The Rev. Mr. Dysart received them with pleasant words of welcome, and reminiscences of life in Yonkers, and memories of Mary's mother, held Cupid in abeyance for an hour. Quincy passed the license to the clergyman who read it and looked up inquiringly. “It's all right, isn't it?” Quincy asked. “Why yes,--but--I never supposed--why, of course--but when?” “Now, at once,” said Quincy. “We must be home by eleven, for they lock the doors.” The simple ceremony was soon over. “Can you give Mrs. Sawyer a certificate, Mr. Dysart?” “Fortunately, yes. I bought some to-day, for I needed them.” He went into an adjoining room to fill it out. “Mary, my darling, I am a rich man--richer than I deserve to be, for I have created nothing--but I would give every dollar of my fortune rather than lose you. Does your wedding ring fit? Mine is all right.” “It ought to be--you had a chance to try yours on.” “I am a designing villain, Mary. While you were telling that story last night, you will remember that I walked about the room. One of your rings was on the mantelpiece and I tried it on.” When the clergyman handed Mrs. Sawyer the certificate, Quincy passed him his fee. “You've made a mistake, Mr. Sawyer. This is a hundred dollar bill.” “It ought to be a thousand. I'll send you a check for the difference to-morrow--for yourself, or your church, as you prefer.” As they descended the steps, the clergyman raised his hands. “I wish you both long life and prosperity, and may Heaven's blessing fall upon you.” “Back to the 'Cawthorne,'” said Quincy, as he pressed a small roll of paper into the _chauffeur's_ hand--which roll of paper a friendly street light showed to be a five dollar bill. “What will that horrid Mr. Cass say?” “I'll fix him,” replied Quincy. “Just await developments, patiently, my dear.” It was a quarter of eleven when they reached the hotel. Mr. Cass was at his desk, the light turned down in anticipation of the closing hour. “The certificate, darling,” Quincy whispered. “Please turn up the light, Mr. Cass, and read that.” Mr. Cass adjusted his _pince-nez_. Quincy was relentless. His turn had come. “Is that in proper form, Mr. Cass? I know your rules are strict, and that your employer holds you to them tenaciously,” and there was a strong accent on the last word. “Would your reverend employer object to your harbouring a newly-married couple for one night? Show him your wedding ring, Mrs. Sawyer. We must satisfy his moral scruples.” Mr. Cass regarded them attentively. Then he said, slowly: “I anticipated such a result, but wasn't it rather sudden?” “We shall lose the elevator,” cried Mary. “It shuts down at eleven.” “Shall we go on a tour?” asked Quincy the next morning. “I can't leave the Harrison case. I must follow a clue this morning.” “Where shall we live, Mary? In grandfather's house on Beacon Street, or shall I build a new one? I'll make it a palace, if you say so.”