The church-yard was so crowded that it was with great difficulty and after much hindrance that Lord Montressor’s carriage could be driven up. And with his shrinking bride upon his arm, and her friends around, he waited before the church door, until it drew up, and one of the footmen alighted, let down the steps and opened the door. His lordship then bowed to his friends, and was about to hand his lady into the carriage, when a policeman, pressing through the crowd, placed himself between the carriage door and the bridal pair, intercepting their further passage, while he respectfully inquired— “Which of these ladies, here present, bears the name of Estelle L’Orient?” “_No_ lady here bears that name; stand out of the way, sir,” said Lord Montressor, haughtily, while Estelle, with a half-suppressed cry, lowered her vail and leaned heavily upon his arm. “Let us pass, sir!” repeated his lordship, sternly. “Pardon me, my lord, if in the discharge of my duty I cannot obey your lordship,” answered the officer, who, in manners and address seemed much superior to his class. “What mean you, then, sir?” gravely inquired Lord Montressor, while Estelle hid her face in the folds of her vail against his arm. “My lord, I have a warrant here for the arrest of one Estelle L’Orient, and if I mistake not, this is the lady,” said the officer, indicating the bride by a respectful inclination of his head toward her. “Yes! Mon Dieu, that is the woman!” exclaimed a shrill voice, coming from the little old dark and shriveled Frenchwoman, who stood at a short distance in the crowd. “Eh! Mon Dieu, yes!—that is _my_ woman!—that is _my_ bride!—that is the wife of the felon!” exclaimed the vindictive looking Frenchman by her side, gesticulating the while like a madman. A crowd of astonished faces now pressed closely upon the group, around the carriage door, before which stood the policeman. And through this crowd, as one having authority, now came Park Morelle, inquiring in haughty displeasure— “What is the meaning of this delay? Good people, give way! My lord, in the name of Heaven put Lady Montressor into the carriage, and drive on! Let us get out of this! Why Montressor! Estelle! what the fiend is the meaning of all this?” exclaimed the baronet, perceiving now for the first time by the pale, corrugated brow of the bridegroom, the shuddering form and hidden face of the bride, the resolute bearing of the policeman, and the horrified looks of the people, that something—he guessed not what—was fearfully wrong. “What is the meaning of all this? Montressor, why do you not speak?” he asked, in an agitated voice—when, turning haughtily upon the police-officer, he demanded. “What is _your_ business here?” “Excuse me, Sir Parke Morelle, I am here on duty.” “_What_ duty, fellow?” “I am charged with a warrant for the apprehension of one Estelle L’Orient.” “WHOM?” frowningly demanded the baronet. “One Estelle L’Orient—this lady.”