“Are we all--er--ready?” asked the smooth voice of the bishop. “Quite ready,” said Bartley Bradstone, his voice sounding harsh and dry. The bishop inclined his head, and the procession started for the altar. White to the lips, with the look in her eyes of one from whom all that life holds of good or bad had passed forever, Olivia stood and uttered her marriage vows. Only once throughout the ceremony did she show any sign of feeling or of life itself, and that was at the moment when Bartley Bradstone’s hand took hers. Then, unseen by any one but himself, a shudder ran through her, causing the hand he held to shake as if with palsy. It was only for a moment; the next she was the statue again, and she walked with firm, unfaltering steps down the church to the vestry. There was the usual crowd round the register, every one being anxious to sign, but the business was accomplished at last, and, with her arm in her husband’s, Olivia passed out of the church. They stood for a second at the door. The sun blazed down upon them and the cheering crowd, and Bartley Bradstone put up his hand to screen his eyes, and looked round upon the excited people. As he did so his restless, suspicious glance fell upon what he expected: there in the second rank of the living lane stood the woman whose face had haunted him all the past night and all the morning, and even as he stood beside his bride at the altar. With her hands on her hips, her black eyes all aglow with mocking derision, she stood and stared at him. As his eyes met hers she broke into a laugh that seemed to him to ring above the din of the cheers, and, pushing herself into the front rank, stooped and snatched up some flowers which had been thrown on the path. “Here’s wishing you and your bride every happiness, Mr. Bradstone!” she shouted, and flung the flowers in his face. Then, with a laugh, she slipped back again, and was lost in the crowd. CHAPTER XXIII. THE ASSASSIN. The words and action of the woman were unnoticed in the excitement, and she slipped back behind the crowd and was instantly swallowed up. Mr. Bartley Bradstone’s face could not have looked whiter than it had done, and after the first start of alarm as the flowers struck him in the face, and the woman’s mocking voice rang in his ears, he collected himself sufficiently to force a smile, which he bestowed upon the lines of people. As the carriages dashed off to the Grange the crowd of spectators closed up behind them and followed in the same direction, for the squire had invited every man and woman and child to a good, old roast-beef-and-beer banquet, which was to be served in a huge _marquee_ on the lawn. In a whirl of excitement the guests thronged into the drawing-room. There is an old-fashioned custom which ordains that the bride shall hold a kind of _levee_ in the interval between the ceremony and the breakfast, and Olivia took her place in the drawing-room to receive the usual homage.