"Not much!" exploded Updyke, as he set the starter going. "When I tell Mary, there will be no freshly married people around." As the long nosed roadster threaded its way along Main Street the Carvers stood watching until its red tail lights faded from view. Thus the happiest day of their lives had merged into night. On reaching the second floor of The White House, the bride enquired about the hour. "Just seven twenty-eight," replied Carver, consulting his watch. "Then 'curfew shall not ring to-night,' as we have two minutes to spare," laughed the bride, closing the door softly behind them. On reaching New York Updyke immediately rang up the home where Mary Johnson lived and "switchboard" promptly responded. "Updyke calling," said he, gruffly. "Miss Johnson is waiting to hear from you--something important I believe," said the girl, who always watched out for his interests. "Put her on, Miss Daisy," said Updyke, "and don't listen in," he warned, as one who knew about her girl-like curiosity. "This you, Miss Johnson--how's everything?" "Bad news from South Bay," said she, meaning Dreamy Hollow. "News from Patchogue caused a severe spell of anesthesia. Doctor Benton is staying there over night--also Mr. Sawyer." "Does he recognize them?" "They do not know, but think it doubtful. At one time he said--'tell Parkins'--and at another, some hours later, he mumbled incoherently about 'the church' being 'too crowded.' 'I've been puzzled over the words 'tell Parkins'--what do you make of that?" queried the secretary. "Nothing important," replied Updyke--"just vagaries of the mind. He'll get over it in a day or two. Perhaps his words 'the church' signified a hazy recollection of the wedding held there to-day. The camera man shot a lot of pictures. Better hold on to some of the proofs for the gallery," laughed Updyke. "The Updyke gallery?--never! You may have one for your private office," said the secretary, after a pause. "Old stingy--always keeping down expenses, eh? Proofs only cost a dollar apiece--good ones, I mean. Spoils, only a quarter. I presume I'll get one of the spoils," laughed the big fellow. "If you talk that way, I'll keep all of them," bantered Mary Johnson. "Where are they now?" "What--the pictures?" "No--the happy couple?" "Asleep--I guess," replied Updyke, blandly. "You are quite impossible, after your long ride all by yourself. I believe you are jealous of George." "No, you are wrong, Mary. It's not him, much as I admire his wife." "Who else could it be?" giggled Mary. "Now you are asking questions! What is the name of the photographer you sent out to Patchogue?" "Oh, a queer sort of name!--Pelletier, or something. He does all our work, and for most of the newspapers. I had him go out personally, instead of sending some horrid assistant." "Well, he is the man who excites my jealousy," said Updyke, sharply. "Impossible! I didn't know you were acquainted," replied Mary Johnson, in a surprised tone.