A leather case of cigars was poked under his nose. "Thanks, I never smoke cigars." Fanshaw kept his face turned to the window, letting Henley talk to this Randall-man. "Yes," he was saying with a heavy laugh, "I been to some mighty funny weddings." "I never miss one when I can help it." "There was a wedding down in Philadelphia I once went to where the groom passed out before the ceremony. That was a funny wedding." "What was the matter?" "Dry Martinis, that's all. We had to put him under the showerbath to bring him around enough to stagger up the aisle.... He got mixed up and tried to lead one of the bridesmaids up to the altar. It was a barrel of monkeys, that wedding was...." Fanshaw was looking out at the bare trees and the rows of grey suburban houses. The smoke from the engine unrolled dense and white across the landscape against a leaden sky. Above the grinding rumble of wheels he could hear the two men talking beside him. "I saw a man drop down stone dead at the altar once." "You don't say." "Dreadful thing... Heart failure it was that did it. The bride had just said about love, honor, and obey, when the fellow began to stagger around. When they picked him up he was dead. A good chap too, important in the Elks and secretary of the Pittsburgh Chamber of Commerce. It was a great shock to everyone. Marrying the girl he was going to marry had been thought the crowning success of his career." "Funny time of year to have a country wedding, isn't it?" Fanshaw turned laughing from the window. "Most eccentric... Why, everything's full of hoar-frost." When the train reached Durham station the sun was shining palely. The cars exuded furs and orchids and derby hats and canes from either end. Outside the station several limousines and taxicabs were lined up waiting for the guests, and in front of them, pacing up and down the platform with the stationmaster, was a tall sallow man in a silk hat and a frock coat of which the straight line was broken in front by a sudden little pot belly that looked like a football tucked in under his vest. "That's Mr. Harrenden," said Henley. "Let's walk up to the house to avoid the rush... Gosh, look at that feather. I bet she's one of the Pittsburghers." "In full warpaint too," said Fanshaw tittering. "How do you do, Mr. Harrenden?" "Howdy, boys... Glad to see you. Step right into one of those cars, or perhaps you'ld rather walk. Leave more room for the lovely ladies... See you up at the house... Why, how do you do, Mrs. Harrison-Smith?" "Come on, Macdougan," said Henley. Fanshaw followed him through the station. They walked briskly through the main street of the town, past a row of new concrete stores, and out along a macadam road that crunched frostily underfoot. Now and then a limousine full of guests passed them. "It's only half a mile and we have plenty of time." "Do you know Miss Harrenden, Henley?"