“My darling! Mine at last!” Ting-tang; ting-tang; ting-tang.

Malcolm Stratton, F.Z.S., naturalist, a handsome, dark-complexioned man of eight-and-twenty, started and flushed like a girl as he hurriedly thrust the photograph he had been apostrophising into his breast pocket, and ran to the deep, dingy window of his chambers to look at the clock over the old hall of Bencher’s Inn, E.C. It was an unnecessary piece of business, for there was a black marble clock on the old carved oak chimney-piece nestling among Grinling Gibbons’ wooden flowers and pippins, and he had been dragging his watch from his pocket every ten minutes since he had risen at seven, taken his bath, and dressed; but he had forgotten the hour the next minute, and gone on making his preparations, haunted by the great dread lest he should be too late.

“Quarter to ten yet,” he muttered. “How slowly the time goes!” As he spoke he sniffed slightly and smiled, for a peculiar aromatic incense-like odour had crept into the room through the chinks in a door.

He stepped back to where a new-looking portmanteau lay upon the Turkey carpet, and stood contemplating it for a few moments.

“Now, have I forgotten anything?”

This question was followed by a slow look round the quaint, handsomely furnished old oak-panelled room, one of several suites let out to bachelors who could pay well, and who affected the grim old inn with its plane trees, basin of water, and refreshing quiet, just out of the roar of the busy city street. And as Malcolm Stratton looked round his eyes rested on his cases of valuable books and busts of famous naturalists, and a couple of family portraits, both of which seemed to smile at him pleasantly; and then on and over natural history specimens, curious stuffed birds, a cabinet of osteological preparations, and over and around the heavy looking carvings and mouldings about the four doorways, and continued from the fireplace up to the low ceiling. But, look where he would, he could see nothing but a beautiful face with large, pensive eyes, gazing with loving trust in his as he had seen them only a few hours before when he had said “good-night.”

“Bah! I shall never be ready,” he cried, with an impatient laugh, and crossing to one of the doorways—all exactly alike—he disappeared for a moment or two, to return from his bedroom with a black bag, which he hastily strapped, set down, paused to think for a moment, and then taking out his keys opened the table-drawer, took out a cheque book, and sat down to write.

“May as well have enough,” he said merrily. “I’ve waited long enough for this trip, and a man does not get married every day. One—fifty. Signature. Bah! Don’t cross it, stupid!”

He tore out the cheque, threw back the book, and locked the drawer, before going to a door on the right-hand side of the fireplace, bending forward and listening.

“Wonder he has not been in,” he muttered. “Now let’s see. Anything else? How absurd! Haven’t finished my coffee.”

He took the cup from the table, drained it, and, after another look round, turned to the left side of the fireplace, where he opened a door corresponding to the one at which he had listened, went in, and returned directly with an ice axe and an alpenstock.

“May as well take them,” he said. “Myra can use you.”

He gave the alpenstock a rub with the table napkin before placing it and his old mountaineering companion against the bag. Then, bending down, he was busily strapping the portmanteau and forcing the tongue of the last buckle into its proper hole when there was a knock at the door behind him, and he started to his feet.

“Come in!”

The answer was a second knock, and with an impatient ejaculation the occupant of the chambers threw open the fourth door.

“I forgot the bolt was fastened, Mrs Brade,” he said, as he drew back to admit a plump looking, neatly dressed woman in cap and apron, one corner of which she took up to begin rolling between her fingers as she stood smiling at the edge of the carpet.

“Yes, sir,” she said, “if I might make so bold, and I don’t wonder at it. Oh, my dear—I mean Mr Stratton, sir—how handsome you do look this morning!”

“Why, you silly old woman!” he cried, half laughing, half annoyed.

“Oh, no, excuse me, sir, not a bit. Handsome is as handsome does, they say, and you is and does too, sir, and happiness and joy go with you, sir, and your dear, sweet lady too, sir.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Mrs Brade, but—”

“I always thought as you would marry some day, sir, as was only natural, but I never thought as a widow would be your lot.”

