Night again—and again the mist and the drizzle; again the country lane, but without the warm club-house fire, the cheery lights, the highball, and the thumping motor car. Soggy, squashy mud instead of the clean tonneau; heavy, cruel wading through unknown by-ways in place of the thrilling rush to Fenlock. Not twenty-four hours had passed, and yet it seemed that ages lay between the joyous midnight and the sodden, heart-breaking eve that followed.

The guests at the Somerset kept close indoors,—that is, most of them did. It is with those who fared forth resolutely into the night that we have to do; the rest of the world is to be barred from any further connection with this little history. It is far out in the dreary country lane and not inside the warm hotel that we struggle to attain our end. First one, then another stealthy figure crept forth into the drizzle; before the big clock struck half-past eight, at least six respectable and supposedly sensible persons had mysteriously disappeared. Only one of our close acquaintances remained in the hotel,—Mrs. Van Truder. It was not to be long, however, before she, too, would be adventuring forth in search of the unknown.

By this it may be readily understood that Mr. Van Truder had succeeded in escaping from beneath her very nose, as it were.

The little village church stood at the extreme end of the street,—dark, dismal, quite awe-inspiring on a night like this. A narrow lane stretched from the hotel to the sanctuary and beyond. There is nothing at hand to show whether it is a Methodist, a Presbyterian, or a Baptist church. As the two young women most vitally concerned in this tale were professedly high church, it is therefore no more than right that, in the darkness, it should be looked upon as an Episcopalian church.

Two stumbling figures, pressing close to each other in the shelter of a single wobbly umbrella, forged their uncertain way through the muddy lane. Except for the brief instants when the dull flicker of lightning came to their relief, they were in pitch darkness.

"Beastly dark, isn't it?" said one of the figures.

"And beastly muddy too," said the other, in a high, disconsolate treble. "Oh, dear, where are we?"

"I don't know, but I feel as though we were about to step off of something every moment. Do you know, Anne, it's extraordinary that I shouldn't know how to light one of these confounded lanterns."

"Try it again, Harry dear. I'll hold the umbrella."

"Oh, I see! By Jove, one has to open the thing, don't you know. Ah, there we are! That's better," he said, after he had succeeded in finally lighting the wick. He held the lantern up close to her face and they looked at each other for a moment. "Anne, I do love you!" he exclaimed. Then he kissed her. "That's the first time I've had a chance to kiss you in thirty-six hours."

They plodded onward, closer together than ever, coming at last to the little gate which opened into the churchyard. Before them stood the black little building with its steeple, but the windows were as dark as Erebus. They stopped in consternation. He looked at his watch.

"Confound him, he's not here!" growled Windomshire.

"Perhaps we are early," suggested Anne, feebly.

"It's a quarter to nine," he said. "I suppose there is nothing left for us to do but to wait. I'll look around a bit, dear. Perhaps the witnesses are here somewhere."

"Oo-oo-ooh! Don't leave me!" she almost shrieked. "Look! There is a graveyard! I won't stay here alone!" They were standing at the foot of the rough wooden steps leading up to the church door.

"Pooh! Don't be afraid of tombstones," he scoffed; but he was conscious of a little shiver in his back. "They can't bite, you know. Besides, all churches have graveyards and crypts and—"

"This one has no crypt," she announced positively. "Goodness, I'm mud up to my knees and rain down to them. Why doesn't he come?"

"I'll give the signal; we had to arrange one, you know, for the sake of identity." He gave three loud, guttural coughs. A dog in the distance howled mournfully, as if in response. Anne crept closer to his side.

"It sounded as if some one were dying," she whispered. "Look, isn't that a light?—over there among the gravestones!" A light flickered for an instant in the wretched little graveyard and then disappeared as mysteriously as it came. "It's gone! How ghostly!"

"Extraordinary! I don't understand. By Jove, it's beginning to rain again. I'm sure to have tonsilitis. I feel it when I cough." He coughed again, louder than before.

Suddenly the steady beam of a dark lantern struck their faces squarely; a moment later the cadaverous Mr. Hooker was climbing over the graveyard fence.

