He was looking into her beautiful, dilated
eyes, oblivious to the fact of the spectators. He was going to say that
he had hurried there in the hopes of being in time to stop the ceremony.
And Beatrice had divined it, for she flushed slightly. It seemed a
terrible thing, but already she had asked herself the same question. The
shock of her father's death had not quite gone home to her yet, and she
could still think about herself. Was she really married to Stephen
Richford? Was the ceremony legally completed? The thought was out of
place, but there it was. A mist rose before the girl's eyes, her heart
beat painfully fast.

"Don't you think we ought to do something?" Mark asked.

The question startled Beatrice out of her stupor. She was ready for
action. It was as if a stream of cold water had been poured over her.

"Of course," she cried. "It is wrong to stand here. Take me home at
once, Mark."

It was a strange scene strangely carried out. The bridegroom stood
irresolute by the altar, feeling nervously at his gloves, whilst
Beatrice, with all her wedding finery about her, clutched Mark by the
arm and hurried him down the aisle. The whole thing was done, and the
strangely assorted pair had vanished before the congregation recovered
from their surprise.

"Come back!" Richford exclaimed. "Surely it is my place to----"

Long before Richford could reach the porch, his wife and Mark had
entered a hansom and were on their way to the _Royal Palace Hotel_. The
story had got about by this time; people stopped to stare at the man in
tweeds and the bride in her full array in the hansom. To those two it
did not seem in the least strange.

"Did you manage to see my father, after all?" Beatrice asked.

"No,