“Mrs Brade!” cried Stratton impatiently, and with his brows contracting a little. “I am very busy—not a moment to spare.”

“Of course, sir, and no wonder; but I do wish it hadn’t been such a dull morning.”

“Dull?” cried Stratton, rushing to the window; “I thought it was all sunshine.”

“Of course you did, sir; so did I; and well I remember it, though it’s forty years ago.”

“Mrs Brade, I told you I was busy. I thank you for your congratulations, and I gave you all your instructions yesterday, so pray what do you want?”

Mrs Brade, wife of the inn porter, lifted the corner of her apron to her mouth, and made a sound like the stifling of a laugh.

“I beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure, and of course it’s natural at such a time. I came because you sent word by the waiter that I was to—”

“Of course, yes: about ten. I’m so busy, I forgot,” cried Stratton hastily. “Look here, Mrs Brade, I want you to go over to the bank; it will be open by the time you get across. Cash this cheque for me; bring all notes—tens and fives.”

“A hundred and fifty pounds, sir?”

“Yes; take a hand bag with you. Don’t get robbed.”

“Oh, no, sir. I know too much of the ways of London town.”

“That’s right. Excuse my being hurried with you.”

“Of course, sir; I know well what your feelings must be. (Sniff, sniff.) Why, you can smell Mr Brettison a-smoking his ubble-bubble with that strange tobacco right in here.”

As the woman spoke she went straight across to the door on the left of the fireplace.

“Here! where are you going?” cried Stratton.

“Back directly, sir,” came in smothered tones, accompanied by the pulling of a bath chain, the gurgling of water, and the sound of shutting down a heavy lid.

“Lor’, how strong Mr Brettison do smell, sir. It’s my memory’s got that bad, sir,” said the woman, reappearing and carefully shutting the door, “that I’m obliged to do things when I see them want doing, else I forgets. It was only yesterday that Mr Brettison—”

“Mrs Brade, the cheque, please.”

“Of course, sir,” said the woman hastily just as there was a little rat-tat at the brass knocker of the outer door, which she opened.

“Here is Mr Brettison, sir,” and she drew back to admit a spare looking, grey man, dressed in dark tweed, who removed his soft felt hat and threw it, with a botanist’s vasculum and a heavy oaken stick, upon an easy-chair, as he watched the departure of the porter’s wife before turning quickly and, with tears in his eyes, grasping Stratton’s hands and shaking them warmly.

“My dear boy,” he said, in a voice full of emotion, “God bless you! Happiness to you! God bless you both!”

“My dear old friend!” cried Stratton. “Thank you; for Myra, too. But come, you’ve repented. You will join the wedding party after all?”

“I? Oh, no, no, my boy. I’m no wedding guest. Why, Malcolm, I should be a regular ancient mariner without the glittering eye.”

“I am sorry. I should have liked you to be present,” said Stratton warmly.

“I know it, my boy, I know it; but no; don’t press me. I couldn’t bear it. I was to have been married, my dear boy. I was young, if not as handsome as you. But,”—there was a pause—“she died,” he added in a whisper. “I could not bear to come.”

“Mr Brettison!”

“There,” cried the visitor with forced gaiety, “just what I said. No, my dear Malcolm. No, no, my boy. I’m better away.”

Stratton was silent, and his neighbour went on hastily:

“I heard you packing, and knocking about, but I wouldn’t disturb you, my dear boy. I’m off, too: a week’s collecting in the New Forest. Write to me very soon, and my dear love to your sweet wife—an angel, Malcolm—a blessing to you, my boy. Tell her to let you gather a few of the mountain flowers to send me. Ask her to pick a few herself and I’ll kiss them as coming from her.”

“I’ll tell her, sir.”

“That’s right; and, Malcolm, my boy, I’m quite alone in the world, where I should not have been now if you had not broken in my door and came and nursed me back to life, dying as I was from that deadly fever.”

“My dear Mr Brettison, if ever you mention that trifle of neighbourly service again we are no longer friends,” cried Stratton.