"Am I late?" he asked, as he came forward.

"I say, turn that beastly light the other way," complained Windomshire, half blinded. "I thought no one but robbers carried dark lanterns."

"The darker the deed, the darker the lantern," said Mr. Hooker, genially. "Good-evening, madam. Are we the only ones here?" He was very matter-of-fact and business-like; Anne loathed him on the instant.

"We're all here but the minister and the other witness. I'll cough again—although it hurts me to do it."

He coughed thrice, but instead of a response in kind, three sharp whistles came from the trees at the left.

"What's that?" he gasped. "Has he forgotten the signal?"

"Maybe he is trying to cough," said Hooker, "and can't do any better than wheeze. It's this rotten weather."

"No, it was a whistle. Good Heavens, Anne—it may be detectives."

"Detectives!" exclaimed Mr. Hooker, hoarsely. "Then this is no place for me. Excuse me, I'll just step around the corner." As he scurried off, he might have been heard to mutter to himself: "They've been hounding me ever since that job in the Cosgrove cemetery. Damn 'em, I wonder if they think I'm up here to rob the grave of one of these jays." From which it may be suspected that Mr. Hooker had been employed in the nefarious at one time or another.

"Detectives, Harry?" gasped Anne. "Why should there be detectives? We're not criminals."

"You can't tell what Mrs. Thursdale may have done when she discovered—Hello! There's a light down the road! 'Gad, I'll hide this lantern until we're sure." He promptly stuck the lantern inside his big raincoat and they were in darkness again. A hundred yards to the left a light bobbed about, reminding them of childhood's will-o'-the-wisp. Without a word Windomshire drew her around the church, stumbling over a discarded pew seat that stood against the wall. Groaning with pain, he urged her to crouch down with him behind the seat. All the while he held the umbrella manfully over her devoted head.

Voices were heard, drawing nearer and nearer—one deep and cheery, the other high and querulous.

"It—it—oh, Harry, it's that Mr. Derby!" she whispered. "I'd know his voice in a thousand."

"The devil!" he whispered intensely, gripping her hand.

Mr. Derby was saying encouragingly: "There is the church, Mr. Van Trader. Brace up. We seem to be the first to arrive."

"It's much farther away than you think," growled Mr. Van Truder. "I can't see the lights in the window."

"There are no lights yet. We are ahead of them. I'll try the door."

The young minister kicked the mud from his shoes as he went up the steps with the lantern. He tried the door vigorously, and then, holding the lantern high, surveyed the surroundings. Mr. Van Truder, bundled up like a motorman, stood below shivering—but with joy.

"This is a great night for an affair of this kind," he quaked. "By George, I feel twenty years younger. I believe I could turn handsprings."

"I wouldn't if I were you. Don't forget your somersault over that log back there, and your splendid headspin in the mud puddle. It's past nine o'clock. Joe's cousin was to be here at 8.45. Wonder what keeps him. Joe will be here himself in a jiffy. Dear me, what a dreadful night they have chosen for a wedding!"

Windomshire whispered in horror to the girl beside him: "Good Lord, Anne, they're following us."

"Please, Harry," she whispered petulantly, "hold the umbrella still. The water from the rainspout is dripping down my back."

"By George, I wish Mrs. Van Truder could see me now," came valiantly from the old gentleman around the corner. "Say, whistle again." Derby gave three sharp, shrill whistles. In silence they waited a full minute for the response. There was not a sound except the dripping of the rain.

"I'm afraid something is wrong," said Derby. Just at that instant Windomshire, despite most heroic efforts to prevent the catastrophe, sneezed with a violence that shook his entire frame. "Sh! don't speak," hissed the startled minister. "We are being watched. That was unmistakably a sneeze."

"I can't see any one," whispered Mr. Van Trader, excitedly. "I see just as well in the dark as I do in the light, too."

"Some one is coming. See! There's a light down the road. Let's step out of sight just for a moment."

Windomshire sneezed again, as if to accelerate the movements of the two men.

"Hang it all!" he gurgled in despair. Mr. Derby had blinded his lantern and was hurrying off into the grove with his companion.

