He had every reason to be happy, for in his pocket was the special license which, for a consideration, had been granted to him, and which empowered him to marry the girl whose amazing telegram had arrived that morning while he was at breakfast. It had contained only four words: Marry you to-day. MAY. He could not guess what extraordinary circumstances had induced her to take so definite a view, but he was a very contented and happy young man. She was to arrive in London soon after twelve, and he had arranged to meet her at the station and take her to lunch. Perhaps then she would explain the reason for her action. He numbered among his acquaintances the rector of a suburban church, who had agreed to perform the ceremony and to provide the necessary witnesses. It was a beaming young man that met the girl, but the smile left his face when he saw how wan and haggard she was. "Take me somewhere," she said quickly. "Are you ill?" he asked anxiously. She shook her head. They had the Pall Mall Restaurant to themselves, for it was too early for the regular lunchers. "Now tell me, dear," he said, catching her hands over the table, "to what do I owe this wonderful decision?" "I cannot tell you, Frank," she said breathlessly. "I don't want to think about it. All I know is that people have been beastly about you. I am going to do all I possibly can to make up for it." She was a little hysterical and very much overwrought, and he decided not to press the question, though her words puzzled him. "Where are you going to stay?" he asked. "I am staying at the Savoy," she replied. "What am I to do?" In as few words as possible he told her where the ceremony was to be performed, and the hour at which she must leave the hotel. "We will take the night train for the Continent," he said. "But your work, Frank?" He laughed. "Oh, blow work!" he cried hilariously. "I cannot think of work to-day." At two-fifteen he was waiting in the vestry for the girl's arrival, chatting with his friend the rector. He had arranged for the ceremony to be performed at two-thirty; and the witnesses, a glum verger and a woman engaged in cleaning the church, sat in the pews of the empty building, waiting to earn the guinea which they had been promised. The conversation was about nothing in particular--one of those empty, purposeless exchanges of banal thought and speech characteristic of such an occasion. At two-thirty Frank looked at his watch and walked out of the church to the end of the road. There was no sign of the girl. At two-forty-five he crossed to a providential tobacconist and telephoned to the Savoy and was told that the lady had left half an hour before. "She ought to be here very soon," he said to the priest. He was a little impatient, a little nervous, and terribly anxious. As the church clock struck three, the rector turned to him. "I am afraid I cannot marry you to-day, Mr. Merrill," he said. Frank was very pale.