ws who has been a parish priest--what vileness
a man can be guilty of to save his skin. Reserve your wrath for
Leicester, but let this poor creature be--he has an awful expiation
before him--and consider with me if the worst of this evil cannot be
remedied." He turned to the curate. "You have the registers--the
parish papers? Where are they? Here?"

Whitmore nodded towards a door in the corner.

"Is the licence for this marriage among them? Give me the key."

The curate seemed to search in his pocket for a moment; then jerked a
hand towards the door, as if meaning that no key was necessary.
The Rector strode across to search.

"By God, it shall be remedied!" Mr. Rogers shouted. "Rector!"

The old man turned.

"Well?" he asked.

"You can marry them yet?"

"To be sure I can. And if the licence is in order, little time need
be lost. Let me search for it."

"Man, there's no time to lose! The North Wilts Regiment sails
to-morrow night for Portugal. I heard the news as I left Plymouth."

"If that's so," I put in, "Plinlimmon will be down at the cottage
to-night, or to-morrow morning to say good-bye."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Sure," said I. "Miss Isabel told me that he had his Colonel's
promise."

Mr. Rogers slapped his thigh. "Egad, boy, it seems to me you're the
good angel in this business! We'll send down to the Cottage at
once."

He pulled a dog-whistle from his pocket and blew two shrill calls
upon it. But above the second sounded the Rector's voice in a sharp
exclamation, and we spun round in time to see him fling back the door
in the corner. It opened on a lighted room.

I was running towards this door to see what his exclamation might
mean when at the other appeared the constable whom Mr. Rogers called
"Jim"--a youngish man, and tall, with a round head set like a button
on top of a massive pair of shoulders.

"You whistled for me, sir?"

"I did. You will not be wanted to keep watch any longer. Step down
to Minden Cottage and give this note to Miss Brooks." He pulled out
a pencil, searched his pockets, found a scrap of paper, and, leaning
over the table, scribbled a few lines. "If Miss Brooks has gone to
bed, you must knock her up."

"Very good, sir." Constable Jim touched his hat and retired.

"And now what's the matter in there? Come along, you Whitmore.
Has he found the licence?"

But this was not what the Rector's cry had announced. The room into
which we passed h