"I can't help laughing, Harry," whispered Anne, giggling softly. "You sneeze like an elephant."

"But an elephant has more sense than to sneeze as I do. I knew I'd take cold. Anne, they're after us. It's old Mrs. Van Truder's work. What are they up to?"

"Whatever it is, dear, they're just as much mystified as we are. Did you hear him whistle? It is a signal."

"I say, Anne, it's a beastly mess I've got you into," groaned he.

"Dear old Harry, it is but the beginning of the mess you're getting yourself into. I love this—every bit of it."

"You're ripping, Anne; that's what you are. I—Great Scotland! Here comes the head-waiter, but we don't dare show ourselves. Did you ever know such beastly luck?"

"There's another man too, away back there. And, look! Isn't that a light coming through the trees back of the gravestones? Good Heavens, Harry, we can't be married in a public thoroughfare. Everybody is walking with lanterns. It's awful."

"Let's go around to the rear of the church," he exclaimed suddenly. "Perhaps we can get our brains to work on a plan of action. But, look here, Anne, no matter who they are or what they want, I'm going to marry you to-night if I have to do it in the face of the entire crowd."

As they scurried off through the tall wet grass to a less exposed station, a solitary figure came haltingly through the little gate. It was the head-waiter, and, as he carried no lantern, he was compelled to light matches now and then; after getting his bearings he would dart resolutely on for a dozen paces before lighting another. Stopping in front of the church door, he nervously tried to penetrate the gloom with an anxious gaze; then, suddenly bethinking, he gave three timid little coughs. Getting no immediate response, he growled aloud in his wrath:

"I've coughed my head off in front of every house between here and the hotel, and I'm gettin' darned tired of it. I don't like this business; and I never could stand for graveyards. Good Lord! what's that?"

Three sharp whistles came to his alert ears, coming, it seemed, from the very heart of some grim old gravestone. A man strode boldly across the yard from the gate, his walk indicating that he was perfectly familiar with the lay of the land.

"Who coughed?" he demanded loudly. "Is there no one here? What the dickens does it mean? Joe Dauntless! Where are you? No fooling now; my wife's worse, and I can't stay here all night." He whistled again, and the head-waiter coughed in a bewildered reply. "That's queer. Nothing was said about coughing."

"Hello!" called the head-waiter. "Is it you, sir?"

Joe Dauntless's cousin held his lantern on high and finally discovered the waiter near the pile of cordwood, ready to run at a moment's notice.

"Who are you?" demanded Mr. Carpenter.

"Gustave. But you ain't the man."

"I ain't, eh? Didn't you whistle a minute ago?"

"I ain't supposed to. I cough. Say, do you know if a wedding has taken place here? I am a witness."

"Oh, I see. He said he'd bring one. Are you alone?"

"I don't know. It feels like a crowd every time I cough. Are you the preacher?"

"No, I'm the bridegroom's cousin. We've got to get in through a window. I couldn't find my key. Would you mind giving me a leg?"

"A leg? Nothing was said about legs," said the waiter, moving away. Carpenter laughed.

"I mean a boost up to the window."

"Oh! Sure."

"There's one in the rear I can smash. We'll get inside and light up. I can open the door from that side, too. Come on—follow me." They turned the corner and followed the path so lately taken by Windomshire and Anne. As they came to the back of the church they were startled and not a little alarmed by the sound of sudden scurrying and a well-defined imprecation, but it was too dark for them to distinguish any one. While they were trying to effect an entrance through one of the windows, other mystified participants in the night's affairs were looking on from secret and divers hiding-places. Far out in the little grove Derby and his old companion watched the operations of the church-breakers, the sickly glare of Carpenter's lantern as it stood upon the edge of the rain barrel affording an unholy light for the occasion. Windomshire and Anne, crouching behind a stack of old benches, looked on in amazement. Mr. Hooker, whose conscience was none too easy, doubtless for excellent reasons, peered forth from behind a tall tombstone. He had arrived at the conclusion that he was being hounded down as a body-snatcher.

