St. Peter's was rapidly becoming the church for fashionable weddings; but even St. Peter's had seldom been the centre of a larger or more fashionable crowd than was assembling this warm April afternoon to see Lady Geraldine Summerhouse married to the man of her choice. There was the usual gathering of loiterers round the door and on the steps of the church; while the traffic in the street was impeded by the long line of private carriages and motors setting down guests.

Two men came round the corner of King's Street, walking quickly; the sightseers brought them to a standstill.

"Hullo, what is this?" one of them exclaimed. "Oh, I see, a wedding. Well I suppose we shall get through somehow."

Both men, though they wore the conventional frockcoat and silk hat, had the look of travellers, or colonials, with their thin bronzed faces. The foremost of the two had reached the last line of waiting spectators, and was just about to cross the red carpet that was laid up the steps of the church and under the awning. The policeman put up a warning hand, some guests were alighting, another car took its place before the kerb. A group of maidservants, with baskets of flowers, stood immediately before the two strangers. The man behind turned his head idly as a big dark man sprang from a car and handed out a tall exquisitely dressed woman. Together they came up the steps and passed close to the stranger, but the beautiful eyes did not glance at him, did not note the change that swept over his face.

He, looking after them, caught his breath sharply, incredulously. Then as they passed into the church he leaned forward and touched the arm of one of the maids.

"Can you tell me the name of the lady who has just gone in?"

The maid looked a little surprised at being spoken to, but the tone was unmistakably that of a gentleman; there was an obvious desire for information in his expression; she answered after a moment's hesitation:

"That was Lady Carew and Sir Anthony, sir!"

"Sir Anthony and Lady Carew," he repeated in a musing tone, a curious brooding look in his light eyes. "Not Carew, of Heron's Carew, surely—mad Carew as they used to call him?"

"Yes, sir. He is Sir Anthony Carew, of Heron's Carew."

"And

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