“Driver, where are you taking me?” Geoffrey shouted, thrusting his head from the window. “I want to go to Plymouth Church.” “Oh! _Plymouth?_” replied the man, in a tone of innocent astonishment, as if he had been bound for some other church, and was surprised to learn that he had made a mistake. Geoffrey was unsuspicious enough to believe this, yet he was very much annoyed. He desired to see the clergyman before the ceremony, and he knew it was already past the hour set for his marriage. “You have no time to lose,” he shouted again to the driver. “I fear you have made me late, as it is; get me there as quickly as you can.” “All right, sir,” came back the answer, while the carriage suddenly turned a corner, and the man whipped the horses to a run. Geoffrey had no overcoat with him; he thought he should not need it, the day had been so mild, and he would be shut into a close carriage; but now the chill night air came in through the broken window, and he began to suffer with the cold. On and on the carriage went, faster and faster the horses flew, until suddenly Geoffrey discovered, to his dismay, that he was rolling over an open country road, while the lights of the city were gleaming far behind. Again he leaned forth and shouted to the driver to stop; that he was wrong. But this time there came no answer, save the whiz and crack of the lash, and the sound of the horses’ hoofs upon the road. He began to fear that the man was intoxicated. He called, he commanded, he threatened; all to no purpose, except to make the driver urge his horses to go faster and faster. They were far out in the suburbs now, with the houses few and far between, and Geoffrey was nearly in despair. What would the wedding party think, upon reaching the church, to find no bridegroom there? What would Gladys think? What would those hundreds of guests say when they should discover there could be no wedding? What would be the end of this dreadful adventure? Could it be possible that the man who was driving was some insane creature, carrying him to destruction? Every possible explanation, save the right one, flashed through his mind as he sat there, utterly powerless to help himself, yet almost crazed with anxiety and suspense. He shouted himself hoarse, without eliciting the slightest response or attention. He leaned as far out of the carriage as he was able, to look at the man on the box, but could only dimly distinguish a figure muffled to the ears in a huge ulster, but as motionless as a statue, except for that periodical swing of his right arm in wielding the whip. Geoffrey dared not leap out, even though in his desperation he was strongly tempted to do so; he realized that such a hazardous proceeding might result in instant death, while there was no way by which he could climb to the top of the carriage to reach the driver; there was _nothing_ that he could do but submit to the inevitable, and await further developments.