"This is a devil of a mess," he muttered dolefully. "If they catch me in this graveyard, I'll have a hard time proving an alibi. What an idiot I was to get into this thing! I guess I'll get out of it. He's got plenty of witnesses and I've got his ten dollars." He began sneaking off toward the extreme west end of the graveyard, bent on finding the road to town. "Holy smoke!" stopping short. "Another bunch of them coming! I'm surrounded!" He dropped down behind a weed-covered mound and glared straight ahead. Almost directly in his path a lantern wobbled and reeled slowly, finally bringing its bearer to the fence between the burying-ground and the churchyard. A man carried the light and half carried the form of a woman besides.

"Brace up, Nell dear," Mr. Hooker heard the newcomer say as tenderly as his exertions would allow. "The worst is over. Here's the church. Good Heavens, just think of being lost in a graveyard!"

"And climbing four fences and a tree," moaned Eleanor Thursdale. They had come up through the graveyard by mistake.

"It wasn't a tree; it was a fence post. Great Scot! There's no light in the church. What's up? Wait here, dear, and I'll investigate."

"Alone? Never!" she cried. They climbed their fifth fence, notwithstanding the fact that a gate was near at hand.

"This is an awful pickle I've got you into. You ought to hate me—" he was groaning, but she checked him nobly.

"Hush, Joe, I LOVE it," she cried.

"You just wait and see how happy I'll make you for this." He was about to kiss her rapturously, but the act was stayed by the sound of a shrill whistle, thrice given. "There's Jim Carpenter and Derby," he exclaimed, and whistled in response. A moment later Derby strolled up from the grove, followed by the chattering Mr. Van Truder.

"That you, Joe?"

"Hello, Darb. Good! Where's Jim?"

Some one whistled sharply off to the left, and then Jim Carpenter came hurrying up, the head-waiter close behind.

"Hello, Joe. Say, has either of you been coughing?" demanded Carpenter, his hair ready to stand on end.

"I should say not," said Joe. "I've scarcely been breathing."

"Then some ghost is having a hemorrhage," said the head-waiter, dismally.

"Hello, Mr. Dauntless, are you a witness too?"

"Say, Joe," said his cousin, quickly, "there's something strange going on. The whole place is full of people. I went back there to open a window and at least two men coughed—one of 'em sneezed. We're being watched. This man says he heard a woman back there, and I saw a funny kind of light in the graveyard."

"Hang 'em!" growled Joe. "We can't stop now. Open up the church, Jim."

"Can't. Lost my key. Is this Miss Thursdale? Glad to meet you. The window's the only way and they're surely watching back there."

"Mamma has sent the officers after us," wailed Eleanor.

"Let's go home," said the waiter. "I didn't agree to stay out all night."

"Agree? Aha, I see. You are a spy!" cried Joe.

"A spy? I guess not. I'm a witness."

"It's the same thing," cackled Mr. Van Truder. "You're a spy witness."

"Joe, isn't this fellow your witness?" demanded Carpenter.

"I should say not. Mr. Van Truder is mine."

"By George, I don't understand—"

"Never mind, Jim, break into the church and let's have it over with. It's going to rain again."

"Oh, I'm so tired," moaned the poor bride, mud-spattered, wet, and very far from being the spick and span young woman that fashionable society knew and loved.

"By Jove!" came suddenly from the darkness, startling the entire party—a masculine voice full of surprise and—yes, consternation. Then there strode into the circle of light a tall figure in a shimmering mackintosh, closely followed by a young, resolute woman.

"Windomshire!" gasped Dauntless, leaping in front of Eleanor, prepared to defend her with his life.

"Miss Courtenay, too," murmured Eleanor, peeking under his arm.

"Yes, by Jove," announced the harassed Englishman, at bay,—"Windomshire and Miss Courtenay." There was a long silence—a tableau, in fact. "Well, why doesn't some one say something? You've got us, don't you know."

Eleanor Thursdale was the first to find words. She was faint with humiliation, but strong with the new resolve. Coming forth from behind Dauntless, she presented herself before the man her mother had chosen.

