Through the vibrations of it all, I approached the desk. Approaching it, also, was a man, rather tall, with Piccadilly clothes, a Delmonico manner, and an air of intense satisfaction. Beside him was a girl in a frock that suggested fresh almonds. From her arm swung a bag of Peking yellow, on which battened an argent monster with eyes of jade. Topping all was a hat that might have cost a thousand dollars. Doubtless it had cost less. I lack the huckster’s eye. But not, I hope, the eye for beauty. The girl was extraordinarily fair. Her hair rippled with gold. Yet in her face, in which there was all of youth’s courageous innocence, there was also, it seemed to me, the look of one who has taken what children call a dare, and who now rather wished that she had not.
This impression, wholly momentary, the girl’s companion jostled. He was addressing the clerk:
“My name is Bundy. I wired from Philadelphia for a suite, and forgot to ask for a clergyman, also.”
The clerk turned, examined some memoranda, turned again: “The suite will be ready shortly, Mr. Bundy.”
“And the clergyman?”
The clerk shook his head. “We don’t supply them.” He hesitated, and resourcefully added: “The Reverend Doctor Manlius is here. He registered last night.” A manicured finger shot out. “There he is now.”
Hat in hand, head bent, eyes lowered, a clergyman was crossing the hall. His abundant dark hair, upturned, as if curled, at the edges, glistened a little, but his close-cut beard was dull, as was also his severe black coat.
At once Bundy accosted him. I could not hear what he said, but I could see the clergyman stop, raise his eyes, and look uncertainly at Bundy. Worship has many forms, the devout have many attitudes, but perhaps the greatest grace that religion confers is serenity. Momentarily, this gentleman appeared to lack it. But momentarily only. Immediately he straightened, stroked his rich hair, and murmured something.
Bundy turned to the beauty. “Margaret, this is Doctor Manlius. Doctor Manlius is unprepared. He has no service with him.”
“I have one,” the girl announced. That wonderful hat of hers inclined itself, and a gloved hand, entering the bowels of the silver dragon, produced a prayer book, bound in tortoise shell, clamped with gold. “I was reading it in the train,” she continued. “I also read the burial service.” She paused and oddly added: “I think I like it best.”
But Bundy was in great good humor. “Everything in proper time,” he cheerfully retorted.
Doctor Manlius coughed: “Ahem! Yes. Quite so.”
“Well, then,” Bundy spaciously resumed. “We might—”
The rest of it was lost. I was about to intervene. Already I had taken aim. “Miss Dayce,” I had it on the tip of my tongue to say, “Converse bids me tell you that the woman you saw in his arms is his sister.”
But the thing missed fire. A different explosion occurred. Before me, a page in blue and brass was bawling my name.
I stopped the boy, questioned, learned that I was wanted at the telephone, divined who was at the other end, and, a bit relieved—for, if I may boast, I am a poor hand at projectiles—entered a booth, where at once Converse was talking at me.
“They are not here,” he huskily began. “Are they at the Waldorf?”
“Yes,” I shouted back. “In the hall—with a clergyman in tow.”
“What!”
“Some reverend rounder that Bundy has picked up here.”
With an oath, Converse cleared his throat: “Detain them then. Introduce yourself to Margaret. Throw the bomb. Say I am coming.”
I started to reply, but the connection was cut, and I could fancy Converse hastening mightily.
Meanwhile, there was work to be done, and, as I reentered the foyer, mentally I again took aim. Yet at once I realized that, however effective the high projectile would prove, it was for the moment useless.
The girl, the man, the cleric, all three had vanished, and I told myself that somewhere in the vast hotel they were then actively collaborating in that ceremony which is the oldest of human rites.
I rushed at the desk. “Mr. Bundy—from Philadelphia. Where is he? I must see him.”
The clerk looked me over. “I hardly think he is disengaged at present.” Cautiously and bleakly he smiled. “We have given him a sitting room while his suite is being prepared.”
Impatiently I gestured. “It is life and death. I must see the young lady who is with him, and at once.”
Again the clerk surveyed me. The cautious smile had gone. “Well, I’ll send your name up.”
I whipped out a card. “Say it’s vital. Say—”
But the clerk had turned. In a moment, my card in his hand, I saw him directing an operator. Then, leisurely, behind a partition he disappeared. When I next saw him he was at the other end of the desk, talking confidentially to a fat man. Several minutes had already intervened. Several others had previously elapsed. Since I had last seen the girl, fully ten minutes must have gone. The marriage service, I told myself, is brief—but lasting, and, in my brain, words kept running confusedly over themselves: “To have and to scold, to—”
“Not in, sir.”
It was the clerk addressing me.
“Not in?” I amazedly repeated.
“Well, they don’t answer.” The bleak smiled reappeared. “I guess they’re busy. Front!”
The clerk turned again. So far as he was concerned I had ceased to exist.
In sheer impotence, I also turned. Before me was the palm room, widely hospitable, enterable through many doors, but, at this hour, which was too early for tea, and too late for luncheon, untenanted.
Gloomily, I was contemplating the empty chairs and unoccupied tables, when, suddenly, Converse appeared.
He flew at me. “Where is she?”
I motioned at the ceiling. “In the bonds of matrimony.”
He strangled an oath. “You didn’t tell her?”
“I couldn’t. While you were telephoning they gave me the slip. But I will tell you something. There is nothing better for the emotions than caviar and champagne. Let’s have some.”
“You are ridiculous with your caviar and your emotions,” Converse snapped.
Appreciatively I nodded. “Let me
