“And ’ave you any idea what part of the year would be likely, miss?” asked the clerk again, selecting a volume and laying it upon the table. “May, somewhere near the 18th,” was the reply, greeted with a gasp by the clerk’s wife. “And the names, miss? There was a good few weddin’s just about that time.” “Joseph Bertram to Constance Lily Garland.” Maimie’s voice was shaking a little, but her excitement was nothing to that of the clerk’s wife. “Now you just tell me who you are,” she said resolutely, interposing her substantial person between Maimie and the register. “You ain’t neither of them two foreign young ladies, that I’m certain, and you won’t tell me as you’re Mrs Bertram’s daughter--Miss Garland as was? What have you got to do with it?” “My mother was at the wedding, and signed the register,” Maimie admitted. “Then you ain’t got nothink to do with Mr Bertram’s family?--though why they should think to interfere at this time of day beats me.” “’Ere it is, miss,” said the clerk. “Joseph Bertram to Constance Lily Garland, by the Vicar, May 19th. Do you wish a copy?” Moving aside unwillingly, the woman allowed Maimie to approach the table. There was no question of a dream or hallucination here, at any rate. There was the entry, and as Maimie turned over the pages, there also was the slight discoloration of the inside of the cover which showed where a slip of paper had been pasted upon it. She ran her finger along the line, and resisted an eager desire to try and tear the slip off. When the clerk asked again whether she would like a certified copy of the entry, she was obliged to pause before answering. Without the addition which that piece of paper held concealed, the certificate was of comparatively little value; and yet, supposing that by some accident or otherwise the church should be destroyed and the register with it, might not the copy just suffice to establish the marriage? Knowing nothing of Somerset House and its requirements, Maimie saw herself the _dea ex machinâ_ in the restoration of Mr Steinherz to his original position, and replied unhesitatingly that she would have a copy. While the clerk was making it out, she stood looking with a vague awe at the pile of registers remaining in the safe. Was there still among those dusty volumes with their ragged edges the one which, as Mrs Steinherz had told with bated breath, contained records of many burials distinguished by the letters “Pl.,” denoting a victim of the Great Plague? But the clerk’s wife was not content to waste such an opportunity, and interrupted her meditations.