"So you have found me out, Mr. Windomshire," she said pleadingly, a wry little smile on her lips. "You know all about it?"

"I—er—by Jove, this is quite beyond me. Found you out? My word, you don't mean to say—"

"I say, old man," said Dauntless, manfully, "let me explain. We've always loved each other. It isn't that she—"

"Hang it all, man, I knew that," expostulated Windomshire. "It was a mistake all around. I love Anne, don't you know. There's no real harm done, I'm sure. But what puzzles me is this: why does Miss Thursdale persist in pursuing us if she loves you and doesn't care to marry me?"

"The deuce! I like that," cried Dauntless. "You'd better begin by asking questions at home."

"I take it," interposed Mr. Derby, with rare tact and discernment, "that both of you expect to be married, but not to each other as originally planned." Both Eleanor and Windomshire signified eager affirmation in more ways than one. "Then it seems to me a simple case of coincidence, which may be explained later on. Why discuss it now? I am in reality a minister, Miss Courtenay, and I am here to unite Miss Thursdale and Mr. Dauntless in the holy bonds of matrimony. I trust we may expect no interference on the part of Mr. Windomshire?"

"Good Lord! No!" almost shouted Windomshire, clasping Anne's hand in a mighty grasp. "That's what we are here for ourselves—to be married—but the damned parson has deceived us." Jim Carpenter came out of his trance at this. "Say, are you the fellow Rev. Smith was to marry? Well, he won't be here. There's a surprise pound party at his house and the whole town is there. He couldn't leave to save his soul. It's the way he gets his living."

"Oh, Anne!" cried Windomshire, in real despair.

Anne slipped into the breach with rare old English fortitude. She addressed herself sweetly to Mr. Derby.

"Mr. Derby, do you remember saying this afternoon that you'd do anything in the world for me?" Mr. Derby blushed and looked most unworthy of his calling, but managed to say that he WOULD do anything in the world for her. "Then, please take the place of the minister who couldn't come."

"Good!" cried Dauntless, almost dancing.

"I will, Miss Courtenay," said Derby. Windomshire grasped him by the hand, speechless with joy and relief.

"I don't understand all this," complained Mr. Van Truder, vainly trying to see the excited, jubilant quartette. He only knew that they were all talking at once, suddenly without restraint. "I wish my wife were here; she'd understand."

Jim Carpenter at last came to his senses and, dragging the head-waiter after him, sped to the rear of the church. A few minutes later lights flashed in the windows and then the front door swung open. Carpenter and Gustave stood smiling upon the threshold.

"Enter!" called out the former. As the group quickly passed through the doorway, a long figure climbed down from the fence hard by and ventured up to the portal. It was Mr. Hooker, his face the picture of bewilderment.

"Well, this beats me!" he ejaculated, leaning against the door jamb; none of those at the altar heard his remark. He stood there listening until the last words of the service which united two couples were uttered. Then he turned sorrowfully away and started across the yard. The sound of a wedding march played upon the wheezy cabinet organ by Jim Carpenter followed him into the gloom; above the gasp of the organ was lifted the unmistakable chatter of joyous voices.

As he passed through the gate a great vehicle rolled up and stopped. It was drawn by two steaming horses, and the wagon lanterns told him that it was the Somerset Hotel 'bus. "I'll ride back with 'em," he thought comfortably.

Some one climbed down from the rear of the 'bus, assisted by two young men in brass buttons. Mr. Hooker made way for a corpulent, puffing old lady. She stopped in front of him and demanded in hot, strident tones:

"Where is my husband?"

"Your husband?" repeated Mr. Hooker, politely. "Madam, you can search me. There's a whole churchful of husbands up there."

"You—you—-" she sputtered. "Am I too late? Support me, you fools," she cried to the two bell-boys. They hurried across the churchyard, Mr. Hooker following. At the doorway she stopped, glaring hard at the well-lighted interior. "Mr. Van Truder! Mr. Van Truder!" she called out angrily, but her joyful other half did not hear her. He was trying at that moment to organise the company into a wedding procession.

"Say," said Mr. Hooker, "maybe you'd better cough three times."