Bride and groom were to depart on the six o’clock train for Niagara. About five o’clock, the groom, chancing to glance out of the window, saw two men,--strangers in Whitewater but perfectly well known to him,--walking up the path that led to the front door. For a second he sat motionless; the next, he turned and looked into the grey eyes of his bride. “Eris,” he said calmly, “if anybody asks for me say I’ve run down to the mill and I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” She smiled vaguely as he rose and went out the back way where the automobiles were parked. A few minutes later Odell was called from the room by one of his sons: “Say, pop, there’s a party out here inquiring for someone they call Eddie Graydon.” Odell went out to the porch: “What name?” he demanded, eyeing the two strangers and their dripping umbrellas. “You Elmer Odell?” demanded the taller man. “That’s what my ma christened me,” replied Odell, jocosely. “Your daughter marrying a man who calls himself E. Stuart Graydon?” “She ain’t marryin’ him. She’s done it.” “Where is he?” “He jest stepped out. Gone to the mill to fix up sunthin’ before leavin’.” The taller man said to his companion: “Run down to the mill, will you?” And, as the other turned and walked rapidly away in the rain: “I’ve got a warrant for Eddie Graydon when he comes back. That’s one of his names. Eddie Carter is the right one. Sorry for you, Mr. Odell; sorrier for your daughter.” Odell stared at him, the purple veins beginning to swell on his temples. “D-dang it!” he stammered,--“what’s all this dinged junk about? Who be you?” And, when the tall, quiet man had terribly convinced him, Odell staggered, slightly, and wiped the sweat from his temples. “That lad has a record,” said the detective, in his low, agreeable voice. “He’s a fine artist and a crackerjack chemist. Maybe he don’t know anything about the new tens and twenties. Maybe. Nor anything about the location of the plates.... My God, Mr. Odell, we’ve _got_ to get those plates. Only Brockway could have equalled that engraving. Yes, sir--only the old man.” Odell scarcely heard him for the thunderous confusion in his brain. He sat down, heavily, staring at space under knitted brows. Minute after minute passed. The distant laughter and clamour of guests came fitfully from the great kitchen beyond. It rained and rained on the veranda roof. After a quarter of an hour the detective came in from the porch. “You got a telephone, Mr. Odell?” The farmer nodded. “I want to call up my mate at the mill----” looking around the sitting room and finally locating the instrument. “What’s the mill number?” “Seven.” He gave the crank a turn; the metal bell jingled. After a few moments he got his mate. He talked rapidly in a low, clear voice. Odell heard without listening or understanding. The detective hung up. “Say,” he said, “that fellow’s gone. He won’t come back here. He’s gone!” “What say?” mumbled Odell, wiping away the sweat.