“Trifle of neighbourly service!” said the old man, laying his hands affectionately upon the other’s shoulders. “You risked your life, boy, to save that of one who would fain have died. But Heaven knows best, Malcolm, and I’ve been a happier man since, for it has seemed to me as if I had a son. Now, one word more and I am going. I’ve a train to catch. Tell your dear young wife that Edward Brettison has watched your career—that the man who was poor and struggled so hard to place himself in a position to win her will never be poor again: for I have made you my heir, Malcolm, and God bless you, my boy. Good-bye; write soon.”

“Mr Brettison!” cried Stratton, in amaze.

“Hush!”

The door opened, and Mrs Brade reappeared with a black reticule in one hand and a ruddy telegram envelope in the other.

“I see, wanted already,” said the old man, hastily catching up hat, stick, and collecting box, and hurrying out without another word.

“Telegram, sir; and there’s the change, sir.”

“Eh! The notes? Thank you, Mrs Brade,” said Stratton hurriedly, and taking the packet he laid them on the table and placed a bronze letter weight to keep them down. “That will do, thank you, Mrs Brade. Tell your husband to fetch my luggage, and meet me at Charing Cross. He’ll take a cab, of course.”

“I shall be there, too, sir, never you fear,” said the porter’s wife, with a smile, as she left the room, Stratton hurriedly tearing open the envelope the while, and reading as the door closed:

    No bride’s bouquet. What a shame! See to it at once.

    Edie.

“Confound!” ejaculated Stratton; “and after all their promises. Here, Mrs Brade, quick. Gone!”

He threw open the door to call the woman back, but before he could open his lips she had returned.

“A gen—gentleman to see you, sir, on business.”

“Engaged. Cannot see anyone. Look here, Mrs Brade.”

“Mr Malcolm Stratton, I presume,” said a heavily built man with a florid face, greyish hair, and closely cut foreign looking hair.

“My name, sir, but I am particularly engaged this morning. If you have business with me you must write.”

This at the doorway, with Mrs Brade standing a little back on the stone landing.

“No time for writing,” said the stranger sternly. “Business too important. Needn’t wait, Mrs what’s-your-name,” he continued, turning upon the woman so sharply that she began to hurry down the stairs.

“I don’t care how important your mission is, sir,” cried Stratton; “I cannot give you an interview this morning. If you have anything to say you must write. My business—”

“I know,” said the man coolly: “going to be married.”

Stratton took a step back, and his visitor one forward into the room, turned, closed the outer door, and, before Stratton could recover from his surprise, the inner door, and pointed to a chair.

“Sit down,” said the man, and he took another chair and sat back in it.

“Well of all the audacious—!” began Stratton, with a half laugh; but he was interrupted.

“Don’t waste words, sir; no time. The lady will be waiting.”

As he spoke Stratton saw the man’s eyes rest for a moment on the banknotes beneath the letter weight, and an undefined sensation of uneasiness attacked him. He mastered it in an instant, ignoring the last remark.

“Now, sir; you say you have business with me. Let me hear it, since I must—at once.”

“Ah, that’s businesslike. We shall be able to deal.”

“Say what you have to say.”

“When you sit down.”

Stratton let himself fall back into a chair.

“Now then. Quick!”

“You propose being married this morning.”

“I do,” said Stratton, with a sort of dread lest even then there should be some obstacle in the way.

“Well, then, you can’t; that’s all.”

“What!” cried Stratton fiercely. “Who says so?”

“I do. But keep cool, young man. This is business.”

“Yes; I’ll be cool,” said Stratton, mastering himself again, and adopting his visitor’s cynical manner. “So let me ask you, sir, who you may be, and what is your object in coming?”

The man did not answer for a moment, but let his eyes rest again upon the notes.

“I say, who are you, sir?”

“I? Oh, nobody of any importance,” said the man, with an insolent laugh.

Stratton sprang up, and the visitor thrust his hand behind him.

“No nonsense, Mr Malcolm. I tell you this is business. Without my consent you cannot marry Myra Barron, formerly Myra Jerrold, this morning.”

“I say, who are you, sir?” cried Stratton furiously.

“James Barron, my dear sir—the lady’s husband.”

“Good God!”