driver anything he might ask, Alan gave him the address, and helped the girl in. The second car made better time than the first, and soon swept up to a corner house of modest and homely aspect. Two minutes more, and Alan was exchanging salutations with Digby's good friend, the Reverend Mr. Wright.
Embarrassment worked confusion with the young man's perceptive faculties. He was dimly aware of a decently furnished minister's study; of two witnesses, womenfolk of the minister's household; of the Reverend Mr. Wright himself as a benevolent voice rolling sonorously forth from a black-clad presence; of the woman of his heart standing opposite him; of questions asked and responses made; of a ring that was magically conjured from some store apparently maintained against precisely similar emergencies; of a hand that took the hand that was to be his wife's and placed it in his; of his clumsy and witless bungling with the task of fitting that ring to the finger of his sweetheart's hand. …
And then a door banged violently in the hallway; a man's voice made some indistinguishable demand; Rose's hand was suddenly whipped away before he could fit on the ring; the study door was flung open, and Marrophat precipitated himself into the room.
"You fool! Drop that ring! Stop this farce! Don't you know who you're marrying? That woman is Judith Trine—not Rose!"
